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everlarkficexchange · 5 years

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To be Her O.A.O. (one-and-only) - Chapter 2

written by: @noneyabidnes

Rating: Mature

Prompt 73: Katniss marries Gale before he’s sent to fight WWII. Gale sends home his buddy Peeta to break the news to his wife and family that he’s fallen in love with someone else in Europe and is staