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infinitehours · 4 years

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From Dusk to Dawn, an Elder Scrolls Online short fic

Rivenspire spoilers and Daggerfall Covenant questline spoilers (specifically Stormhaven and main quest). I did like the ideas behind the Rivenspire storyline, even if I did not always like the execution. Author notes are first, then the story. Leave a comment or reblog if you enjoyed!

Author notes before the story: I’m actually not done with this story. It’s still got another part to it that I just haven’t had the inspiration to write yet.

This is my character Elyssa. She's the youngest of my line-up *(only 18), and that distinction is important. Naive and more than a little too trusting. She's also probably the only one who would purposely go out of her way just to coax a bunch of vampires into letting her stay the night, if only for the "coolness" factor of getting to stay the night at a vampire castle.

Once upon a time, I had plot bunny idea of a conversation concerning my traumatized Vestige about Molag Bal. I say traumatized because...let's be honest here. The amount of stuff the Vestige goes through is alarmingly dark at times. It wasn't until I got to Rivenspire that I recognized the perfect situation this conversation could take place, and that the Count's status as a vampire who received his vampirism directly from Molag Bal (only to turn around and embrace morality) added an extra layer of meaning here. I hope that explains why I did this in the specific way that I did. That vampires, and their abilities, are they themselves almost representations of Molag Bal's whole concept of domination and submission. I like that bit of symbolism. I don't think this particular story would have had as much of an impact otherwise.

It's canon that there are different strains of vampires and that they can do different things depending on the strain. What's not entirely clear to me is how those mechanics always work (because we don't always see them in game), so forgive me for making a few things up. Additionally, ZOS confirmed they were changing how the feeding animation looks to something "more traditional" so I'm assuming we're going to get people biting necks in the update. Which is a lot better than the weird ridiculous looking funnel of blood, if I’m being honest here.

(one of the other reasons I wanted to write this was to come up with an explanation for why the Count is kind of...irritated all the time, lol)

Content warnings: A little bit of Molag Bal torture going on here. Vampire biting. Otherwise I can’t think of anything.

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“Difficulty sleeping?”

Those were the first words out of his mouth the moment she stepped lightly into the study. Even without turning around, even without her making a sound, he seemed to be keenly aware she was there. It might have been unnerving if she didn’t know anything about him.

“Nightmares,” was her reply, the shadow of a sad smile coming and going on her lips.

He nodded silent acknowledgement as she took one of the carved wooden seats available. For a moment, she watched him as he stood with his back to her; he was stock still, almost statue-like, save for the occasional instance in which he turned the page. He wore a different set of mage’s robes than he did earlier. It was similarly a deep, dark grey, but this one had a few threads of red woven in a delicate pattern across the length of it.

“I suppose it quite normal for a mortal to have those when staying in a place like this.”

He said it flatly, and it was difficult for her to work out whether he was irritated at the idea or resigned to it.

“I assure you, my lord Count,” she responded carefully in turn. “I’ve been having nightmares long before I accepted your very generous offer to spend the night.”

Platitudes. That was surely the best way to handle a noble, undead or not, right?

“But if it is at all upsetting to you that I’m here,” she continued, hastily, “It would be a simple thing to pack my affects and travel to Shornhelm.”

He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I am not bothered. And it is likewise too dangerous to travel the roads at this time at night.”

His eyes still never seemed to pry themselves away from his research as he propped open another tome on top of a large pile of books that conveniently reached his height.

“Vampires hunt best at this time, I’m sure.” she said, off-handedly, her fingers dancing through the length of her reddish brown hair that was now free of her usual, careful braid.

“There’s no sun to burn our skin, and our eyes are much better attuned to the dark than a mortal’s. The bloodfiends, who are nothing more than feral members of our kind, operate much the same. So long as the people stay indoors and within the city walls, they should be safe. But a lone traveler, even on horseback, may offer up a too tempting target for them to resist. You’d be snatched in the gloom and none would hear of it until the morning.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that, though in her mind’s eye she played out a scene with her own mangled corpse lying by the side of the road. Pale, glassy-eyed, bite-ridden and completely drained of blood. She scowled at the thought, and shifted in her chair.

“It may not come down to that,” She said, her voice lacking the confidence she’d hoped for, “I’d say I’m pretty good at fighting bloodfiends; and, in fact, I’ve already fought some of them at night...”

“I don’t doubt that, Elyssa. But is there any real reason to risk yourself unnecessarily? Stay here for the night, and I promise you can leave in the morning. As early as it takes the sun to rise to the sky and offer you its protection.”

Her scowl deepened. Did he think she was scared to spend the night at his home-castle-place-thing? She knew that he was probably used to being a little bit defensive when it came to dealing with others (and that it was kind of her fault for somewhat insisting on staying to begin with), but he can’t honestly think she’d lost her nerve, could he?

“Count Verandis. I seem to have accidentally given you the impression that I’m uncomfortable here or that I desperately wish to leave if only you’d allow me. Trust me when I say, if I was that desperate or felt like I was in that much danger, I would have already broken one of your pretty stained glass windows and JUMPED myself to freedom.”

She gestured towards the entryway. “Although I’d probably just try the front door first. Something tells me you wouldn’t stop me, even if you do think it’s foolhardy for a mortal to be prancing about in the dead of night.”

He still didn’t turn away from his books, but from the angle of where she sat she could see the edge of his mouth twitching into, what she’d hope, was something akin towards a smile. Or maybe that was just a trick of the light.

“I appreciate your consideration for my family home. Stained glass is difficult to procure these days.”

She smiled at that (he HAD made a joke, right? That was meant as a joke, wasn’t it?), and adjusted herself so that she was lounging a bit in the chair. Difficult to do, since the wood wasn’t exactly comfortable. Her plain beige dress, what she usually wore to sleep, wasn’t padded enough to act as a cushion either. She frowned for the third time that night, and straightened back up.

“Do you want me to leave you to your studies?” She asked politely, just as the thought occurred to her. It would act as an excuse to go back to the upstairs bedroom; one of the few rooms that actually had a bed in the entire castle.

“It’s not necessary.” He stated.

She waited a moment.

“…May I ask a question?”

“If you insist.” Again, in that flat, dull tone of his that never seemed to hold much emotion.

“Are you always thirsty?”

This gave him pause, and she could see a few of his fingers ghosting over the latest text he held open before committing to turning another page.

“At some level, yes. But if you’ve practiced for as long as I have and feed regularly, it’s barely noticeable.”

“So me being in this room for you is, thankfully, not distracting?”

“Your presence isn’t, no.”

Her eyes narrowed in on the back of his head. He was possibly, in a roundabout way, implying that her comments were distracting. It was another one of those statements that made it hard for her to figure out whether he was pissed off, slightly annoyed, or just bored.

“Would you like a bite?” She suddenly asked.

“What?” This time, he DID look up. Even more, he turned to stare at her with something akin to surprise.

She sat to attention with a triumphant smirk. “Finally, a normal emotional reaction!”

And with that proclamation, his expression hardened and he returned to his books.

“I do not have time for childish endeavors, Elyssa.” He said sourly.

“You just seem so….I don’t know. Detached. Either that, or irritated at everyone all the time. It’s hard to tell with you. I think that may be the bulk of the reason why a lot of people may be uncomfortable around you. It’s rather nice to see you actually have some…well…life left in you.”

“When you’ve lived as many years as I have, my child, and watched just as many of your friends age and die…short-lived humans, no less…people you’ve formed attachments to and cared for, again and again…You find ways of…removing yourself from all of it. If only to ensure that it need not affect you as hard each time.”

Elyssa considered this. “So…when you say you ‘care’ about the people of Rivenspire—“

“I do care,” He snapped his latest book shut and spun to face her. “I may not be able to feel as deeply as a mother who lost her first child, but I do care about what happens to the people of Rivenspire. I still remember what it was like to lose family, to lose loved ones, the depths of that pain. Even if I cannot experience it fully for myself anymore, I remember enough to never wish it upon anyone else. This is why I detest the idea of ever sharing this gift of mine; inflicting it upon others so that they would have to spend decades just learn how to control their despair enough to function. Can you fathom, can you even imagine, the maddening realization that most everyone you love will soon wither and fade except yourself?”

He approached her at her chair, and though his voice still held that air of mild detachment, his glowing red eyes seemed to burn all the brighter with an inner light.

“You’re correct in the sense that I do have difficulties expressing this. That I no longer have the capabilities to show others, in any genuine way, the measure of my desire to help. Mortals rely so much on interpreting emotions through body language and tone of voice, and I am far beyond the point where I can easily weep in the presence of those who are weeping…or even do a decent attempt at trying.”

As he came to stop in front of her, he actually knelt to the ground. To her level. Eye to eye.

“There’s a reason, in my belief, why the divines would dictate life to be so short and sweet. Those of us who are cursed to live longer than normal risk…losing things in the process. I often find myself wanting to socialize with mortals just to get some of that back. A sense of personhood and direction. Passions and strivings. It’s truly remarkable to see reminders of how easy it comes to you.”

He carefully reached out his hand towards her cheek, as though she represented this. As though she were a symbol of this very discussion. Just as the tips of cold fingers brushed against her skin, she turned her head just a tad in an attempt to see it in her peripheral. It was difficult to say whether he interpreted that as a flinch or he suddenly remembered himself, but he withdrew his hand again.

“I apologize.” He said, getting up and returning once more to the bookshelves. “I did not mean to touch you without permission.”

“What? My cheek? That’s not a crime.” Elyssa replied, still trying to absorb everything he just told her.

“Countess Tamrith would likely disagree with that assessment.”

“Countess Tamrith isn’t here. And before you go back to your no-doubt riveting literature, I should tell you that I was genuine in offering my blood to you.”

He turned once more to her, an eyebrow delicately raised in questioning.

“Is that so? I believe the good Countess would now consider you to have committed a sin.” He asked, and his eyes stared straight at hers for a good measure.

For her part, believing that he was testing her resolve, she sat up straighter and met his gaze head on.

The room was silent for a moment.

He took a tentative step towards her, and she was a little ashamed that the unexpected movement caused her to flinch. He stopped at the sight.

“We do not usually find people who willingly volunteer so soon after finding out about our condition. Are you sure?”

“Y-Yes.”

“You certainly do not sound it.”

Elyssa huffed out the breath she’d been accidentally holding. “Well…it isn’t as though I get bitten by a vampire every other day. I’m not sure what to expect. Does it hurt?”

“It’s a bite, Elyssa,” And this time, she was sure those glowing eyes of his were laughing at her even if his mouth didn’t show it. “Pain is usually involved in those. I can, however, promise that it is certainly not excruciating.”

“Well that’s a relief…I think.”

He carefully stepped towards her while she sat stock still and staring straight ahead. For every moment that he moved closer, she grew more and more uneasy.

“Should I stand up, then?” She said, trying to distract herself from imagining the pain too much; she’d a bad habit of blowing things out of proportion.

“It would be much preferable if you remained seated...Else the dizziness may cause you to fall. It may even be better if you were to lie down…”

“Sorry, but there’s no way you’re going to get me onto your dining room table. That would just be too…” She recalled to mind an earlier scene of stumbling upon them whilst they sat around a half-naked Dark Elf “….awkward. Awkward and probably uncomfortable. For me, that is. No idea if you feel a hundred percent comfortable with people just casually laying on-”

Her spiraling commentary came to a screeching halt when she felt his hand rest lightly on her shoulder. The very same shoulder twitched, of its own accord, and he removed his hand shortly after.

“That’s the third time you’ve flinched,” he accused.

“No it’s not!” She blurted out. “That’s barely the first!”

“Elyssa…”

“I can do this! I’m not a coward!” She insisted, finally turning to face him as he stood right next to her.

“Nobody is calling you as such. But this is also not necessary, and I believe I made it quite clear that my household only feeds on the willing.”

“I am willing! I just….I…” Her resolve withered a bit in the midst of staring him down.

His eyes glowing red and unnatural. A sign, perhaps from the Divines, as to dangers that could lurk behind them. The same kind of red eyes on the bloodfiends she’d been fighting ever since she came to Rivenspire.

“…I…I just need a moment,” she finished, knowing full well that it was an admission of defeat.

He sighed and walked back to his books. “Go back to bed, Elyssa. I need to focus on figuring out what Montclair’s next movements may be.”

She sat there for a few moments longer, but he was firmly encased back in his notes and didn’t turn around again to acknowledge her again. The obvious signs that the conversation was over.

He thought she was just being childish.

It stung a little, the obvious disregard. Ignored and brushed aside so casually. It almost felt a lot like the time her papa had caught her ruining one of his prized books even after she promised she wouldn’t touch it. Except this was pretty much a stranger, and she couldn’t discern whether that made it somehow worse.

The feeling, the blatant disregard, threatened to stifle the little study they were in, and it became too much for her to bear that she did decide to leave.

Slowly taking the steps back upstairs to the bedroom.

She passed a dead mouse and thought idly about it; one of the things that Adusa had done to help the servants prepare the room for her was to take out a couple of live mice. They didn’t get many guests, or so Adusa said.

But she wondered if the mice weren’t just the natural result of vacancy; the bite mark on this one suggested they were also kept around as a midnight snack.

She chuckled a bit at that as she crept onto the double bed. The fresh sheets had been thoroughly washed with soap, she had been told, and seemed so very new that they did not even have the usual frayed threads at the end or faded patterns. And they were just a little bit stiff.

The mortal servants didn’t stay here; there were additional rooms downstairs beyond the storage alcove. This was purely a guest room. ….And it almost felt fake. Like the immortal Count of the castle had attempted to make something seem homely, only for it to just perceptively feel off.

Perhaps the room had seen such rare usage that it failed to ever take on the personalities of those who had used it.

It might have even just been the fact that there were three very obvious coffins resting in the main hall, visible from the guest suite balcony.

It wasn’t bad...it was just…

“Comfy yet, little sweetthing?” The Dremora playfully poked her with the end of a very sharp and very pointy rod.

Elyssa struggled yet again, but the bars of the humanoid shaped cage held fast.

Cadwell…

Lyris…

The Prophet…

The only three kind voices in that entire prison, and they were screaming in agony right behind her.

“What are you doing to them?! Stop it!” She cried out, trying, in vain, to turn her head to look at them.

“Now now. We assure you, they’re being WELL taken care of.” The Dremora poked her again right at her collarbone. “Just as you will be!”

The screaming behind her increased, as if to prove a point.

“But ooh. Oooh. It seems you have a guest, sweetling. Someone is here. Just. To see. You.”

More Dremora came, dragging a human alongside them. The woman was pushed in front of Elyssa’s cage.

“….I asked you for help…” The woman said, tears falling freely as she looked up.

A shiver went down Elyssa’s spine as soon as she realized she was staring at the face of Duchess Lakana.

“Y-your Grace…”

“I asked you for help…and what did you do?” The Duchess pointed an accusing finger. “You left me! You left me alone with that man, that murderer!”

“I didn’t…I didn’t mean to….I didn’t mean to, I swear. I didn’t know it was him…” Her eyes began to water up, a mirror of the Duchess’ own face.

“How could you? You said you would help me! Why didn’t you do everything you could? Why didn’t you stay with me?”

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry!”

“And you spared him! You spared that monster! How could you do that after he killed me?!”

“That’s enough of that!” The Dremora interrupted, prodding the Duchess to move along. “Put her Gracious Grace alongside the rest of them! You’re starting a nice collection here, my little sweetling.”

And as soon as the Duchess was dragged out of sight, Elyssa could hear her start to scream as well.

“Stop it!! Let them go!!” She rattled the cage as hard as she could.

“Ooooh. Making demands, are we? Do you truly think you’re in any position to save them? Look at you. You couldn’t save the Duchess. You couldn’t save that family of that poor werewolf Duke. You couldn’t save your darling dearest father…”

The Daedra leaned right into her face, its teeth pearly white and crooked. And the smell coming from its breath was positively putrid in an indescribable way that had no easy comparisons anywhere on Tamriel.

“…In fact, you can’t even save yourself.”

And with that, the Dremora rammed the rod straight into her shoulder, causing her to jerk back and scream.

Scream.

And Scream. And fall back onto the…

….

…sheet covers…

Elyssa was shaking. Her eyes darted back and forth as she ascertained that yes, those were indeed sheet covers. She was in a room with a bed and nice looking wooden furniture.

In a room made out of stone.

A house.

No, a castle.

That’s right. Ravenwatch Castle.

There were no Dremora in sight. No screaming. No water tainted blue with an eerie light.

No crags filled with bleakest rocks that spread out like daggers.

No distant tundras with nothing but dead plants the eyes could see.

No cages….

Elyssa took one, long, swipe of her hand against her brow, pulling away the sweat that had collected there. She must have dozed off just then, only to be faced with yet another nightmare.

She tried to push it straight out of her mind and attempt to go back to sleep, but her legs demanded to wander. That, and she was sure that if she closed her eyes again, the Daedra would return to haunt her.

Her feet took her back downstairs. The shaking ever present in each and every one of her steps. Soon enough, she found herself back at the study. The doorway leading outside, the dining table, the whispering quiet of the night; it all gave the comforting confirmation that the horrors she’d just seen really were just dreams.

Adusa was out scouting the nearby towns and municipal villages. Melina was out gathering supplies. The mortal servants were likely fast asleep in their own quarters. Gwendis was….well, Akatosh only knows where Gwendis went off to. But sure and steady, Count Ravenwatch was still working in his study. And the nightmare was fresh enough that she felt drawn to sticking around with the only conscious person she had easy access to.

The scratch of a feather quill paused only briefly as she stood at the threshold.

“Contrary to whatever you may believe, Elyssa,” The Count stated, never looking up. “The sun does not, in fact, rise every twenty minutes like you seem to do.”

Her shaking died down just enough to allow her the dignity of a glare in his direction. Now she was convinced: the real reason people were uncomfortable around him had absolutely nothing to do with his status as a vampire.

“Bite me,” She seethed back at him.

She’d meant it as an insult. A come back. But she realized her mistake when he stopped writing to give her back one, long, unamused look. Complete with an eyebrow raised.

“Did we not just have this conversation?” He said, turning to another page.

“I don’t care. I’d rather have conversations all night long if it means I don’t have to go back to sleep.”

She started pacing a bit around the study’s doorway, if only to give her mind something to focus on and her legs something to do.

But as she made a few passes, she noticed he had stopped working and was watching her. This time with a far more unreadable expression than the blatant apathy.

“What are your dreams about that has you so terrified?”

“Coldharbour,” She whispered, just barely under her breath. It must have been loud enough for him to hear her, because his eyes grew a little wider.

“You’ve…actually been there?”

The moment she stopped her pacing was the moment her shaking started up again. She looked him in the eyes, but found she couldn’t stand to do that for long and had to look towards the floor.

She could hear him whisper something unintelligible; cursing, perhaps, under his breath in Aldmeris.

“You carry a much heavier burden than I initially thought.” He said, “You’re far, far too young for all of this…”

“I can help! I know I can!” Elyssa insisted, “I’m not afraid of Coldharbour! I’m not afraid of the bloodfiends! I’m not afraid to get bitten! I can prove it! You can have my blood; take it!”

It was supposed to be a reaffirming statement, but her protestations almost made her sound even more childish.

“Elyssa…” he spoke calmly. Carefully. “Why is it so important to you that you give me your blood?”

“Because you need it, don’t you?” She said, frustrated. She began her pacing again.

“That’s not the reason.”

“Because I want to be helpful!”

“That’s also not the reason.”

This time, she stopped pacing and got angry.

“Because if I don’t give everything I can, and something happened to you, or the High King, or the people of Rivenspire, it will be all my fault again!!”

She yelled it out, and her body feeling a little lighter as she did. Even as her eyes had begun to water just a bit.

“There it is…” Verandis said softly.

And he left her a moment to go over to the cabinet by the door.

“One of the greatest strengths…” he said, and she could hear him fiddling with something. “…Of the Daedric Prince of Domination is not just in his talent to forcefully suppress a person’s free will or inflicting their greatest fears, but in his capacity for making them feel guilt.”

He returned with a glass of a deep red liquid. “Physical pain may fade with time, but guilt has a habit of remaining. What’s worse, it’s often the sufferer that fosters and grows it. Is there any torture more perfect than that which the victim inflicts upon themselves? Sit down, Elyssa.”

“What…?” She glanced from him to the glass as he sat it down at the table between the two chairs in the study.

“If you still insist that I taste your blood, then I must insist that you sit down first.”

Her eyes grew wide a moment, but she clenched her fists out of resolve and held fast as she cautiously took the seat to the right. He maneuvered the chair opposite to rest closer to her, taking a seat himself.

Her fingers were still trembling as she reached up and undid the top button at the back of her dress, but she hadn’t a clue whether they were trembling because of this or if they were simply leftovers from her fitful sleep. It may have been both.

“I don’t...need to take off my clothes completely, do I?” She frowned in disgust at the thought. She hadn’t considered that part, but the Dunmer from before had been…well…half-naked.

“No,” He said, firmly. “A shoulder is all that’s required. Are you ready?”

She glanced at the filled glass.

“Do you always take a shot after you’ve already had a drink?” She joked weakly.

“The wine is for you, Elyssa. I think you should drink at least a little of it when I’m done. Now, are you prepared?”

Her hand reached up to pull down one of the shoulders of her dress, just enough so that her collarbone showed. Her fists clenched and unclenched themselves as she rigidly held them in her lap. If she were ever bitten by a vampire, this is what it would feel like….

Finally, she nodded.

A touch at her shoulder caused her to flinch again, but they were only fingers. He was gently moving a strand of hair out of the way.

“Tell me. I saw you speaking to Melina earlier and it caught my attention. Did she find a particularly interesting rune?”

She brightened up a little at that.

“Oh! Well not exactly; we were just talking about this one-ow.”

She was simultaneously a little irritated and a little grateful. The skeever only asked her that as a distraction… and she actually fell for it.

Vampire fangs were apparently large enough that it felt a little like someone had just happily jabbed a pair of sewing needles into the tender part of her shoulder. She’d had worse injuries before, but it wasn’t very pleasant either.

…And it was just a tad bit awkward. For obvious reasons.

Did the servants really do this on a regular basis?

Just as she considered the pain, a wave of a new sensation came with it. He was right; it did have the effect of making a person dizzy. Dizzy and…a little hazy. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep that she’d self-induced upon herself for the past couple of days, but she was actually starting to feel…calmer.

Numb.

After a few seconds had passed, it no longer hurt. And she was no longer sitting up straight in the chair, but rather lounging. The hard wood had suddenly felt a lot more comfy.

She could still feel him there. It was hard to ignore his mouth (although she valiantly tried anyways, if only to make it a little less awkward), but she couldn’t really feel any blood actually going out of her (probably a blessing). One of his hands helped to hold up her neck, and the other right at her upper arm to hold her steady. It was just as well; the numbness had the effect of making her feel like a puddle of water.

She could also feel him pull away. Replaced with the feeling of cloth at her shoulder. Elyssa turned to look and found him softly pressing either a handkerchief or a napkin to the wound (for her sanity’s sake, she decided it was the former rather than the latter).

“That didn’t seem like much,” Her speech was a little slurred.

“Do you still wish to fight the bloodfiends while conscious? If so, then this is all you can afford to lose. You already run the risk of injury on the battlefield.”

He motioned for her to hold the handkerchief there. “It will stop bleeding in a moment. How do you feel?”

“Rather nice…” She said with a slightly loopy smile. But then she frowned. “Am I supposed to find it nice?”

“All vampires have some level of hypnotic ability. Some use it to effect of creating slavish thralls. Mostly, I suspect it’s there to ensure that any prey doesn’t try to escape our grasp. For this reason, I think it tends to show up often in mortals who have been recently fed upon.”

Elyssa thought about Kallin and the almost eager way he introduced himself to her so soon after the Ravenwatch vampires had dined upon him.

“So…do you influence your servants to give you their blood?”

“I do not always willingly inflict this effect, Elyssa. Think of it more as a side effect than something I always have a conscious command of. Anyone I feed on could potentially feel like this.”

“But you have some control of your hypnotic ability, don’t you…?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking of me. Here.” He gestured for the handkerchief back and for her to fix her outfit.

“If you’re implying that I somehow force or coerce my servants to give me their blood, the answer is ‘no’. I made no such demands of them, nor would I need to. There are plenty of people in Rivenspire of the unsavory variety; bandits, cutthroats, and the like for whom death would be deserving. So it would be no trouble to us if Kallin should ever wish to seek employment elsewhere. I would not stop him. Only ask that he keep the secret of our gifts to himself. Not everyone in Rivenspire knows of our nature.”

She adjusted her dress back to normal after looking at the mark. The wound had stopped bleeding; only two pinpricks of red against her skin to mark that anything had actually happened.

“I don’t oversee a prison here in my home.” He said.

With it being so fresh in her mind, it was difficult to keep her thoughts away from her dream; the bleakness of Molag Bal’s domain and how it contrasted with the Count’s own castle. In spite of the coffins (and questionable décor)….this was practically paradise compared to Coldharbour.

Then again…wasn’t anything paradise compared to that place?

“You should have a few sips of wine.” He said, interrupting her reverie.

She nodded and took the glass, letting the liquid swirl within before bringing it to her lips. It was a tad sweet, and something she must have needed because she took in a large gulp of it.

“The numbness is wearing off…” She said, contemplating the glass in her hand. “…And I have to face my dreams once more…I don’t want to go back to sleep and see Duchess Lakana again…”

“The Duchess of Alcaire…I understand that it was you who thwarted the Daedric plot behind her murder.”

“But I couldn’t save her! She was so….she was so scared. And she said she was all alone there. The soldiers wouldn’t even allow her to see most of the entourage that came for her from her father. I said I would help her and then…then…”

She tried not to get too emotional by taking another large gulp of wine “…I should have stayed right next to her instead of running around…”

“We are all bound by our limitations, my child. In your case, you cannot possibly be everywhere and save everyone all at once…”

“No. But I could have made sure I brought her murderer to justice…”

She finished the glass and set it back on the table, balling her hands into fists again.

“…I let him go. He looked so guilty…and his mind had been manipulated by Vaermina…I thought it was the right thing to do. At least, that’s what I told myself at the time.”

Elyssa looked down at her hands, clenching and unclenching them, staring at them as though she’d hoped they would somehow provide a better thought process.

“Now I’m wondering if I was really right. The Duke seemed a little bit angry at my decision…”

“He was likely grieving.”

“And the knight in question - the one who killed her? – he himself said that he felt guilty and deserved to die.”

“Those who feel guilt are not always guilty of anything. And he, as a knight, was likely considering the strained political relations going on within the Covenant. His duty to preserve the alliance may have weighed heavily on him to the point where he thought sacrificing his life should be a consideration.”

“But he seemed so…I don’t know. He was acting so normal when I met him; when he supposedly was under Vaermina’s sway. I have to wonder if he didn’t secretly want the Duchess to die after all…”

“Now you’re being a bit unfair.”

“But…He could have resisted.” She said, finally. “He must have been able to resist. He should have tried. He was acting so normal most of the time that he had to have some control of his senses. If he had put a little effort into fighting back, maybe she wouldn’t be dead. Maybe I would have been able to stop him. Or maybe I wouldn’t have even had to stop him. If only he’d considered alternatives…He could have just kidnapped her instead, but no. She just had to die! He should have been punished for that...He should have died, and I should ha—“

His hand was at her shoulder again, and that numb feeling came back with such a vengeance that she had instantly slumped back into the chair. Her anxiety laced rambling put to a halt with a slack jaw.

Her breathing steadied. Her eyelids drooped. Every muscle in her body had completely and utterly given in to a state of soothing relaxation.

“Stand up, Elyssa,” he commanded.

A floating, freeing feeling washed over her as she did as she was told. The room had gotten brighter, the hallway lighting almost dancing in front of her eyes.

“Come with me upstairs,” he commanded again.

And she felt compelled….no, she felt like it was wonderful to move forward. He followed behind and caught her by her arms to direct her around the dining room table.

They walked, slow and steady. Elyssa was sure that if she hadn’t been held by the mer behind her that she’d fall flat on her face. The numbness took all anxiety away….to be replaced completely with contentment and a calm sort of happiness…It was the most relieving feeling in the world.

“Molag Bal,” He said, “Would certainly love to have you convinced that weakness is a sin. That people with weaker wills, much like the knight you speak of, deserve to be punished and tortured.”

They began to ascend the stairs, and Elyssa swayed a bit. She had been trying her best to focus on walking, but the comforting numbness was making her a bit sleepy. Besides, her feet and legs appeared to find themselves all on their own, without any effort on her part.

In the back of her mind, there was some measure of concern that something was wrong here. But any attempt at trying to grasp what exactly was amiss slipped right out of her thoughts.

“But we all have our weaknesses, Elyssa,” Count Verandis continued. “There is not a person in all of Tamriel who is devoid of them. For me, it is the sun. For you? Right now, it is your generous acceptance of others who are different than you; the trust that you easily form with strangers in spite of how unusual they may be or, in this case, whether or not they are a vampire. Acceptance and compassion are very much virtues to be exalted, but in the hands of the wrong people they can become weaknesses to be utilized against you.”

They reached the top of the stairs and made their way into the guest parlor. Each step forwards made her feel like a leaf on the wind; dancing across the floor as though her body was lighter than air. The furniture danced alongside her, swimming in her vision. She heard every word that he said (in fact, it held the bulk of her attention, as if she couldn’t ignore him even if she tried), but finding a response was difficult as she couldn’t formulate the thoughts to say anything.

“I am grateful for your trust, Elyssa. Far too many have unfairly scorned or judged us for our condition without ever trying to become acquainted with who we are as people.”

He stopped her just as they reached the table. She frowned with disappointment; she wanted to keep moving around. It felt nice.

“However, imagine for a moment,” He whispered lower, closer to her ear. “How disastrous this would be if I had a more destructive desire. What would happen if we had met on a dark, lonely night and I had no code of conduct to dictate my thirst? I would beckon you, entrap you just like this. How easily you would come to me, following me out of sight of any living person who might help you. Can you imagine what I would do then with such a feast all to myself? This feeling, this enthrallment, would be the last sensation you ever felt; helpless to do anything as I gorged myself on your life’s blood.”

Fingers appeared at her throat, ever so gently pressed against her skin, against the pulse beating there. And almost automatically, she found she had lifted her chin even more to better allow them. She felt a tinge of fear break through the numbness; fear of the mer at her back, at the way her own body rebelled against her wishes to expose her own throat… and a growing, frightening consideration at the back of her mind that he might, just might, take the offer. In spite of whatever he may have said about their feeding habits before.

“Tell me,” He said, “Many members of my kind would insist that they have the right to feast on mortals because their prey is weaker than them. Would it be just and proper for me to rip your throat out all because you are powerless right now? Do I have the right to murder you just because I can? Because I’m stronger?”

A small bubble of panic managed to sober her up enough to try and wiggle free. But the movement was half-hearted; she still did not feel like she had complete command of her body. Even though he did not hold her very firmly, her little movements seemed insufficient to loosen his grasp. Attempting to maneuver limbs felt like trying to wade through dense tar. And as the words died in her throat before they had the chance to pass her lips, she was met with the horrific realization that she was trapped at his whim without so much as the ability to scream.

She had never been so terrified of him before that moment.

He removed his hand from her throat to grasp both arms in an attempt to hold her steady; her struggling had given her an awfully dangerous sway that threatened to cause her to hit the table. Or the floor. Whichever unfortunate hard surface she reached first.

“It’s all right, Elyssa.” He said, his voice kinder. “I give you my word; your life is safe within my home and among myself and my household. I’ll release you very soon, I promise. Relax now, or you’ll hurt yourself.”

As if that was also command, a new, fresh wave of numbness and calm settled in, and she felt too exhausted from her last struggle to resist it. It took over once again, and the world went fuzzy.

“Sit down,” he commanded, releasing his grip on her arms to pull out a chair. And she obeyed, taking the offered seat.

He went to stand before her with crossed arms. They remained like that for several minutes before she began to notice that she had feeling back in her legs. The calm was dying down. Her fingers could twitch at her will. Her arms now moved unimpeded. And with her newly re-acquired control of herself, she immediately proceeded to do the thing she wanted to do the most:

Look up and glare at him.

(Punching him was actually the first option, but she was tired and felt that it required more effort than she thought he deserved)

“How are you feeling?” He asked, unphased by her expression.

“Pretty pissed.”

“As well you should be. But recognize that it is my fault for exerting my power over you. It is not your fault that you hadn’t the strength to resist back. You can’t hold yourself responsible for my actions or the actions of any others…Just as you should not hold other people responsible for the actions of Vaermina.”

Her glare lessened as she contemplated this. “Do you…suppose that was a taste of what Sir Hughes felt? The same sort of influence he may have been under?”

“I cannot guess what sort of Daedric magic Vaermina used, but I can almost surely guarantee it was potent.”

She was silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond. So she looked down to fiddle with her fingers.

His demonstration made an impression.

“Never doubt that you made the right choice to spare that knight’s life,” He said, softly. “He was not a cultist, nor did he willingly implore Vaermina for any of this; she forced her influence upon him by taking advantage of the little bits of doubt that we all experience when it comes to change in our lives. No mortal deserves death all because they were weaker than a Daedric Prince. If we should go by this logic, then all but a potential handful should be summarily executed right here and now.”

“…Yeah.” Elyssa sighed, avoiding his gaze. “I think a part of me realizes that. That I don’t actually blame Sir Hughes, I just…”

“…You still feel a little guilty because you happened to be there. And you’re desperately trying to look for an excuse to assuage that guilt.”

“Yeah,” She winced to hear it aloud, but he had put it very succinctly.

“Her death wasn’t your fault, Elyssa. You cannot hope to control what a Daedric Prince decides to do; you can only hope to try and stop them. Even then, such foes are so formidable that it isn’t a guarantee that you will be successful.”

He leaned against the table. “I would consider it impressive that you were even able to save the poor soul manipulated by Vaermina. He may be punished in exile, but that is a far better, far more appropriate fate than what the Daedric Prince of Nightmares had in store for him, I can promise you that. I don’t think I need to remind you that Daedra often treat mortals as toys, and are known to mercilessly toss aside those that have passed their usefulness.”

“I guess…” She sighed again, gaze transfixed to the floor in front of him. But then she remembered what had just happened, and she snapped her head back up to glare at him. “I’m still angry at you, though.”

“And I apologize that I frightened you. I do regret that. Make no mistake, it is wrong to affect people’s minds in such a way, and I apologize for that as well. But I thought it would give you some perspective as to what it feels like to be influenced in such a manner. At the very least, I would hope that it proved to you how difficult it is to escape.”

“How do you escape?” She had a terrible thought pass through her head about having to face a much more sinister vampire who would use this technique.

“Different strains of vampirism, different capabilities. But in this particular case, there were several factors working against you.”

He gestured to her.

“First, you had allowed me to feed off of you, which, I believe, actually helps with this. Second, you trusted me. At least, enough to stay the night without any discernible fear for your own safety. I was able to take advantage of that to exert a much more potent sway. If you recall, you had regained some ability to fight back the moment I lost that trust and started to frighten you. Unfortunately, you had, by that point, been under my control for a bit too long that it was difficult to break through.”

“So…Feeding, length of time, and trust. Did I get that correct?”

“For my particular type of vampirism, yes. You’ll likely meet many others whose abilities operate under a different set of rules. It does, however, take no small amount of effort to inflict such hypnotic influence, so it is doubtful that you’ll meet very many opponents who would consider using it against you in the heat of battle.”

She nodded. “That’s comforting a bit…I think.”

Silence settled over them.

This time, it was Verandis who sighed.

“I cannot speak for the Duchess,” he said, “But I am quite familiar with both the High King and his brother, the Duke of Alcaire. And I can assure you that neither of them would want you to be this distraught over Duchess Lakana’s death. Especially not to the point where it is affecting your sleep.”

“Yeah, about that. I still really don’t want to close my eyes. So do you have anything you need that I can help with?”

“Blood loss and exhaustion doesn’t strike me as a particularly brilliant plan for fighting off blood fiends.”

“I can’t.” Elyssa stared him straight in the eye, trying to keep the twitching of her mouth from grimacing too much, “I really, really can’t do this. I can’t go back to sleep right now; it’s just going to be the same nightmare again. Like it was yesterday. And the night before that.”

He stared back at her without comment at first, but eventually uncrossed his arms to head towards his alchemical table in the corner.

“How about,” He said, “I brew you a sleeping draught.”

“But—“

“You needn’t drink it if you don’t want to. But I’ll leave it here with you, just in case.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Is this going to be like the last potion you made for me, where I wandered about in your memories?”

“No memories. Just a typical sleeping potion.”

Her nose rankled at the undesirable scents and burning smells that were already coming from the station as he worked.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I didn’t really mind stepping into your past. It was kind of fun being someone else, actually. Just not sure I’d want to do it on a regular basis, because it was also kind of disorienting.”

“Considering everything you’ve told me, I believe we shouldn’t have a repeat of that. I’m already beginning to regret what little I’ve shown you; I think you have enough worries without me adding more of my own to your pile.”

She could hear sounds of him pouring liquid into a container, and soon enough he approached her with a bottle of something blood red.

He held it out for her and she reached for it, but his grip held fast.

“Please look at me, Elyssa.”

Her blue eyes looked up to find contemplative red.

“Never let Molag Bal win by accepting his ideology,” He said, resolve in his expression. “Believe me when I say, he would cherish such a submission from you. Weakness is not a sin…and the powerful should always strive to protect, not abuse. Remember that.”

She nodded slowly in response to the seriousness in his words, and he released the bottle to her grasp.

“….Vampires fall under the realm of Molag Bal, don’t they?” She asked, holding tight to the vial, “To the point where I even heard that Coldharbour is where their souls go when they die. Is that one of the many reasons why you have an honor code? Not just to be a good person, but to fight back against him, even if a little bit?”

The flickers of a very sad smile tugged at the edges of his lips.

“…Have a good night, Elyssa. May your dreams bring you a much-needed and well-deserved rest.”

And with that, he left her to go back downstairs.

She stared at him as he went. And stared at the potion he left her when he was gone.

After crawling back to the bed, she pulled out the stopper to take a little sniff of the concoction. It smelled awful, like most potions do. And she winced as she pulled back to take a tiny taste of it.

Fortunately, the taste wasn’t half as bad as some of the magicka brews she’d had before; this one only had a faint note of rotting eggs and cabbage, instead of an overt one. That was an improvement.

After much staring and much consideration, she held her nose and downed the rest of it in one swallow, smacking her lips with a sour expression as she finished.

But the taste lingered, and soon enough she crept out of bed to go back to the parlor. Rustling through the pantry next to the alchemical vials was a bottle of unopened wine. She silently gave a prayer of thanks to the Divines that bottles of wine were so readily available in a house full of vampires just as she popped out the cork and took a long swing of it to try to drown out the disgusting rotten eggs.

With the taste gone and her thirst satiated, she made her way back to the bedroom. A wave of dizziness and exhaustion had quickly crept up on her, and she mumbled her discontent under her breath; apparently it was a very, very potent sleeping potion.

Just before she came upon the bed, all the furniture in the room performed perfect backflips.

Her whole world spun around…

…And faded to black.

#from dusk to dawn

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This is meant to be heard alongside my fanfiction and is not meant to be listened to alone. it is for ch 4

#audio #this is me playing

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This is meant to be heard alongside my fanfiction and is not meant to be listened to alone. it is for ch 4

#audio #this is me playing

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This is meant to be heard alongside my fanfiction and is not meant to be listened to alone. This is for ch 4

#audio

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This is meant to be heard alongside the story and is not meant to be listened to alone. This is for ch 4

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this is for the prologue chapter

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Table of Contents

In order:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

#table of contents

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Chapter 5

Have you ever wondered what would happen if you didn’t heed The Ghost Host’s warning about flash photography and too many bright lights?

What a coincidence; so have I!

Hello and welcome to part 2 of my Ted Talk series, “Let’s Torture Karen For Fun”. Thank you all for joining me here.

Oh. I should mention that this is the “scary” chapter. As in, it probably won’t frighten you, but it is a bit creepier than the other chapters.

There’s a character based off of a face character in Epcot in this chapter. This particular face character I’ve always thought was some kind of spirit when I was younger, hence why they’re referenced here.

Also, you’re going to start to see signs of the references I’ve put in to both the Phantom Manor and the Phantom of the Opera (only natural since the book/musical inspired the Phantom Manor).

Additionally, I wanted to explain/reference the two mansions and why only one has the aging man portrait in the foyer.

Van Winkle was an actual delegate back around that time; I may go back and change it to a fake name later. As well as maybe edit this chapter later. If anyone can give me tips and pointers, that would be appreciated.

Also I apologize for the really terrible art. I will probably go back and edit them later.

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

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Table of Contents Link

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Ch 5: Poor Unfortunate Souls

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”If you want to cross a bridge, My Sweet, You’ve got to pay the toll.”

-Ursula, Disney’s The Little Mermaid

~~~~

Cautiously, she began to climb the stairs. They were going up; not down to where Michael presumably was, but she could swear that statue was going to spring to life at any moment and jump her. And she couldn’t bear to be around when that happened.

On the next floor was another hallway, this time it was framed with doors lining either side as far as she could see.

No, literally. She could not see the end of the hallway.

It seemed to go on for miles and miles; if there even WAS an end to it, it was certainly well out of the visual range of any human being.

Who the heck would even make a house like this?

There was not a soul in a sight, but there was creaking throughout. The walls creaked, the floors creaked; Karen just hoped it was the house settling.

She muttered disgruntled strings of sentences insulting the Ghost Host as she turned at a junction reached for what she had hoped was the light switch for that next set of hallways.

The old fixtures of the chandeliers above her were sluggish in illuminating her surroundings. That wasn’t too comforting when there were shadows at one side that she couldn’t quite account for, but relief came when this turned out to be merely another table with papers.

Out of curiosity (and because it couldn’t possibly make her anymore lost than she already was), she briefly shuffled through them.

Among the items that caught her eye was a newspaper. It was faded in several places, but the words of one particular headline stood out.

“LION EATS MAN

On this morning, officers of the law have found what is believed to be the half eaten remains of local man, one Mr. Hugh Hudson. Mr. Hudson had been reported missing by his cousin and overseer, Mr. Jefferson Lewis of the textile company Williams Textiles, just earlier today, when he had neglected to show for work or respond to visitations to his home. Mr. Hudson frequently suffered from unseemly bouts with the bottle, and it was under such influence that it was believed that he had happened across the grounds of the traveling Circus, The Museum of the Weird.

Although initially a suspect in this terrible tragedy, ------, the owner and ringmaster of the circus”

Karen squinted her eyes, but the name wasn’t faded but deliberately blacked out.

“Although initially a suspect in this terrible tragedy, -----, the owner and ringmaster of the circus has cooperated in full with authorities and was henceforth released from suspicions. He expressed his opinion that exceptional drunkenness was a type of evil, second only to lecherous behavior, and that such tragedies were an inevitable consequence of Mr. Hugh’s choices.

No evidence has been found that would implicate foul play. Officers of the law have investigated and determined that the methods by which the scene happened involved Mr. Hugh hefting himself over the fencing using a nearby ladder. After which, becoming trapped when there was method of climbing on the other side. Authorities are working with the assumption that the remains are, indeed, Mr. Hugh, in spite of the condition they are, which is to say, in rendered completely unidentifiable, as there was a bottle of his favored heavy wet near the beast’s cage. And, furthermore, on the good logic that none others in town have been found to be missing.”

Lion. Unidentified body. And again, that Museum of the Weird.

Karen looked at the date. 1879. Was this the same event that the other letter she had found described?

Underneath the paper were more letters. She opened a few, but most of them had names she didn’t recognize. Until she came across one addressed to ‘A Mr. James Bartholomew Gracey’.

Gracey. That was the surname of the other letter author. She opened it up.

“Mr. James Bartholomew Gracey,

You had wrote previously expressing interest in our convention that took place in Wheeling; I write to you now that we shall hold a second convention on the 11th of June. Ordinarily, only delegates are meant to attend, but as you have previously provided a great service for many of our members I do not think that your presence will incur an uproar.

Take care, my friend. For there have been rumors of late of those who wish to secede stirring trouble in towns. I recognize that you have a certain attachment to your estate, and I do not contest it is very much your birthright, but I urge you to consider relocating closer to Parkersburg, where you could be among the many who share your sentiments. At the very least, I pray you take care until this war reaches its conclusion.

Sincerely,

P. Van Winkle”

This one didn’t have a year date or any other identifying features, but it mentioned a war.

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. This was going to be a headache and a half to make sense of any of this, and likely wouldn’t even get her any closer to finding Michael.

Gracey. Given that she was finding so many letters with that surname, and given that Solomon’s portrait was hanging prominently in the foyer, she’d have to guess that the family lived in this mansion at some point.

She frowned when she went back to staring at the letter. Why was it…darker…?

Looking up, it seemed to have escaped her notice that the hallways she came from were now nearly black. Goosebumps prickled over her arms and neck.

Someone had turned off the lights.

And, judging from the human sized shadow that stood in the murky darkness: that ‘someone’ was still there.

“H-hello?” She asked in a voice much smaller than she’d intended.

The only sounds she could hear was the echoes of a door slamming off somewhere in a distant part of the house. The shadow didn’t change its position.

“Michael?” She said, a little too hopefully. But he would never have pulled a prank like this; she knew that even before she was met with silence once again.

“G-Ghost Host?”

Not a sound. This was likely too subtle for someone as show-offy as he was.

“Please….won’t you….won’t you say something? I can see you, you kn-”

THE SHADOW SUDDENLY LURCHED, JERKY INHUMAN MOVEMENTS COMING CLOSER COMING TO HER

She screamed and turned and fled. Down the hall in the opposite direction, she came across even more intersections and just blindly went down another and another, turning on the light switches as she went because she couldn’t stand to be left in the dark with whatever the heck that thing was.

[Frightfully sensitive to bright lights]

She winched. There it was again, a thought floating to the surface of her mind that distinctively did NOT belong to her. Unlike with the memory of Solomon, this thought didn’t gradually come upon her but was instead thrusted into the forefront of her mind. And complete with an unwanted sense of anxiety to boot.

She dared to look behind her, and despaired to find that the hallways she left were already dark again. Getting desperate and running out of breath, she grabbed the first few things she could find, another table and an unlit candelabra, and positioned them under the light switch so that the prongs of the candelabra held the switch on.

Karen didn’t actually think this was going to do much, but as she went to the next hallway she witnessed the candelabra shake. On its own. Violently, at first, but as she stared, the object moved less and less frequently until it stopped. The light switch remained on.

She sighed in great relief, hoping to all heck that whatever it was, ghost or not, that it had given up its attempts. The shadow certainly didn’t seem prepared to peep around the corner without the darkness there, so for all points and purposes it had worked.

Frightfully sensitive to bright lights…Had that been some kind of hint? Was she somehow peering into the desires of another being? Or was it a purposely sent message? Did the shadow really think she was going to turn off all the lights and allow herself to be at the mercy of a creature she knew nothing about?

She shook those thoughts away. It didn’t matter anymore; a quick glance at the candelabra confirmed it was still there, keeping the lights safely on. And so long as they were on, she apparently needn’t do anything about the shadow.

Another table. Another pile of assorted papers. She’d have briefly scanned over them and just kept moving, as she didn’t want to risk the shadow getting brave, but the top ones….

…Were etchings of the two different types of houses she had seen when they first came across this place.

Just like how she’d seen before. EXACTLY.

One was a Southern style house, with a flat roof and four large Roman-esque pillars surrounding the front door. There was a second story veranda that wrapped around the entire house, with iron wrought bannisters that looked just as decorative as they were practical. Though the etching was in black and white, she recalled from her previous contact that the building was mostly white and looked like it was made of paneled painted wood.

The other was in a style she’d seen around really old houses in mostly the Northeast. A brick building, with roofs slopping at sharp angles and a decorative turret with many decorative toppers scattered on key points of the roof. One of the most notable and visible points of interest was a glass room on the side that formed a half circle before fusing into the rest of the building.

Underneath these was a note.

“Mr. Solomon Gracey,

Apologies, but I am afraid I have no answers for you again. Though we have had a thorough investigation, the authorities have not been able to locate the evil persons who had accomplished the fire set to your home. Many of us have the opinion that the fire was a joint effort by many persons, who were eager to take advantage of your late father’s passing and your current absence. And that Mr. Wyatt Williams may be involved. As there were no fatalities, we thought it wise to let the matter drop; granting, of course, that you do not wish to press further.

As requested, the style of the new exterior will be a marked difference from your original inheritance. You recall your acquaintance in Pennsylvania, for whom you had favorably mentioned his newly completed estate some three years prior? We were able to coax Mr. Asa Packer, the architect of that estate, for advice.

You will be pleased, but likely as puzzled as we were, to know that much of the core inner rooms had remained perfectly intact. Indeed, it was because so many rooms were unscathed that injuries and deaths were prevented. The resulting consequences should be that it will not take more than a handful of years to fully complete her, as only really the outmost rooms and outside appearance need be worked on. And, of course, we will extend the conservatory in accordance to your previous wishes. I believe I can speak on behalf of my sister and say that the promise of this particular expansion delighted her.

I hope I am not out of line in the choice of my next words, but know that it is out of concern for your safety that I state them. Stay at the University. The town has been broiled over with unrest as of late, perhaps due to the circumstances by which our new President was elected. Coupled with the unpopularity of the Gracey family among the townspeople, returning now may only elicit additional responses against the estate before it has even reached completion.

Besides which, your presence is not needed for the reconstruction, and I offer my assurances that myself and the rest of staff will make do with the family townhouse in the meantime. We will take care; you needn’t express such worry as you’ve have.

Regards,

Edgar Galloway”

She looked back down to the pictures but they were go-

She was standing somewhere else again.

It was….it was the foyer. And the man standing in front of her…

Solomon Gracey.

There were two rows of people before him. On the right, was a row of maids in the green, pinstripe dress she had seen before on both Nell and the maid from the other memory-dream. On the left, was an apparent row of butlers. They, too, were dressed in a deep forest green, albeit as a suit. They had a pinstriped vest of a more grayish-purple color under their open jackets with a row of golden buttons, and a black tie around their neck. Both sides were standing rigid as if at attention.

As a butler took hold of Solomon Gracey’s hat and outer coat, she could hear one of the maids whisper to the other ‘You’re right. He is quite handsome in person. That portrait hardly does him justice!’

At the other end were a maid and butler pair; they seemed to be in charge, because the maid silenced the other two with a harsh glare.

Solomon, for his part, smirked in good humor. “Thank you. I’ll consider that a compliment.”

And the maids, upon being found out, couldn’t help but giggle in both embarrassment and relief until the head maid interrupted them with a cough.

Head maid and butler stepped forward to greet him. Both had similar shades of hair, a deep raven black. The woman’s was longer and had been tied in the back to be plaited into a single braid. The man’s was cut very short and side swept at the front, but there was still much left on the sides that it would have just covered his ears if he hadn’t had it swept behind them. Both, too, had cloudy grey eyes.

“Welcome home, sir.” The head maid said.

“Thank you. It is good to be back. Despite…” His face fell as he surveyed the room, “Well, despite everything.”

“We did do our best, sir, to organize the reconstruction and recreate many of the rooms.” The butler said. “But there were limitations-“

“I know, Edgar. I do thank you all for the effort and the willingness to stay despite the hardship this must have brought.”

“How was the University?” Edgar said.

“Boring. It was everything I had hated from the academy plus the addition of an overbearing school administrators that paraded the grounds as though it were their battlefield. The amount of posturing would have you nauseated. But at the very least, I’ve passed the bar and can now open a practice.”

He stopped short when he came upon his own likeness up above the fireplace.

“Oh, is this the previously mentioned portrait?” He turned to Edgar and the head maid with a raised eyebrow and a wry smile. “What on Earth were you thinking?”

“Sir, we thought it would be wise to have your portrait displayed prominently for guests who may come to call upon us.” The maid replied, giving even Solomon a pointed look of warning. “It would do much to send a message that, despite your youth, you are indeed the current, true master of Gracey manor.”

“Indeed, a wise choice,” Solomon agreed, still smiling. “But couldn’t you have commissioned someone who displayed my chin a little LESS prominently?”

The maids fell into a giggling fit again, and the butlers seemed threatened to join them, but a clap from both overseers put them back into line again.

…..

Karen could feel the scene fade away; this time, the change was much more obvious.

The hallway returned. The pictures and letters returned.

This…this was the same house.

Plink. Plink.

She picked up the two drawings and placed them side by side.

Plink. Plink.

The same exact house, just at two different points in time.

Plink. Plink.

Most of the same inner rooms, just a different exterior.

Plink. Plink.

Is that why she saw BOTH when they were approaching the mansion?

Plink. Plink.

Wait….What….

Plink. Plink.

….was that sound?

She looked up from the table….only to realize, in horror, that the other end of the hallway was dark.

And the shadow was waiting there.

Plink.

Shards of small glass came down from one of the above light fixtures, and the room grew a shade darker. It was then that it dawned on her, fresh goosebumps rising, what the shadow intended to do.

PlinkPlinkPlink.

Three lights tauntingly broke all in quick succession. The shadow was halfway down.

[Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire.]

Another unwanted thought. Wrapped in fear and anxiety.

She fled again further down the hall.

[Catching up. Catching up.]

Another corner. Again, again.

PlinkPlinkPlink.

But this corner had a stop.

Stop around the corner. There was no place left to go.

[Catching up. Catching up.]

PlinkPlinkPlink.

There was no more hallway left, only rows of doors that led to a door at the end.

Can’t go back. She’d run right into the shadow.

[I SEE YOU]

Try one. Try two. Why are all of these doors locked?

PlinkPlinkPlink.

Finally. The door at the end.

She opens it and slips through.

PlinkPlinkPlink.

She looks around for the light switch. A single bulb in the center of the room, dangling from a thread.

She closed the door behind here and learns the hard way why this door wasn’t locked.

It was because it didn’t have a lock.

The sounds of breaking bulbs gets closer.

She opts to put her weight against the door.

Only just to register what’s actually IN this room.

…..

Coffins.

There are coffins in this room.

Why were there coffins in a storage closet?

Piled high, undecorated, unpainted. Just plain wooden coffins.

She doesn’t have time to think about it; already the door is pushing her back.

Keep it closed. Keep it closed.

Digs her heels in, gaining leverage to force the door closed again.

She manages to find the perfect spot to put her feet.

It will close for sure.

Keep the pressure up.

But the lightbulb, the lightbulb. The single lightbulb.

It was already flickering.

Please don’t go out. Please don’t go out.

The shapes of the shadows of coffins dance in the flickering light like an old movie.

Sometimes, they seem to move.

Please don’t. Please don’t.

The pressure against her back again.

Her hand in her pocket. It curls around the ring.

The ring in her pocket she’d forgotten about.

The ring, the ring….

The water.

She was standing up near the water. Someplace in town near the water. She couldn’t recognize where.

The fear. Nauseating fear, it didn’t go away.

A woman was there. That woman. It was from the first memory. The maid and the boy and the angry young man. But she wasn’t wearing a maid’s uniform. And she was scared.

Yes. So scared. Please.

“Rolly!” She cried, stumbling in the darkness. Her blonde hair fell in curls about her neck, and her eyes were a dull grey-blue.

Why was it dark?

That’s right, because it’s nighttime.

But we were in a closet….weren’t we?

“Rolly! Rolly please!”

Please save me.

Someone. Please help me.

“Good evening.”

Both of them turned to see. That wasn’t Rolly….that….that voice….

A man dressed in all black. He was almost impossibly tall and thin, his face covered by a grotesque, demon-like mask.

The mask had horns, it looked like it was screaming, and there was a crack on the right eye socket of the mask which displayed the unusually large eyeball the man had. An eyeball that held a color electrifyingly blue; a shape and size and color that was so different from his ordinary looking left eye.

Almost instictively, she wanted to run at the sound of his voice.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?? Do you-do you want to hurt me??”

“Would you take comfort in hearing me say ‘no’?”

Run.

Run off into the town; after all, it was right there. But she was held into place.

Couldn’t move.

….

…This was the Ghost Host. Seeing the Ghost Host having an actual, physical form. Not merely a voice floating on the wind. And all back when he was alive.

“What….what do you want, then?” The woman anxiously looked at him, but also kept looking around her. “Rolly? Rolly are you near? Please, Rolly!”

“He cannot hear you.”

“Why?? What have you done with him??” She was frantic.

“Why I’ve done nothing, Miss Slater. It is Miss Slater, correct?”

“How do you know that?!”

“I know someone who knows things. And I happen to know that your friend has traveled the next town over in search of some work.”

“He…..he wouldn’t. Not without telling me.”

“Are you so sure, Madame? And even if he was here, are you so certain he would be able to help you? That he would have the funds at the moment to spare food for an extra mouth?”

Miss Slater was silent. Karen was silent.

The nervousness was hers. Or was it Miss Slaters? Was SHE Miss Slater?

This was bad.

“And what would his friends think, hmm? His former captain? As I understand, he gets a generous sum of money as a sort of thanks for a good length of service from a company that just so happens to be owned by the Graceys. And you?…Well…You were just fired from their house for meddling with one of the master’s sons, weren’t you?”

“That..! You…!” The woman’s face went pale. She doubled over as if in pain, her hand clutched to her heart.

Karen felt a tinge of pain in her own heart. Stabbing. Burning.

“Now, now. Calm yourself. You wouldn’t want to aggravate your condition, now would you?”

The man chuckled darkly, circling around her like a wolf with prey. Her eyes followed nervously along.

“I hold no judgement of you nor bear any grudge. In fact, I’m rather well aware that, as a mere maid, you had little choice but to say ‘yes’ to the young master’s amorous affections. How awful that must have felt; kicked out in the cold because you only did what you were told!”

“Stop!” Miss Slater’s eyes were winced shut, the tears beginning to streak down her face.

The man. The Ghost Host. Waited patiently for her to catch her breath.

“Nathaniel said he loved me.” She said, mournfully. “And I….I convinced myself that I felt the same, if only to make it easier.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I don’t. …I don’t know anymore. I think…I think a part of me did. In a way. In a twisted, awful sort of way, because he only ever made me feel twisted…and…”

She sat shaking on the riverbank. Sobbing quietly.

“Twisted….twisted and awful….I hate him….I want to get away….And I”

She gulped.

“And I don’t…I-I don’t have anywhere to go….”

The man’s hands lifted, and those long, bony fingers ghosted along the woman’s frail shoulders. Skeletal white against the bare of her arms.

“Allow me to help you.” Fingers caught underneath her elbows just as they reached them, and she was coaxed to stand.

“You could come with me. My troupe and I just so happen to be moving out tonight. A fresh start. Fresh clothes. A warm bed, warm food. Does that interest you at all?” This last part was whispered right at the shell of her ear, and she felt compelled to pull away in response.

“And what,” She said, glaring at him. “Pray tell, is your price for such luxuries?”

The man laughed, and his booming voice caused the woman to nervously ease herself away even further from him.

“I assure you, Miss Slater,” The man’s toothy smile could barely be seen underneath the shadow of the mask. “I am not THAT kind of man. I apologize if I have given the wrong impression. It is fear that interests me, not lust. As for my price, I’m not asking much. What I want from you is...” The man reached out to very gently lift her chin. “….your voice.”

Her hand went to her throat. Her face no less filled with anxiety than before.

“Do you mean to rip it from me then, sir?”

He chuckled. “Nothing so macabre. I merely want you to perform with us. Your performance needn’t be strenuous. A song here, a song there. Surely a fair price for what I offer in return, yes?”

“I’m not a singer, sir! Only for my own enjoyment; I’ve never performed or had any sort of train-“

“Unnecessary, I promise. The sort of clientele we get is often far from the obnoxious, discerning upper crust. You need only be decent, and we shall fill the whole tent!”

He offered his hand, and she hesitated to look at it.

She reached up, gently, slowly. Until her hand was firmly in his grasp.

The man smiled.

“Welcome to the Museum of the Weird, Miss Emily Slater.”

Jerked from below.

Taken back into darkness.

Pitch darkness.

But there were outlines of coffins, despite the darkness.

Oh.

She was back in the closet.

The memory was gone again.

And the single lightbulb must have gone out.

Karen sat there, her back against the door, and attempted to regulate her breathing. The room had dropped a whole 20 degrees, accented by an awful burnt smell that reeked through the air; her jacket, which felt particularly heavy against her shoulders, did little to ward off the chill. In fact, it felt as though the cold went right through its threads.

When she was sure that she could actually hold her own weight without passing out, she made the attempt to sta-

……

She tried to sta-

……

She. Tried. To. Stand.

Stand Up.

….

She couldn’t stand up.

She felt the color drain from her face, the burning smell threatening to overpower her as she lifted her shaking hands up….up to her neck….

Only to find.

An….an arm.

…..

Made of stone.

The hand was on her right shoulder, the arm itself resting on her collarbone, the bend in the elbow right on her left shoulder and all of it coming from…

…No….coming through the door.

...The arm was coming through the door. Unhindered. As if the door wasn’t there at all.

She whimpered. Tears lightly stinging her eyes, she stayed perfectly still. As still as she could with all the shaking she was doing.

The statue...The statue had been chasing her this entire time?

….she tried…to go under the arm. To wiggle…

…wiggle

…wigg-

The arm suddenly pushed down on her collarbone, pinning her harder against the door.

She cried out in response, the burning smell was getting worse, and worse…and worse…

The…head…of the statue was now through the door. Stoney eyes staring directly at her.

She whimpered again, silently wishing someone would hear her. Would know she was there.

Her arms clung to the stone, trying to pull it off her but it was too solid and heavy.

Stoney eyes staring at her.

“P-please…..Please….” She whispered. Was it for her savior to hear? Or the statue? Karen herself didn’t know who she was calling for. The tears were running down her face and she couldn’t care to stifle them.

They remained like this, the two of them. A statue and a person. The smell of burnt carcass enveloping her just as strongly as the arm did.

But there was an eventual shift on the statue’s face. The stone eyelids…flickering….Opening. Revealing…

Actual human eyeballs.

This only made her cry harder, because not only was it unnerving to see eyeballs set in stone, but they didn’t have any pupils.

At least, at first, they hadn’t any pupils. But dark pools began to phase into their center, stronger and stronger until the pupils fully appeared.

And with them came….a sort…of softer gaze. The statue looked at her with some sort of recognition.

And….And slowly….meticulously….the statue’s hold began to soften too…

The face moved away….The arm moved away….

Even the single lightbulb in the center of the room came back on.

The burnt smell disappeared.

Without the strength to hold herself in a sitting position, or even the statue to pin her there, Karen slumped to the floor.

Shaking.

In a closet full of coffins. Curled up on the floor, shaking, with the tears still streaming down.

And she finally was able to shudder back to life A nice, long, deep breath.

#chapter 5

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infinitehours · 5 years

Text

Chapter 4

This chapter was getting so long, that I felt like I have no choice but to divide it into two. 30 some odd pages in word, after all, is a little long to be left whole like that.

Check below the cut for both author notes and the chapter proper.

Authornotes: Despite what the Ghost Host says, he will be making an appearance in the next chapter.

The description of the scarecrow should be familiar. It is, in fact, a description of Jack Skellington’s alter ego scarecrow disguise. I wanted to make tiny references to the Haunted Mansion Holiday overlay without making a pure crossover, as the plot I’m going with wouldn’t mesh well with the Nightmare characters. So, instead, I’ll just briefly reference it here and there. Thus, the scarecrow in this fic isn’t actually Jack Skellington (unless you really want to pretend it is, I mean I can’t stop you).

Solomon Gracey….Oh let me tell you the story about this. When I was young, and going through the Mansion for the first time, I saw the aging man portrait. Except, I didn’t know anything about Oscar Wilde or Dorian Gray (I was a kid), so I never made the connection there (even though in retrospect, it seems a little obvious that’s what the Imagineers were going for). But I DID know about Batman, and through that someone had told me the poem once associated with one of the villains named Solomon Grundy:

Solomon Grundy, Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday, Grew worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday, That was the end, Of Solomon Grundy.

And you might be wondering “What does this have anything to do with anything?” You see, as a kid, I misinterpreted the poem and what it meant. I thought it referred to someone who was born, quickly grew up, lived, and died all within the span of a week. It apparently never occurred to my childlike mind that these things could happen on separate years.

So when I saw the portrait of the man, and he aged so rapidly, I thought “Oh! It’s like Solomon Grundy!”

And that’s the story of how the name stuck.

Artwork was drawn by me.

The statue comes from a statue in the Disneyland fast pass for Haunted Mansion

For the Gracey family seal, I used official Disney merchandise for the base. It is the Master Gracey necklace from the Memento Mori store. Here is the reference: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/506725395552228282/?autologin=true&lp=true

Here are other photographs and videos used as references for the other art pieces:

https://davelandblog.blogspot.com/2015/02/terrific-thirteen.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RGdw4ePzPg&t=306s

I am the one who played the piano and recorded myself. I used sheet music from the internet for this. Here are the reference links. Please note that I made small edits for the Haunted Mansion piece and I didn’t follow the original sheet music for John Brown’s Body piece, I just used the same key.

https://musescore.com/user/6017331/scores/1485776

https://www.music-scores.com/midi.php?sheetmusic=Trad_John_Browns_Body

~~~

Table of Contents Link

~~~

Ch 4. John Brown’s Body

“John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave, His soul is marching on!”

-Traditional Folk Song, John Brown’s Body

“This is all a bad dream. This is all a bad dream. This is all a bad dream. There’s no such thing as ghosts. This is all a bad dream. This is all a ba-“

“Repetition does not turn a statement to fact.”

“Shut up.” She muttered, shakily walking down the hall towards the door that she could see on the far end; the complete opposite end from the strange stretching room she had come from. “This is all a bad dream. This is all a bad drea-“

“You can chant such trifle prayers to your dying breath, but your words will never be any truer five centuries from now than they were five moments ago.”

“But it keeps me going,” She muttered again, this time to herself. “And there…there can’t be life after death. It’s impossible. There’s no such thing. Dead is dead.”

“Care to repeat that to the dead person behind you?”

The creepy feeling of an ice cold hand on her shoulder made her speed up, nearly running towards the door.

“Why not look behind you, hmm?”

“No I won’t I won’t!” The anxiety making her giddy, she gave a little nervous laugh as she made it through and slammed the door. She leaned against the door and slid to the ground, eyes closed and breathing in deep.

“Rather impolite, but no matter…. You can always repeat your statement to the one in front of you.”

This time…This time, her eyes had flung open all without her permission and she screamed.

She screamed all the while as she crawled backwards.

All the while as she jammed her wrist against a table in her attempt to get under it.

The thing that lay before her. Whatever it was, it did not follow her, choosing instead to remain swaying side to side in its position.

And she permitted herself to think about what she had just seen: its legs looked like bond stalks, it’s mahogany jacket in tatters. A figure that seemed stiff at first, its limbs in haphazard directions, as though it’s clothes were stuffed with straw. But…

…But that couldn’t be; there had to be a person in there because behind the carved smile of its pumpkin head….she could see teeth.

Human teeth.

She dared to peek out from under the table, but there was no longer any sign of it. The scarecrow’s long legs ought to have been in sight, where could it ha-

POUNDING ON THE TABLE ABOVE HER.

SHE COULD SEE THE SIDES TIP PRECARIOUSLY

AS SOMETHING DANCED ATOP IT.

“I’msorry I’msorry I’msorry!!” She screamed out, her shaking mimicking every jerk of the table.

The pounding stopped. The table stopped.

The thunder rolled off in the distance, and the rain pattered against the windows.

She took an uneasy breath.

“…Why are you doing this to me?” She said in a small voice.

“Why, whatever do you mean?”

She could hear his tone, the thinly veiled sarcasm, the mirth that made it seem like he was laughing at her. She tried again.

“What…what exactly do you want with me? What did you say before, that lives have value?? That the raven was useless to you?? What is it about me?”

“But lives DO have value. Unless, of course, you don’t see value in yours. We are certainly capable of removing such a heavy weight from your shoulders. Or are you more hands on?”

By her side….

………………

….a noose appeared….

Dangling over the sides of the furniture, her safe zone.

She found herself staring at it.

A good. Long. While.

“Are you really trying to kill me?” Her throat constricted, just by having it in her sights.

“Would you take comfort in hearing me say ‘no’?”

“At this point….At this point I’m not sure I’d believe you…”

“Then there’s nothing more to be said, now is there?”

She closed her eyes again. Even knowing that her “host” might take advantage and shove another creature in her face, it was comforting to pretend that she was back at home, in bed, with her eyes closed and ready for sleep.

But the noose…

“Please….please will you at least take it away?”

….

A soft whisper of a sound, and wisp of a breeze.

When she dared to peek, bracing herself for the return of the scarecrow or some other terrible thing, she was surprised.

The noose was gone. And there was no evidence of any new scary entity within her immediate sights.

“Thank you.” She mumbled.

The only response was the low rumbling of a chuckle.

Perhaps because of that, she could not bring herself to leave the relative safety of the furnishing she’d cowered under. The underside of the table was nice and cozy, after all.

So spent the time to look around instead.

There were instruments. Karen couldn’t pretend that she knew much about music, but she knew enough to recognize the violin sitting on one of the chairs. The bigger one sitting in the corner was probably a cello, and there were likely even more instruments hidden from sight in the cases she could observe.

A piano took up most of the room; the light from the candelabras on its surface glowed in the reflection of the gigantic window behind it. From beyond the window, she could see the dead trees buckling under the weight of the downpour, their gray limbs looking much like ghosts themselves. It seemed so deceptively easy to shatter the glass and escape.

“Whatever is the matter, hmm? Have you given up on your friend already? Shall I leave him my condolences? A message? The very last thing he’ll ever hear: ‘Karen has left you for dead’.”

“No.” She said flatly. “No I’m not leaving without him.”

That telltale chuckle again.

“That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

“You’re not going to ever tell us why you’re doing this, are you? Is it really because you think we’re trespassers?”

“You’ll have to forgive me.”

The piano began to play, a series of mismatched notes creating a discord of ugly sounds.

“I was not aware I required a reason.”

She held her breath, watching the keys move across the instrument without any visible fingers to press on them. But there was a shadow that fell across the whole scene that looked oddly…human-esque. Already, she was too frightened to think too deeply into that.

“Shall I play you something light and bright to coax you from your crypt? The mortal creature does still love a happy harmony wrapped up in a major key…correct? And after all wouldn’t you agree that your life would be so flat without a sweet melody? ”

And with that announcement, the piano changed to a happier cord. Was that the Battle Hymn of the Republic?

Listen to the piano part1

Despite her wariness, she did feel herself relax a tinge. She even went so far as to lean back a bit to rest herself against the wall that bordered her ‘safety table’. The ruffling of paper at her fingertips snatched at her attention.

Two papers, actually.

“Mr. Williams,

I write to you on the matter of the issue you had previously approached me for.

Thus far, the Atencio Trading Company has remained relatively unchanged despite the change in the Head of the Gracey family. Indeed, the Atencio Company firmly remains under the ownership of the Graceys, as it always has, despite the remaining echoes of the war and reconstruction. None of the businesses contained within the company have been removed, destroyed, or discarded; if anything, new businesses have been added and not subtracted.

Below is a list that I have compiled, as best as I was able, of the Industries contained therein of the Gracey family’s Atencio Trading Company:

2 Wineries 6 Tanneries 4 Major Textile Production Factories (not containing various minor Textile Refinements involved) 1 Business involved in the Production of Cutlery 2 Beekeeping farms (also involve Honey Refinery) 3 Breweries of Beer and Fine Liquor 9 Livestock farms (not including horses) 5 Horse Ranches 2 Bakeries 7 Farms that variously produce Wheat, Barley, Grapes, Corn, Apples, and Vegetables 1 Metal Production or blacksmith factory whose purpose I could not ascertain

These industries are spread out among several states, regions, and cities. As you know, the Atencio Company regularly transports on the behalf of foreign companies. Thus, this is in addition to the trading profits the company gets for the transportation and shipping of goods owned by companies not under the control of the Graceys.

This is not including, however, the personal farm and properties therein attached to the Gracey Manor house itself. The production involved there is mostly for the immediate benefit of the family, it’s fellows, and the servant class who board there.

I am afraid I have still come up empty, sir, in finding the meaning behind the name “Atencio”. It has apparently been used for ages long past, as long as the Graceys have owned this company. The only shared name I have ever found in records, was that of a pirate crew that operated in the 1400s, long before the Golden Age of Piracy. As such, there are only scant records of this crew, and none of them enlightening enough to provide evidence that there is any relation.

The methods by which the Graceys run their business is still very non-involved. Like before, it appears that many of the overseers of each company sub-branch are left to manage their own affairs, provided that profits are returned to the family proper. The Graceys are involved in making final decisions regarding payment distribution, and appear to be very generous with those in their employment. Especially so with the current Gracey head of family. As such, exceptional loyalty to both the Atencio Trading Company and the Gracey Family itself is not unheard of, nor should be unexpected.

It is with this in mind that I send this letter through an unconventional means.

For you see, sir, I am greatly concerned that this letter should be intercepted by them.

-Leslie Harrison”

And there was a second letter underneath that.

At its very top, was a family crest: A carved letter G in the center of the decorative shape, swirling lines jutting on both sides and a devilish head at its very top. The symbol was flanked by Latin: Familia Supra Omnia.

“Dear Miss Slater,

I am very much distressed at reading your previous missive, which I had received on the fifth of February. I understand your concerns regarding your status as, and I quote you, “a lowly circus performer”. But as I have stressed on more than a single previous occasion, I do not care.

As far as the town is concerned: I, and my estate, are dead to them.

I have long given up on pleasing the most influential members of the community. As well you know, Mr. Williams, whom has the town in his purse strings, already hated my father long before even the War of Rebellion, hated him even worse during the war, and has shown even as recent as last week that he finds my methods of running my affairs a contemptable sight in his long list of grievances against my family name. What the head of the Williams Company says is practically decreed, and, by extension, I am no friend to any member of the upper crust in these parts. It subsequently gives me the freedom to do merely as I please.

And it would please me more than anything, Miss Slater, if you allow me to help you.

I have been hearing so many rumors about the financial status of that circus company that you have affiliated yourself with, and even worse rumors about the ringmaster himself.

Miss Slater, I do not trust that man. He has proven time and again that his humor is morbid, and that his tricks are similarly so. Many of his acts remark and revolve on death itself, and with such a depressing notion it is surprising that his fortunes did not deplete themselves sooner. That mishap with the lion and the poor drunkard is simply another suspicious death to add to his collection of mysterious airs.

I am concerned by some of your wording. You’ve known I have no qualms about reputation. And you’ve never asked for privacy before, even when you had fallen ill. Nor have you been forthright with any reasoning, on my part, that has caused you discomfort. All of these things are suspicious and so very out of ordinary from the past twelve years you have been with these travelers. Your phrases, too, are upsetting: “A lost cause” “Nothing left for me”, these are not words you have ever previously used to describe yourself. I cannot but be concerned that your ringmaster, or someone else in the company, has harmed you in some way.

Which is why, at first chance, I will make the journey to fetch you.

Your daughter is of Gracey blood, if not in name, Miss Slater. We are family. And I will make sure nothing lays a finger on either of you.

Yours in Sincerity,

Solomon Gracey”

As she tried to make sense of the newfound information…Miss Slater.

Mr. Williams.

Solomon Gracey.

Circus.

She….

…Was suddenly standing.

And not underneath a table at all anymore.

There was a man in front of her, sitting at a desk with a concerned expression. He had on a fine white shirt, nice trousers, a gray vest, and was that a pocket watch? It held the uncanny air of a bygone era, especially as he sat, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, at a desk that had no dust.

She recognized that desk….and…when he turned and she saw him eye to eye….she recognized him.

This man wasn’t the same angry man from the earlier vision, with the maid and the young boy.

This man…was from the portrait.

The portrait that she had seen at the beginning of the house, the one that had aged to death right in front of her eyes. And as the eyes glanced her way, she felt herself back away a step.

To be sure, those eyes were beyond comparison. Even here, the vividness of their blue felt like they could see straight into her.

At the same time….she felt…safe. The other vision had held a sense of terror. The other man had clearly been antagonistic. But this man….

Please. Let me help you.

She blinked. For a moment, she had imagined that the man had spoken to her. But that…couldn’t be. He didn’t even seem to see her, for one, as his eyes had glanced over her without any acknowledgement. By now, he had gone back to writing….

She peeked over his shoulder. He was writing…the very letter…she had just recently read..?

Karen stood gob smacked, gaping as he finished it off with a flurry of his signature.

Was this really some kind of memory from the past. How….?

I just want you to be safe.

She blinked again. No, those weren’t words spoken aloud. She finally identified them as a gut feeling. An aura; something that the scene gave off that somehow she felt compelled to think of those exact words. She was sure, anyways, that those feelings were mostly for the benefit of the person he wrote to.

But those thoughts felt good. The scene felt good. After all the ridiculous stuff that Ghost Host had thrown on her, the scarecrow and spiders and stretching rooms and nooses appearing out of nowhere, this was so relaxing in comparison. Comforting, even.

Why couldn’t she stay and listen to Solomon? Would it hurt so badly? Who could blame her?

Staying like this, watching him read over and over the letter he had just completed. He had an intricate ring on his left hand; she could see it as he held his forehead in his hand in thought. It was a good ring.

What was wrong with staying like this, watching him, forever?

Without worries, without cares. No broken windows….Or was it reading…? Law school….Something feels missing….But what does it matter? None of the horror, just a calm room with a man writing a letter that he’d been struggling hours to find the words for. Finally. Finally, he had gotten around to writing it out in full.

But…This won’t do at all.

He stood up.

“Edgar!” He called out. “Fetch my coat and get Samuel! We’re taking a trip to that damned circus.”

Why did he even need the letter? By God, he’ll just show up unannounced, then he could see for himse-

….

Wait….

Karen’s face furrowed in deep thought. What were these thoughts that were now going through her head?

These weren’t…her thoughts. They had nothing to do with her. So why was it as though her thoughts had begun to turn, turning to mush and then reshaping themselves, and all without her permission? It didn’t hurt. But. There was this small sense of mismatch, that something wasn’t quite right….

Thoughts about the ring on his finger….No, this ring didn’t represent marriage…But what was it…Why was she….

…..She was back underneath the table.

There was a brief sense of déjà vu as she tried to catch her bearings; the piano wasn’t helping, as it was now playing a more sinister sounding version of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. It only cemented the idea that the dream was over and the nightmare was back.

listen to the piano 2

….She stared back to the letter. Touched it, even brought it up to her nose to sniff it. It was real.

Which means….the vision….

She squeezed her eyes shut so that she could gradually open them again.

The piano was still playing. Didn’t that “Ghost Host” ever get sick of the same song over and over?

She didn’t want to deal with any of this; not him, not that vision-thingy, not this letter.

Michael…

There was a door to the left.

She glanced back to the piano. The Host was still playing, but for how long would he remain distracted?

Getting up on her hind legs, ready to sprint for it, the song still in the air,

one,

two,

three.

The door was in her hand, the handle turned, she slipped on through, into-

“Hmm hmm hmm.”

-the same exact room?

She opened the door behind her again. In the room she left, a piano playing the Battle Hymn of the Republic. In the room in front of her, an IDENTICAL piano playing…something else.

listen to the piano 3

Two pianos. The same chairs. The same violins. Even the same table she had taken refuge under.

Trying not to panic, she ran down to the next door. Went through it.

“HmmHa ha ha Ha HA ha.”

listen to the piano4

The same room. Again.

She ran over to the next door. Just to peek.

AGAIN. That piano! That horrible, wretched sounding piano!

She stood in the center of the room, carefully avoiding the shadowy figure that seemed to sit at the stool and play away, her eyes bitter and angry as she stared at the instrument. If she had to burn a hole through the piano with her eyes just to make a statement, so be it.

“Finally facing the music, are we? Have you accepted the reality that you need me as a guide if you ever hope of getting anywhere?”

“I’ve accepted the reality that you’re a well certified jerk. Let me out of this room.”

“I didn’t hear the magic words.”

“Sure. How about: ‘Let me out of this room or I break your piano’.”

Laughter radiated from the area of the piano, filling the whole room with the sound of the Ghost Host.

“My how BOLD you’ve become just now. Whatever happened to that poor, helpless mortal I left cowering under the table?”

Karen held her tongue at this part. She didn’t want to risk him retaliating and sapping what little courage she’d managed to muster in her bitterness.

“Take me out of this room now.” She said, holding her ground with her chin up.

….

“Please.” She halfheartedly added a moment later.

“…Well. Since you’ve asked so NICELY.”

The door in the middle opened. As she recalled, that was the door she took to enter the music room to begin with.

But strangely enough, it didn’t seem to lead out to the same hallway as before.

…Had he been moving her around when she was traversing all the duplicate music rooms?

If so…She opened the door that had led to a duplicate music room, only to find a wall. He’d completely stripped her of all sense of direction…

She shuddered at the thought, finally relenting to go through the door he’d opened for her.

“Th-thank you.” She stammered out.

“Hmm hmmm hmm…You’re very welcome.”

The door behind her slammed shut so loud that she jumped.

“Come now. Shriveling up on me, are you? I was having so much fun with this new version of you…”

“Is that what you call ‘torture’?”

“One man’s torture is another’s…entertainment. Hmm hmm hmm.”

“And that’s literally the reason you’re doing all this? THIS? All of THIS is entertainment to you? What was all that before about us being trespassers?”

The voice chuckled darkly.

“If you must know, I could care less about whatever foolish reason a mortal comes wandering here for; trespasser or not. So long as they are here, in the flesh, I can take my pickings as I please. Such a curious creature you are, though, to keep asking about this. Most mortals merely accept my deeds without questioning my motives so aptly… . . . Perhaps this is your ‘gift’ talking…”

“My gift?”

“Yes. Surely you’ve noticed by now that you’ve a talent that expands beyond the grave. Becoming one with the very essence of human nature, and all of the exploits and endeavors, good or otherwise, therein. In effect, a psychic.”

“I am NOT a psychic.” She said with a huff as she strode off.

He had led her to yet another unfamiliar hallway. There was an end table with scattered papers, a stairway that lead up (complete with a fancy banister). Candelabras with intricate weaves of spiderwebs held behind an intricately carved griffin. And a statue was hidden in the alcove.

A very strange statue.

And familiar; she could have sworn she saw one like it outside with the gravestones.

But this one was much larger, human sized, in fact. And it was strange specifically because she got an odd, prickly feeling as she came close to it. For all intents and purposes, it LOOKED like any other statue she may have seen in her life.

It was that of a women who appeared to be grieving. Her dress cut just above her knees, the shawl around her shoulders wrapped up and covered her head. Her face was positioned to the floor, and one of her hands across her chest placed over to about where her heart would be.

Karen reached out and touched it, and it even FELT like a statue. Hard stone that was a little rough along the edges, likely from wear and tear over the years.

But very cold. Almost ethereally cold.

What was worse than any of that, was the smell. Statues didn’t normally smell, but this one reeked.

It reminded her of the time a squirrel had gotten into the electric breaker box of a telephone pole near her house; it had chewed through a few lines and wound up electrocuting itself. The power workers had tossed the remains by the side of the road, but no animal dared to take a bite of it so it simply sat there rotting. The smell that always ran to her nostrils every time she had to pass it was an unholy combination of cooked flesh and putrid decay.

“Are you sure you’re not psychic?”

The voice said, as though mocking the anxiety that the statue seemed to produce in her.

“No, I’m not psychic! Maybe…Maybe ghosts exist, ok? But I am definitely NOT psychic!”

“Oh? You admit to the existence of some of the supernatural? A nice improvement in your disposition. But do you mean to tell me you’ve never feel those moments? That prickling on the back of your spine?”

As if in obedience, the goosebumps on her back became more pronounced.

“Stop it.”

“That chill that you can so easily feel in the air?”

And in that moment, the area immediately around her dropped a few degrees.

“I said stop it!”

“That feeling of being watched, as though there were someone, or something there? And all you have to do is look behind y-“

“Shut up.” She seethed under her breath, trying to avoid glancing behind in case he sent another scarecrow. “Why don’t you just go back to playing the piano or something?? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“As you wish.”

The temperature normalized, the goosebumps died down.

“Wha-really?”

“But of course. If you so desire it, I am FULLY prepared to leave you. In this empty, creaking, dark hallway. By yourself.”

“Or. You could drop Michael off near me.”

The Host’s laughter was raucous.

“And interrupt all of the exquisite entertainment he’s experiencing? Surely you don’t think me THAT cruel.”

Karen bristled. “You want to talk about cruelty?! How about ever-“

“But worry not. You may be alone now, but you’ll be joined soon enough.”

“What…?”

“The happy haunts have long since received your sympathetic vibrations, and are beginning to materialize.”

“What. Does. That. Even. Mean?”

“They’re assembling for their nightly swinging wake, and they’ll be expecting me… I’ll see you a little later.”

“Wait…!”

There was no indication that the hallway had changed, and, of course, no actual physical sign that a disembodied voice had left the area. Yet it felt emptier than before.

“Ghost Host?” She called out tentatively.

No response. Only the low sound of thunder that rumbled in the distance. That indescribable feeling that she had experienced up until that point that had indicated his presence ceased to exist anymore.

The hallway was devoid of its Ghost Host.

And somehow, someway, she knew that.

#chapter 4

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infinitehours · 5 years

Text

Chapter 3

More authornotes:

Once upon a time, I was a child going through the mansion for the first time.

Looking up at the stretching room, I thought it depicted circus people. The tightrope walker was the most obvious. But there also appeared to be a human cannonball (person ontop of dynamite), acrobats (three men ontop of each other), and, though the final portrait gave me a bit of trouble, I concluded that she was a knifethrower. And she didn’t throw around her human target like she ought to have (she hit him dead on, apparently).

This theory was only strengthened when I saw Madame Leota, and all of the ghosts around that were dressed up (The opera lady. Julius Caesar). After all, didn’t circuses have costumes? And that so much explained the funny epitaphs on the graves at the end of the ride. Bea Witch? Dustin T. Dust? Such strange names, they HAVE to be stage names. And what sort of occupation gives you a stage name? Why, a circus of course! This was a mansion of circus people!

I’m older now, and I think I’ve pretty much rejected the idea that ALL of the ghosts were part of a circus. For one, I REALLY want Julius Caesar to actually be Julius Caesar and not someone dressed as him. And also I sort of had a conflicting view back then about the owner of the mansion that was incompatible with the idea that they ALL were part of a circus. Besides, a circus of 999 people in the 19th century seems a bit…unrealistic. So I digress; not every ghost here is from a circus. But there will be a circus, dang it.

The other strong impression of the mansion that stuck with me was the Ghost Host. The Ghost Host completely and utterly terrified me. Plenty of times I thought he was throwing thinly veiled threats in my direction, as in I legitimately thought he was going to kill me. Nevermind the idea that the ride was owned by Disney, I thought he was real and that Disney had hired a murderer or something here.

The emotions I wanted to evoke here, where he was concerned, is meant to be reflective of this. Existing barely on the fringes of your senses, it’s the anticipation that he’s going to do something terrible to you that makes it all the more terrifying.

Also in this chapter is both a reference to….a certain broken glass from the ballroom scene as well as a nod to a scene in the WDW version that was scrapped with the refurb.

As before, all artwork in this chapter was made by me.

The reference photo for the stretching room is: http://www.disneyphotoblography.com/2014/05/the-stretching-room.html

The reference photo for the hallway queue is: https://www.flickr.com/photos/cypress_phillies/5706355407/in/photostream

The poster is made up of several parts. Many of you will immediately recognize some of Rolly Crump’s designs for the original Museum of the Weird.

The lettering is based off of this Tokyo Disneyland Dumbo ad: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/7d/46/81/7d468119e6b2813b942afdf5c376a6e6.jpg

And the eye figure is taken from Memento Mori.

(poster has been deleted for now. May upload at another time)

~~~~~~

Brief mention of cannibalism in this chapter 3 (it’s never performed or attempted, just briefly mentioned in conversation).

~~~~

Table of Contents Link

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Ch. 3: The Bleeding House

~~~~~

“Kindly step all the way into the dead center of the next room please.”

For a while, the velvet voice lingered in the air. The cadence of each word seemed carefully chosen to reverberate in that very moment, in that very room, in just the perfect way.

And thus, both Karen and Mike were struck speechless.

For Karen, the abstract horror of a dark room holding a single, undiscernible figure didn’t go away, but there was music. She could hear music from the next room, clear and tempting like that of a party.

Come inside, it seemed to call.

It would have likely been enough to leave her wanting, dragging herself across the floor to join the strange figure, if not for Mike beside her.

Because Mike was less impressed.

“Forget that. C’mon, Karen.”

He tugged at her arm, and she was forced to snap back to reality as they both went back towards the door. The outside could still be seen; the storm brewing without reverence to the people within, with the thunder sounding every bit as powerful as the voice.

With a snap, the sounds outside deadened; the old oak doors had closed of their own accord just as the couple reached them.

The low rumble of the mysterious voice danced around the room, chuckling.

“There’s no turning back. . .now.”

Mike jostled the doors. “What the heck??”

Digging his shoulder right up against one of them, he shoved. And again. And again.

“Karen, come and push against it too.”

“It’s not going to open.” She said simply. She couldn’t identify how she knew that; she certainly didn’t want to know how she knew that.

“Sure it will; it’s not magic. We’ll get a running start and throw our weight on it together. On the count of three?”

Numbly, she nodded.

“One, two and—“

They hit the doors hard, could feel them give a little and bend in the middle as they should, before the doors seem to spring back and launch them across the room, sending them skidding across the floor.

Skidding for far, far longer than any physics should have allowed for.

For they had skidded right straight across the carpet….and all the way into the next room.

The dark room with the single man in the center.

The room that was calling for her.

“Three.” The voice mocked.

The light of the foyer, and their only escape, quickly grew dim as the sliding of a door shifted in the darkness.

But not long after the room grew dark did it grow exponentially bright again.

“So good of you both to join the great majority…”

They were trapped in an octagonal room.

Grotesque gargoyle statues, as watchful as prison wardens, surrounded them holding up candles.

And there were four prominent portraits depicting different people: A young woman with a parasol, an old woman with a rose, a stately bearded man, and a man in a bowler hat.

“Our tour begins here in this gallery where you see paintings of some of our guests as they appeared in their corruptible, mortal state.”

Karen looked all around the room, but there was nothing on the ground. No objects, no desks, no clutter, it was as if the room was only meant for the portraits.

“The man is gone.” She whispered to her boyfriend.

“What man?”

“The tall man….the tall man that was in the middle of this room just a few minutes ago. Didn’t you see him?”

“No….”

There was a pause in Mike’s voice.

“But….I can see that.”

She followed Michael’s gaze to the portraits on the wall, and instinctively grasped his hand tighter.

“Your cadaverous pallor betrays an aura of foreboding…”

The walls….

“…almost as though you sense a disquieting metamorphosis.”

The portraits…

They were…

“Is this haunted room actually stretching?”

“Yes,” She could hear Mike say, quietly under his breath.

“Or is it your imagination, hmm?”

The portraits all around them gave way to a more morbid sight. The young woman with the parasol, pretty and pink, was found to be perched perilously atop of a severed rope, inches away from an alligator’s open maw…

The man with the bowler hat was atop others dressed in a similar fashion, sinking into something that was labeled ‘quick sand’ on the side….

The stately man, with the ribbon-like symbol of his status hanging around his chest, was, in fact, shown to be in boxer shorts, and standing atop a lit barrel of dynamite…

And the old woman with the rose…had an equally grisly implication as she sat atop the grave of a man named George. If the bust was any indication, George had met his death when his head had met an axe….

She caught a glance up at the ceiling…And for a brief moment, a very brief moment, it drastically looked different. Instead of walls and gargoyle scones, there was a giant tent. Instead of portraits, there were long poles that formed a tightrope walk. And instead of a ceiling…There was a figure. Seemingly that same, undiscernible figure, suspended upside-down. Watching them.

And all very quickly, while the scene faded back from tents and tightropes to the room and portraits once again, the strongest image of a poster came to mind.

MUSEUM OF THE WEIRD CIRCUS AND SIDESHOW

COME SEE THE UNBELIEVABLE!!

A strange looking plant….A man that looked like he was melting…And an eye, all seeing and all watching…

She jerked from her reverie, immediately proceeded to bury her face in Michael’s shoulder, her arms shaking. These were the figures that graced the portrait, referencing what were probably different terrifying acts of the show.

“Hey, it’s alright. I’m here…”

Her boyfriend’s voice gave no indication that the same vision had been violently thrusted upon him, and she wondered about that. Why was she the only one seeing all these strange and terrifying things?

“And consider this dismaying observation:”

Was it a result of this place?

“This chamber has no windows and no doors, which offers you this chilling challenge:”

It was a mistake to come here. A very terrible mistake…

“To find a way out!”

The alarming presence of the voice lingering right in-between them caused the couple to diverge from each other.

Which, for all she knew, had been their ‘Host’’s intentions, as his maniacal laughter filled the room.

“Of course…there's always my way.”

The room went dark again. She could hear lightning from outside cracking the sky open, illuminating a mysterious space that somehow managed to exist beyond the ceiling.

And there he was.

The figure.

And just as before, his features were too far away, too masked by darkness to see clearly.

But he was watching.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you prematurely. The real chills come later.”

Karen could hear wood sliding on wood, and quite suddenly their ‘room with no windows or doors’ had a door. ….And the way out appeared to look much different from the way they came in.

“Now, as they say, ‘look alive,’ and we’ll continue our little tour. And let’s all stay together, please.”

She felt resigned to go along with it, but Mike held her back.

“We aren’t interested in any stupid tour you’ve got here, so you can just shove it. No way are we going any further than this.”

Contemplative silence.

“…Well. This is most certainly a first. But I would be happy to accommodate your request.”

The door began to close on them.

“After all, it isn’t every day that I meet a mortal willing to spend time here, in this very room. With me. For the rest of their suddenly short lives.”

“Wha-? Hang on a second.” Mike began to briskly walk towards the closing door.

“And I look forward to the inevitable starvation of whomever ends up eating the other…”

“WHOA HANG ON A SECOND.”

Michael wedged himself between the closing door and the far wall, effectively halting it but probably earning a few bruises in the process. Karen rushed forward to help leverage the door off his chest, but it was too heavy to move.

“What’s this? Have I…revitalized a spark of curiosity in you? Had a sudden change of your still beating heart?”

“Yes.” Karen quickly said.

“Are you quite sure?”

“Yes, yes!! Now please just open the door!!”

“How wonderful to hear…”

To their relief, the door was slowly opened again, and both of them found themselves in a very long, very dark corridor.

Two busts stared at them front and center. Windows lined the left side of the hallway and portraits were at the right side on the wall. Judging by the outline of dust, it appeared that there used to be five portraits; the middle one was missing. With every lightning flash, the painted oils seemed to…flicker…in a most peculiar way.

She eyed Mike. “Are you okay? Your chest…”

“It’s fine. I’ve had worse. Football, remember? Are you okay?”

Their hands found one another again, and she felt him give hers a squeeze.

“I’m not the one who almost got crushed by a door.”

“No, but you’ve been acting a little funny ever since we came across this dump. Is ther-“

“Shall we begin the tour? Many of our residents are simply dying to meet you..hm hm hmm.”

Mike glared at air from the interruption. “No we don’t want any tour! I mean...What gives? This place was abandoned-IS abandoned. Are you trying to tell me that’s not true anymore and you and a bunch of other people live here now?!”

“Of course not…”

A breeze of mysterious origins engulfed them; it set her nerves on edge.

“Living requires a certain degree of mortality, and I must regrettably inform you that I left mine hanging when I decided to go on a more spiritual journey oh so many years ago.”

“Caw! The coward’s way! He took the coward’s way out! Caw!!”

There was something very wrong with this house. As if stretching rooms and disembodied voices weren’t bad enough, she had been quite certain that she had seen no signs of live before when she had looked up and down the hallway.

Yet here was a raven, suddenly sitting pretty on the bust of the angry looking man as if it had been there the whole time.

“Please mind the raven. An old nag of a soul has gotten ahold of the poor bird’s body. He’s the sort of fellow who would kill to better himself. And he might just consider bettering himself…with you.”

It definitely was possessed by something because a most curious feeling came over her. She could hear someone….calling.

And calling…

An-

A room.

A beautiful room.

It was a most elegant room, with all of the trimmings and airs of respectability, including a four poster master bed in the center. The faint sounds of giggling behind the curtained bed stifled the sudden wave of nausea and unease that Karen felt in inspecting the nearby décor.

What just happened?

This was not the hallway; Michael was nowhere in sight. Nor could she hear the raven cawing or the Ghost Host booming over her.

Yet…she was not alone. There was a little boy beside her. Dressed nicely in some old-timey beige pants and a button down off-white shirt, he couldn’t have been more than five.

And he was shaking almost as bad as she was.

“H-hey…” She whispered to him.

He didn’t seem to have heard her. He pressed on towards the four poster bed, hesitance in every step, before reaching out to gently rustle the curtains.

“Mother…?”

The giggling stopped. The curtains parted. There was a young man that came from it, a teenager more like it, well-to-do with a suit a-skewed. The woman beside him…she had to be a teenager too from how young she looked…and she was dressed…

…In that same strange green dress that Karen had seen on Nell…

The young woman went to speak, but the young man interrupted.

“What do you want, brat?”

The child nervously looked from him to the young woman, unable to answer.

“Well? Cat got your tongue?”

“I….I-I want mother…”

“Well your mother is busy with me, so come on. Off with you! Off! Off! Off!”

The man clapped his hands, coming towards the boy; with every clap there was a large stride.

And with every step, there was a loud clap.

Closer and closer.

You know what’s coming.

Closer and closer.

Breathing heavy. The world was suddenly bathed in fear.

No, please.

Taking uncomfortable steps back. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

Please. Don’t let him get me.

Backing away, hands suddenly on her shoulders.

The desire to run.

This isn’t right.

She isn’t supposed to be here.

She’s not he-

“Karen!”

She jolted, as if from a nightmare, shaking with a cold sweat.

The hallway was back.

And Michael…Michael was the one holding her, comforting hands rubbing at her shoulders in what was obviously an attempt to calm her down.

“Mike…?”

“Are you…are you okay?? You scared me for a second.”

“What…” She shuddered, looking all around the hallway while attempting to even out her breathing. The raven sitting on the bust seemed to watch her with its beady eyes. “…What happened?”

“I dunno. You were acting all weird, like you were in a daze. I tried talking to you, but you didn’t even seem to notice...”

“Oh.” She said in a small voice. All the strength seemed to be sapped out of her; the strength to explain herself included.

As if she even could explain what that was.

“Voyeurist!” The raven suddenly screamed. “Peeper! Spectator! Caw Caw! Recollections are not yours to oogle at! Privacy snatcher! Filthy psychic! Psychic! Psychic! Thief! Thief!”

A flash of feathers, and the bird lunged for her face. She shrieked and made an effort to fend herself, but she was too worn down already that she felt forced to bury in Michael’s chest. She could feel Mike’s arm swatting at it in her stead, the reassurance of her boyfriend’s heartbeat calming her down as she heard the bird retreating away.

“Birdbrain.” Mike grumbled at it.

“Filth! Filth! Filth!” The bird spat back at him in a continuous chant.

“Enough.”

There was silence in the hall. Karen peeked out from the safety of Michael’s hug to see the bird cowering under the echo of the voice above them.

“My… My…. My…”

The voice of the Ghost Host, still booming and deep, but there was another layer to it this time.

It was laced…with utter delight.

So much delight that she had to shudder again.

“What a fascinating development. My dear feathered acquaintance… I may have to ask you to refrain yourself this time around. Lives have a certain value, after all. And your soul, Raven, is rather worthless to me in comparison… Off with you now…Or off with your head.”

The raven visibly cringed, its mumbling incoherent as it hopped up and flew away.

“Now…Where was I?”

“You were telling us all about how you’re supposed to be a dead guy.” Michael said, unamused.

“Ah yes….It was a New Year’s resolution of mine; giving up all bodily desires. I could abandon all those trivial concerns that the common people thought about. Trivial concerns such as money…work…”

Frigid cold fingers suddenly tightened around her neck.

“...breathing…”

She shrieked and struggled, but the hands very quickly let her go without any resistance. Looking behind her, there was nothing there. Not the freezing cold fingers, nor the source of the strangely hot breath that had spoken against her ears.

She huddled up closer to Mike, burying her face into his chest. He held her close, doing his best to glower at someone he couldn’t even see.

“Whatever you did, that wasn’t funny!”

“Why, I’ve hardly done much of anything….Yet.”

“That does it.” Mike whispered quickly to her. “We’re getting out of here.”

He released her and went to grab ahold of the first piece of furniture in sight; a slightly scorched ornate chair that had a green velvet cushion. Inexplicably, it also had a piece of parchment attached to the front of it: the word “Sold” written on it.

“Mike…” She just barely steadied herself, the shakiness starting to subside. She had the distinct feeling that she wasn’t going to like the results of what her boyfriend was about to do.

“First, trespassing. Now, vandalism… The moral character of your soul is greatly…questionable. I admire that. All you require is to lose that mortal shell of yours, and you’d fit in quite well among us.”

Mike took the time to glare in irritation at the ceiling as he positioned the chair.

Half a swing, half a throw, and the chair was hurtled at one of the windows lining the hall. The disgusting crunching sound it made suggesting that he’d gotten right through.

There is no point. Even as the doubt was spinning in the back of her mind, she still forced herself closer to the window.

A crack in the glass.

No. That wasn’t a crack. That was a spider’s web.

…Wasn’t it?

Michael was staring at it too.

….The cracks were moving.

They were spilling out.

…..

The spiders.

It was a crack in the glass. A crack in the shape of a spider’s web. And tiny, black spiders were all spilling out of the cracks in droves. There were so many of them; beady black bodies with a tiny spot of red on their backs, glistening like blood.

They dripped down to the floor, scattering as they went. The majority of their stock were still lingering around the cracks, but as that group filtered out…

…There were no cracks….

Not anymore.

She looked back at Michael. He was staring at it incredulously, his face pale. He didn’t do well around insects or spiders.

Still a little shaky she took the chair away from him and, though she thought it still hopeless, made a good effort to throw the chair against the window again.

Another smack.

Another crack.

Another spider’s web.

And yet another spilling of spiders.

Scores of them, much akin to the disturbance of a well populated ant hill. And they couldn’t have been coming from anywhere except from within the walls and windows themselves.

The house was bleeding.

The house was bleeding spiders.

She stuck one of the legs of the chair straight into the crack, trying to push through and actually break the glass entirely. But this only seemed to anger the spiders.

A whole drove of them gathered to march up the chair leg. They did not stop or pause in their single minded attempt to get to her, proving beyond a doubt that these were no ordinary spiders. Ordinary spiders were never this coordinated.

They started to hiss at her as they just reached her fingertips, and she felt forced to drop the chair lest they actually touch her.

The spiders scattered back to the cracks in the building; once she had stopped meddling in the window crack, they had immediately ceased their interest in her.

A quick look up confirmed that the crack she had made was gone. Just like before.

“Thought that you were the first hapless mortals to try that?”

Karen met eyes with Michael. He looked just as defeated as she had been all along.

“Trespassing mortals ought not to avoid their punishments.”

“We aren’t trespassers!” She said.

“Is that so? The Master, I’m sure, would be very interested to hear that. And that is not to speak of his outrage that he will, no doubt, express when he finds out we have three mortal residents now.”

“What she means is that we were just dropping by!” Mike said. “We just wanted to get out of the rain!”

“Trespasser or no trespasser. Where death is concerned, the only semantics you should concern yourself with is that you are mortals. Very foolish mortals, considering that you both do not see fit to do as I say. Which begs the question… ....just how long do you believe you’ll remain a mortal…hmm?”

“Is that a threat? Are you threatening us now?”

“Oh. My apologies. Some clarification is in order. I’m not threatening you now. I’ve been threatening you. It appears that I’ve been grossly derelict in making such intentions obvious.

Allow me to remedy that.”

A loud CRACK.

Her boyfriend falling beside her.

And the goosebumps prickled again.

“MICHAEL!” She screamed, reaching to grab him.

A large hole had appeared in the floor beneath them, and both of his legs had already fallen through. She scrambled for his shirt, then his shoulders, finally his arms as all other options slipped from her fingertips.

“Is this direct approach more to your liking? Do we have a better understanding of each other? Are my motives now...hmm hmm … transparent?”

“Mike! Mike, grab my other hand!”

“I…I can’t! It’s stuck!” Half his torso was already beneath the boards, including half of one of his arms.

She put a foot on either side of him and tried to use the leverage to pull harder, but it was to no avail.

“As they always say: If you love someone, let them go. If it was meant to be, maybe they won’t die.”

Michael cried out in pain as he was yanked deeper into the hole. She was pulled down off her feet.

The floor was now at his neck, his head and his one arm the only parts of him visible now.

“Karen….K-Karen it’s no use. Something’s got my legs really good. And I don’t think this hole is big enough for me to climb out anymore.”

He was right. The spiders had already been vigorously repairing the damaged floorboards. She wondered, with an acute sense of dread, whether they would stop once they’d reached Michael’s flesh.

“I would have to agree with him. I recommend letting go, or else Mr. Michael here may be forced to give you a hand. ….And likely not in the way that you’d prefer…”

As if reading her mind, the Ghost Host answered her yet unspoken question. His visible limb was destined to be severed.

“No…” She said. “No no no no no no!”

She tore at the boards with her free hand, which was no small feat as it was getting harder to keep Michael up. It was an attempt to knock away the spiders, to knock away the wood, to make the gap bigger, but it didn’t look like it was working.

“No no no NO!”

It didn’t look like she made a dent.

Tears were stinging her eyes.

Spider bites were stinging her hand.

“No no!”

“Hey.”

“No I won’t!!”

“Karen. Karen hey!”

She and Michael caught eyes.

“Hey. It’ll be okay.” She could tell Mike was trying to give her a reassuring smile, but it obviously laced with a lot of pain.

“Please don’t leave me. Please…”

“I won’t. I’ll find you, okay? We’ll find each other eventually. I won’t leave without you, I promise.”

“But..”

“The spiders are already nibbling at my neck, Karen. I’m sorry. You gotta let go…”

“...I…I promise too. I won’t leave you here. I’ll…I’ll find a way to get down to you. I…I love you.”

He gave her a weary smile. “I love you too.”

She held his gaze until the very last moment.

As his fingers slipped through hers.

As his neck disappeared.

And then his smile.

And then his eyes.

And when there was nothing left, she grabbed the chair and began to ram it into the floor.

Again.

And Again.

The spiders didn’t stand for it, of course. They were smart enough to relentlessly pursue her.

Up the chair. Attacking her hands.

It was only after several minutes of banging the furniture on the floor, failing to leave any dent with spiderbites all over her hands and wrists and forearms, that she finally gave up.

Slumped on the floor. The spiders leaving her side so that when she curled up unto herself, she was all alone.

Well. Almost all alone.

“My, My….What a touching scene that was…”

#chapter 3

0 notes

infinitehours · 5 years

Text

Chapter 2

The Story and Song of the Haunted Mansion is an audiobook much like a campfire story. It’s short, it’s sweet, and it’s not meant to have in-depth discussions or thorough characterizations. Karen and Mike were caricatures of the typical hero/heroine of the time; Mike is clearly the braver one. I hope…no one would mind if I edit the reason why Karen was so much more frightened just a little bit…

And for those of you who wondered why I made the house on Tom Sawyer’s road instead of Liberty Square or New Orleans Square, you get your answer here…

~~~~

Table of Contents Link

Ch 2: Come On In (And Make Yourself at Home)

One Autumn night, not long ago, two teenagers were walking home from a date…

“I hate it when strangers are right.”

Karen tried to peer at Mike through the thick sheets of rain that seemed to endlessly descend upon them. “What do you mean?”

“That girl. Whatsherface; Nell. She all but told us it was going to rain tonight.”

“Maybe. But she wasn’t terribly clear about that, was she?”

Even though both held their own jackets above their heads, she could still feel cold water creeping down her back.

“I can’t even see the way back to the road. Can you?”

“There’s a sign up ahead!”

“Where?”

“Up there!”

The two of them trudged on, practically swimming at this point. The lightning bolt that flashed against the sky, with the thunder not far behind, was worrisome; they weren’t anywhere near town.

The sign that she saw, that she had pointed out before, was even more worrisome: it was old, with decaying letters, but it was more than enough to tell them exactly where they were.

Tom Sawyer’s Road Ahead. Thunder Mountain beyond. [Impossible to read] Mansion.

Whatever that was before the word “Mansion” was scratched off and replaced with “Haunted”.

They were on Tom Sawyer’s Road.

“Did you mean to lead us in this direction?” Karen said, worried.

“Sort of. I was aiming for it; didn’t think we’d actually find it, though. That lady said it was faster, and I really don’t want to be out in this much longer, do you?”

Mr. Vance’s words came to the forefront of her mind. “You actually trust that she was telling us the truth?”

“Well...at the very least it’s a path better covered by trees…Less chance of getting electrocuted.”

She gave a wry smile, which was probably lost on him in the horrible downpour. It was lucky she could even see him at all.

They smacked through the road a while longer, slick and muddy, their jackets doing nothing to keep their legs from getting drenched.

“Oh good. Hey, Karen there’s a building up ahead. I think we should get out of this for a while….”

The first thing she saw when he said that were the lights. Pinkish, bluish, and greenish hues all encircling the outline of a very fine brick house, standing tall and proud against the rain. It was a very old, very large, and very fancy looking building that spoke of rich extravagance in a bygone era where being in a wealthy family line was the very height of social status; the true American aristocracy.

The towering spires and glass enclosure on the side marked it as being different from the other debilitated rubble of the house they had previously passed on their way here. Different, too, in the notion of how…colorful the lights shining on the house looked. There was no accounting for why there should be a spectrum of colors fixated on this particular house; the lightning certainly wouldn’t have made it look that way.

She opened her mouth to protest, wanting to mention how odd it was to see a house so clearly from so far away when they couldn’t even each other standing five feet apart, but he was already sliding down the slope to the gates and she felt compelled to follow along.

The gate itself was almost as extravagant as the building. Iron wrought, with swirling twisted metal the likes of which you might find on old embroidery. It slowly swung open the very moment Mike’s fingers touched it.

There was a small cemetery out front. She’d visited a few old houses in her life and none of them ever had cemeteries in the front yard. She would have thought it would be off-putting to any guests invited over. Stained with age and crooked, they stood lonely against the bleakness of the dark sky, save for one. One of them had a fresh red rose that was so vibrant it could be seen even through the tears of rain.

“I don’t think we should be here, Mike…” Karen said, eyeing the grave with the bust of a woman whom she swore had just been looking at her.

“I don’t think we have much of a choice. We can barely go through that muck of a road, never mind find our way back to town.”

She could hear him rattling a door handle. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get the front door open. No one lives here... we can wait inside until the storm’s over.”

Karen slowly backed away in disbelief, the prickly beginnings of goosebumps dancing over her skin.

She knew very little about architecture, she would admit, but the house in front of her was not the same as the one she saw from afar.

“It looks…different up close, doesn’t it?”

“Huh? I guess? What do you mean?”

“Before, it looked like a brown brick building. With a glass room.” She swallowed thickly. “…This is a white building, and the glass room is gone. It looks more like an old Southern Plantation home. With white pillars….”

“Pillars? What pillars?”

“The four giant ones. Right there! You’re staring right at one!”

“I’m sorry, Karen, I don’t see any pillars…”

“Stop playing around! You’d have to notice them, they’re right in fr-“

‘Don’t trust your eyes’

She shrieked and spun around, unceremoniously ending up on the ground of slick cobblestones in the process.

“What’s wrong? What happened?!”

“Someone just grabbed me! Someone just grabbed me just now! They grabbed me and whispered…and whispered…”

Even as she spoke, trying to get her breath in the storm, she felt unsure. Like the house’s changing architecture, there’s was something about the place that was…missing.

‘Missing’…yes, that was the word. ‘Missing’ was the most apt description her mind could scramble for her; looking around in the rain for the source of the voice was like looking at a jigsaw puzzle with several pieces missing. She felt compelled to sit there, her hands wrapping around a little piece of something stuck in the ground. Something that she felt she ought to grab….a ring…?

“I don’t see anyone. And I don’t think there’s anybody here but us. The storm must be getting to you. Come on, let’s go inside.”

“Not me. I'm not going in that old house! I'd rather stay out here and get wet.”

“And electrocuted?”

As if to respond, lightning streaked across the sky, and the immediate thunder made it seem too close for comfort.

“Alright.” She said, forcing herself to get off the ground, “But we leave the door open. This place gives me the creeps.”

Someone had grabbed her. She was certain of it. To be sure, perhaps she had a bit of an active imagination sometimes, but she couldn’t have imagined the unnaturally cold hands that had clutched her arms, or the eerie sensation of hot breath against her ear. Like the house’s changing features, both were too real to simply wave away as part of her imagination.

We really shouldn’t be here.

It was that thought that lingered as the two of them ventured inside, the door barely holding any resistance against them. It was uncomfortable how the giant pillars (real or imagined) felt like a gaping maw as if the house itself were ready to eat her alive.

“Well I'll be... this house is still full of furniture.” Mike said as he went to light a candelabra.

And indeed there was furniture! A few chairs, a writing desk cluttered with papers and strange objects, a marble bust, a couch in front of an intricate fireplace, and a round oil painting framed by curtains.

The inside was no warmer than the maelstrom kicking around outside, and there was something in the air….a dreadful feeling, like a suffocation, that clung to the items around them. She felt the feeling cadence as she went to trace a finger down the decorated wood of a nearby chair; not a single speck of dust upon it.

“It’s as though someone still lives here…” She muttered, half to herself, turning to look at the reassuring sight of the open front door and the pattering sounds of rain just beyond it.

“Heh. You know all the rumors they say about these old buildings up here? Spectral people, strange lights, ‘don’t ever get lost in those woods or else’? If I remember correctly, one of these houses was the site of a bunch of suicides-”

“Knock it off, Mike! This place is creepy enough without you reminding me of all that.”

She tried to distract herself. Her fingers wrapped around the ring she had found outside. Old, yet not rusted. And with a generous diamond at its peak. It felt important somehow, as though she was meant to keep it for another time. She pocketed it.

“Hey Karen, come check some of this stuff out! A few of these documents say they’re from 1865!”

She could hardly hear him. Her gaze was transfixed on the painting in its prominent place above the fire.

It was an old painting of a young man. His well fitted suit suggested an air of aristocracy about him, and his dark hair and sharply defined chin would have given him a very menacing look if it weren’t for his mouth. There was a faint smile on his mouth, so out of place with the rest of the portrait that it had to have been added by the artist out of complete irony. It was a striking portrait, for the beautiful blue eyes seem to stare directly at her, as though to peer into her very soul…

…And the portrait man was suddenly not smiling.

Or young.

She watched, unable to look away, as the man in the portrait began to seemingly age. Skin growing withered, hair growing gray, clothes fraying, until she was no longer staring at a man but a skeleton. A skeleton that seemed to leer at her as she backed away, slowly, fully intending to run out the door when thunder crashed quite abruptly.

And she was on the floor. Again.

“Are you…are you okay?” Mike helped her up.

“Yeah...” She said glumly.

“You think we should break up? You know, since my presence seems to make your knees buckle all the time?” She could hear him snicker a little behind her.

“Stop laughing! It isn’t funny,” She glanced back at the portrait, but sure enough it had reverted to its original state. That painted smile looking like it was mocking her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Yet he seemed to keep going; his laughter never quieting down. She spun her head to give him a piece of her mind, but his pale face said it all.

He wasn’t responsible for the lingering, deep voice whose laughter currently echoed around them.

‘Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmmm’

“Who’s there?” Mike demanded, eyeing the suspicious looking marble bust.

“Mike, look!”

The door to the next room inexplicably lay open, and in its inky darkness, in the center of the room, stood the shadow of a very tall figure. It stood, unmoving, unbreathing, and though she could not see its face she could not help but be sure it was staring right at them.

‘When hinges creak in doorless chambers, And strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls; Whenever candlelights flicker where the air is deathly still - That is the time when ghosts are present, Practicing their terror with ghoulish delight!’

The voice was low and deep, speaking with the gravity of having all the time in the world.

“How is he doing that?” Mike said as the voice seemed to flit from one side of the room to the next.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts…” She muttered, trying desperately to reassure herself. But her mind was firmly recalling all of the strange happenings that only she seemed to notice, and the lingering chill on the back of her spine made her voice falter even as she spoke.

‘No such thing, hmm?’

Her stomach dropped as the voice chuckled darkly.

‘Well then…’

With a bang, the couch was thrown back by an invisible force, giving them a clear view of the fireplace as it erupted into roaring purple and green flames. The lightning flashed, as though on cue, as the room flared up in the two dancing colors.

‘Welcome, foolish mortals, to the world’s most Haunted Mansion. I am your host.

Your... ghost host.’

#chapter 2

0 notes

infinitehours · 5 years

Text

Chapter 1

This fic is based off of The Haunted Mansion “Story and Song from the Haunted Mansion” audio. It will also be based deeply off of my first impressions of the ride itself when I was a kid going on it those first few times in my life.

Also, if you’re wondering why there isn’t much description on our two main mortals, it’s because I felt it best to leave that up to the imagination (there was never much description in the original either). I know I can’t get away without descriptives for every character though, so I’m not going to try for that, but hopefully it wasn’t too jarring.

~~~

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

Other Author notes: There’s supposed to be an audio of the Big Ben chime (to parallel the demonic clock and represent that this is the realm of mortals), but I can’t currently find a way to create this audio file. So. Imagination I guess.

Someone created a recording of the Big Ben clock from Parliament Square. Cars and all, it definitely sounds like a city. I will link it here in case you all want to hear it and use it to help your imagination, but it was NOT made by me, and as such it is NOT officially part of this story:

https://freesound.org/people/Noise%20Cuisine/sounds/47098/

___

Table of Contents Link

~~~

Ch 1: Miss Jackson

Have you ever seen a haunted house? You know the kind I mean. That old dark house that’s usually at the end of a dimly lit street. The windows are broken and boarded, and the shutters hang loose on their hinges. The trees have grown wild, their branches brush against the sides of the weathering house making strange noises in the night. There’s a high vine-covered fence around the property. Is it there to keep somebody out, or is it there to keep something inside? It’s a house that people avoid walking past at night. Strange sounds come from within the walls, and it’s said that eerie lights have been seen both in the attic window and in the graveyard at the side of the house.

Seen, at least….by some….

Our story revolves around this mysterious mansion….

But I’m getting a-head of myself…aren’t I?

So let me ask a different question…

Have you ever been chased?

He was panting the whole way.

Round the corner where the pastor liked to play his accordion.

Over the iron wrought fence that blocked off the alley from the cars.

Through the double doors of the unused library.

Out the back.

Through the nook by J. H. Thomas’ shop.

And over the broken manhole right to the berry-red bench in the tiny cranny.

Michael knew the route like the back of his hand, spent every day of his life traversing it. Or, at least, every day of his High School life, which was the only important part of your life you considered when you’re fresh faced and under twenty.

But they were right behind him, he could swear they were, thumping along and hollering; you could only run for so long. The clock of the church chimed from somewhere a ways away, in Big Ben style; Six PM.

He jostled a trash can on his way, half-heartedly hoping that it might slow his pursuers down as he rounded the corner. The relief that flooded him when his target, a bench, came into his sights was a thankful feeling

For all of five seconds.

Then he was yanked back by his collar, just out of reach of his fragile safety net. Falling to the hard concrete, three faces loomed into his view; three black leather jackets swarming around him and his red hoodie like vultures around a recent bloody kill

Jacob Matheson. The head vulture, front and center, grinning over his recent (and recurring) victim.

He was the son of the owner of the largest retail store in town, which earned him a bit of a celebrity status in the sleepy rurals of northern Virginia. Probably the only reason why he was the leader of his little gang.

“What’s your hurry, huh?

Michael grimaced as a boot came down on his chest

“I…ugh. I was just on my way back home..

“Liar. You live other way.”

“What’s the super special occasion?” Another boy said. “We never see you out anymore, Mikey-Wikey. You wouldn’t go off without at least saying ‘hi’, would you?”

“Our feelings might get hurt. You wouldn’t want that now would you?”

Michael refused to answer that, wincing as the toe of the boot dug deeper into his ribs

“So how you going to make it up to us, huh? How much you got on you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a really terrible liar, Mikey.” Jacob gestured towards the others.

Two seconds later and they pried Michael’s hands off of his pockets to start their rummaging

“Nice. A whole twenty.”

“There’s more than that! What’s this?”

The other boy held a miniature keychain of a football, twirling it around on one of his fingers

“That’s mine. Give it back!” Michael lunged, yet the boy had already tossed it to another

The three jeered and danced around him, taking turns with the keychain.

“Ooh. Almost got it that time!

“Gonna practice your jumping skills with us, huh?”

“Good dog!”

“Go get it, boy!

“You think we can teach him to beg?”

“You want it?? You want it?? HA!”

Jacob was last to receive, and Michael turned to him in irritation. “You have my money. You played your little game. Can you just leave already?”

“I don’t know. We just got here.” A murmur of agreement. “What are you doing with this thing anyways? Pining for the good ol’ days when you were still on the team?”

“Aw, Jacob. Can’t you see he misses playing?” One of the other vultures said.

“Oh. I’m sorry. Did I say that too soon? How long’s it been? Four months? Five? Got your leg all healed up nicely?”

One of the boys pretended to make a pass at his left leg, causing him to jerk into the defensive. Jacob flashed a grin at the sight.

“Still not in tip top shape, huh? Considering what happened, playing with this little football is probably the closest thing to a real game you’ll ever going to get for the rest of your life. But don’t worry, Mikey.”

Jacob’s little wicked sneer only grew smug.

“I’m sure the rest of the team will do just fine without you. You were just the water boy, weren’t you? Most benched player ever in ol’ G. H. T. High. Quite the honor.”

Michael gritted his teeth; he never cared too much about playing football, but he also didn’t need to hear this.

“But you can come play with us any time. We don’t mind that you’ve got a bum leg. In fact, how about you go long right now?”

Jacob pulled back with a sinister little smirk and a clear intent to throw it straight to the roof of the nearby apartment building. Unfortunately for him, the football was snatched just before he let it loose.

“Wow, what do you know? A real life wannabe biker gang in their native environment.”

The football’s new owner was a welcome sight. A pink sweater, a black skirt with an embroidered horse, a white blouse, and the look of someone who had just ate a whole bag of sour gummy worms (Jacob and his gang tended to have that effect on people).

“Ugh. It’s the girlfriend. Go away, Karen. Nobody invited you.”

“As if I need an invitation to rain on your parade. If you’ll give back the money that I’m sure you stole, we can be on our way and I won’t have to tell anyone about this.”

A speck of realization later and Jacob was staring at Michael with an even wider grin than before.

“Wait, is SHE why you came out of your house? Date night? OooooOOOoooooh. Kissy kissy.”

The boys started making smooching noises, prompting Karen to let out a sigh of frustation.

“Mr. Vance! Mr. Vance! The jerks are back and they’re threatening your customers!”

“Whine all you want, what’s that old geezer even going to d-“

“Come over here, Mr. Arrow. There’s a bit of vandalism I think you ought to look at.” A much older man in black stained overalls came seemingly from out of nowhere, seemingly gesturing for the chief of police to follow. Jacob’s face dropped.

“Scram!” Jacob said, not even waiting for his friends before booking it straight out of the alley. They were generous, at least, if only in the fact that they threw Michael’s money back in his face.

Mr. Vance watched them retreat and let out a long, drawn out sigh. “You kids okay?”

“As good as can be, I guess.” Mike said.

“Thanks for pretending for us, Mr. Vance.” Karen said.

“A little lie goes a long ways sometimes. I only wish I could convince an officer to hang around here. Could do with a little less thieves. Those three are gotta get their comeuppance sometime.”

“Yeah?” Mike grabbed his keychain. “I’m still waiting for that to happen.”

“Might come sooner than you think. Well…come in then. I’ve got your package in.”

Mr. Vance took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow; the wrinkles that lined an otherwise middle aged face seemed particularly discernable that evening. Coupled with the silvery threads of his hair, anyone who didn’t know any better would have had the man pegged for a senior citizen. But he was very much in his thirty’s, at most, and the reasons for why he looked so aged had often been the subject of discussion in town.

Especially considering that his store was easily one of the most important places around.

The big retailer shop that lay in the heart of town was nice, but they often didn’t carry specialty items (and didn’t appreciate you asking to order them). That was where Mr. Vance and his store came in. Sure, it was tiny and cramped, and there was always a heap of unsightly broken bits of rusted metal in the corners near a large creepy portrait of a woman holding a skull, but there was so much of the place that was filled with mysterious and old objects, books galore, and more candy than you could ever possibly eat in your entire lifetime. The man had no organization to speak of, so whenever a person cared to carouse the shelves they were almost guaranteed to find something wondrously unexpected.

Karen loved it here. As much as Mike liked old nick-knacks himself, it was mostly for her sake that he stepped foot inside time and time again. Whenever she would examine a row of clocks or ancient utensils or even the words on the spine edge of a book, her whole demeanor would brighten up. He loved watching her when they were here, she would always hold a smile on her face as she delicately traced a finger over things that were several times her own age.

Currently, she seemed distracted with an old timey animation device. He couldn’t remember for the life of him what the things were called, but they consisted of a cylinder with slots for viewing, and had an image painted all around the insides. The images were slightly different, so that when the cylinder was turned quickly it would simulate movement. Animation.

Unfortunately, the one that Karen found seemed to be broken. She couldn’t get it to spin, the painted crows were forever stuck in place…

“M-miss Jackson? I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there. You’re here….early.” Mr. Vance said.

Mike looked up….the air somehow felt…colder as his eyes fixated on the lone figure standing in the middle of the room.

The strangely dressed lone figure standing in the middle of the room, who was most certainly not in the middle of the room a few seconds ago.

A deep green dress like a thick moss on a dark forest floor, with a pinstripe blouse and matching apron. Dark brown hair and vivid blue eyes were part and parcel of a face that oddly looked both amused and bored all at once. And the bit of frill and bow on the top of her head seemed to so wonderfully match her attire yet be so terribly out of place in a modern day setting.

She looked like a maid. An old-fashioned maid. A very lost old-fashioned maid, considering that there were no buildings nearby that were large or rich enough to need to hire one.

“My….employer…” There was surprisingly nothing strange or unusual about her voice, “…is rather anxious tonight, so I had hoped to present to him the items I had ordered. If you happen to have them ready, of course.”

“Y-yes…Yes. You…you wouldn’t happen to have come alone, Miss Jackson, would you?”

The girl smiled wistfully. “Are we ever truly alone?”

Mr. Vance visibly gulped. “Right…of…of course not. I-I-I got your package right here. Oh..Michael?”

Mike tore his eyes away from the woman back to the shopkeeper. Mr. Vance’s demeanor seemed….suddenly different. His face had gone a little pale, and there was an almost imperceptible waver in the way his voice cracked.

“Would you…would you mind waiting a bit while I wrap up Miss Jackson’s items here?”

“Uh...Yeah, no problem.”

“Thanks.”

Mike headed over to where Karen had been curiously watching the whole exchange.

“Is there a costume party we weren’t invited to?” He asked her jokingly, earning a smile.

“She looks…kind of familiar. Like I’ve seen her around…just…not in that getup.”

“Yeah…I feel like I’ve seen her around, too. But I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to her before…”

She turned back to the animation device….and found it….spinning. Ever so gently.

The painted crows began to flap their wings, rhythmically in time with the cylinder.

But then…faster. And faster. And furiously faster still, until the image was a seamless representation of the act of flying.

“Mike….” Karen said, the nervousness clear in her tone. The device was not electronic, yet seemed more than willing to move completely on its own.

Even he was a little hesitant to touch it, yet his mind was made up when he could feel the warmth of her fingers clinging to his.

Clap. His hand clamped down on it. When he let go, the device obediently remained still.

“Heh.” Mike’s laugh was more nervous than amused. Karen’s hand squeezed his again. “Must be off balanced or something. Speaking of spooky, though, did you check out the way Mr. Vance was- ”

“Are you going back to the cliffs?” The voice behind him interrupted.

Mike spun around to find himself face to face with the strange woman. Up close, it was more obvious that she couldn’t have been more than a few shades older than either of them, despite her rather timeless attire.

“Yes….we are…” Karen anxiously responded, “But how did you know that?”

“I’ve watched you go up there. The house I stay in happens to be nearby.”

“Where?” Mike butted in, “The only buildings up that way are all abandoned or mostly destroyed. It would be kinda hard to live in any of them. It’s pretty much a ghost town.”

“Yes…” The woman said, a faint smile on her lips. “Yes, you’re right.”

He couldn’t tell what she meant by that. Was she saying that she wasn’t living in any of those buildings?

Karen coughed. “Um. Well I like your dress. The green looks very pretty on you.”

“Oh thank you. I think so too. It also makes my employer uncomfortable and likely brings up awkward memories for him. Which is the other reason why I wear it.”

He and Karen exchanged a funny look. He couldn’t tell which was odder, the fact that she purposely wore something just to make her employer uncomfortable or the fact that she just casually dropped this information to complete strangers like it was a normal subject to talk about.

“Miss Jackson? Your items…” Mr. Vance interrupted.

“Of course.”

The shopkeeper seemed to hesitate as he handed her a bag full of several individually wrapped parcels.

“One of these…you do know one of these things on your list is…”

“Illegal?” The young woman didn’t mince words or even flinch, which is more than what Mr. Vance did in response, “Technically it’s not, if people only bother to read the law anymore. But yes. I’m well aware. But as you are quite aware, my employer is not concerned with legal matters…Anymore.”

“…I’m well aware.” He softly said.

“Will I see you later then?” The young woman said as she turned to leave.

But Mr. Vance kept his head turned away from her and firmly on a broken clock in front of him, eventually squeezing his eyes shut as though he could will her away.

“…Have a good evening then, Mr. Vance.”

“…Same to you, Miss Jackson.”

Before she left the shop proper, the woman turned one last time to Michael and Karen.

“By the way…Tom Sawyer’s road is the faster way back to town if you’re coming from the cliffs. And if you’re ever caught in an unfortunate rainstorm, please do stop by. You’re more than welcome to hide under our awning.”

“We...never go to the cliffs on a rainy day.” Karen said.

“Never say never,” With the twist of a tiny smile, the woman left the shop.

The atmosphere grew quiet.

~~~

And it remained silent for a solid minute.

“…Hey Karen? You can get our stuff, right?”

“Wha-?”

Before she knew it, Mike had just thrusted the twenty in her hands and ran out the door.

“Hey…Mike!”

“What’s he doing?” Mr. Vance said, his brows furrowed in concern.

“I think he’s trying to catch up that woman. Who was she, anyway? I don’t see her often enough around.”

“That’s because she doesn’t live in town. That’s Eleanor Jackson. ‘Nell’ for short. She’s up near the cliffs.”

“Where near the cliffs?”

Mr. Vance handed her two glass bottles of crème soda and a heart shaped package. “I’m sure Michael would be very insistent that you don’t open it until you’re together.”

Purposefully changing the subject.

“…And you said that women asked for something illegal…”

“Now don’t you repeat anything you’ve heard here…”

“I…I won’t. But is everything alright? If she’s forcing you to do something illeg-“

“It’s not like that.”

It was said so forcefully and emotionally that Karen took a step back.

“…It’s not like that.” Mr. Vance said, softer this time, “But you should go and stop Mike. Nothing good will come of him following after Nell like that.”

Package and soda in hand, she started to do just that.

“Karen.”

She paused.

“…Don’t always trust Nell. She often only gives you half of the truth.”

With that statement freshly turning in her head, Karen went out into the alley looking for Mike.

He didn’t get very far; right around the corner he looked up at her sheepishly from the ground, while a friendly face tried unwind a long bit of fishing line.

“I tried catching her, but…”

“I think I ended up catchin’ a young ‘un instead.” Mr. Mortimer flashed a grin at her before untwisting the hook from Mike’s jacket, “You ain’t quite the fish I be looking for, lad.”

Mr. Mortimer was a fisherman. Probably by trade, too, as that’s the only thing she’s ever seen him do. He always had a fishing pole in one hand, his trusty (but peculiar looking) tackle box in the other, a smile on his wrinkled face, and a song on his lips. Very few people in town could ever say that they hated the man, even though he did always smell like fish.

He was also frequently wet, as he claims he never had good balance and constantly fell in. She had no doubts about that. The sight of him trudging around soaked in the frigid air….She often felt freezing just looking at him….

“Are you alright, Mr. Mortimer?” Karen said, offering to help him up. His hands were cold as usual.

“Aye I’m alright, I’m alright. No harm done,” With Karen’s help, he stood steady on his feet again, “But tell me young ‘un, what had you such ‘n a hurry? Who were ya chasin’ after?”

“Some lady we saw at the shop.”

Mr. Mortimer flashed him a joking grin. “Chasin’ after another while you got your young lady here?”

Karen snorted.

“Hey! No! That’s not what I meant! Karen!” Mike didn’t find it as amusing as they did, and gestured her to help him out.

“Mr. Vance said her name is Eleanor Jackson.”

Mr. Mortimer’s eyebrows rose in recognition.

“You know her?” Karen asked.

“Aye.”

“Did she come down this way?” Mike said.

“Sorry, young ‘un, I didn’t see anyone but yourself.”

“But I could have sworn she turned here…”

“She be a sweet girl, no doubt. But you’re best off not followin’ her home, for your own good.”

“Mr. Vance said something like that…” Karen said.

“He be a smart one. Is he in today?”

They nodded. Before they could say anything else, Mr. Mortimer bid them good day and went off to the shop.

“Mr. Vance didn’t want to answer any questions about her either…”

“Everyone’s acting funny about her. I don’t get it.”

“Well…let’s not worry about it anymore. I really want to go to the cliffs tonight before it gets too dark,” She shook the heart shaped parcel slyly, “What’s in the box?”

“Three guesses,” Mike grinned.

“Hmmm,” She held it up to her ear and closed her eyes, as though she could somehow divine the answer, “Caramel chews, sour worms and…black licorice gummy bears?”

“Right on all three counts!”

“Do I get a prize?”

“Do I count? Or are you still mad at me because I went ‘chasing’ after someone else?”

“I guess I can forgive you,” She said coyly, giving him a peck on the cheek.

They walked off together, hand in hand, too distracted with each other to notice the growing storm clouds overhead….

Storm clouds the weatherman never predicted.

Storm clouds that never moved from their position above the woods that led up to the cliffs.

#chapter 1

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infinitehours · 5 years

Text

Prologue

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~

Table of Contents link

Prologue (Overture)

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

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

It was a silver flask.

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

Is it magic?

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

And then you might ask:

Is it beautiful?

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

And by now, you must be thinking:

Is it important?

Perhaps to some.

But to you?

To this tale?

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

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

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

Our little baubles.

Our collections.

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

Mementos of our first steps.

Our first job.

Our first kiss.

Weddings, anniversaries, funerals, murders…

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

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

Who would we be in life, without our memories?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one…in his sights….

One foot…

Two foot…

Three foot…

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

Listen to the clock audio file

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

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

And faster.

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

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

Four feet…

Five feet…

Six feet…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A green dress.

“…were….”

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

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

He swallowed thickly. “Good evening.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…What sort of drink?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you say so.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s coming with me.”

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

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

“Follow me, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because his own face was staring back at him.

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

......

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

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

He turned angrily at her, nostrils flaring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man hesitated, and tried to consider the logic.

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

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

Perhaps the stress took its toll…

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

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

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

“I’m sure. Right in through here.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you mind someone to drink with?”

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

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

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

“’Master’…? Who is this ‘Master’?”

“Someone who doesn’t like gin.”

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

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

“Well then, your drink, sir.”

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

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

“I do try.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…It was empty…

He nearly choked on his sip.

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

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

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

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

Balance the slotted spoon on its lip.

Put the cube on the spoon.

Pour the clear liquid over the cube.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or the runaway ghost trains?”

He fiddled nervously with his collar again.

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

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

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

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

“What is what?”

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

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

“The singing…Beautiful singing…I-“

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

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

The glass was empty again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HE WAS BACK IN HIS CHAIR.

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

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

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

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

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

She took hold of the candelabra once more.

“You aren’t here for gold…”

She stepped closer to him.

“You don’t care for riches…”

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

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

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

It was like a rope…

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

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

There was never anything there.

“L-l-ll-little b-b-bi-” he heaved.

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

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

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

The man’s eyes grew wide.

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

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

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

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

Her shadow was too tall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knew what he had to do.

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

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

But there was no rope. There was nothing there.

There was nothing there.

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

#prologue

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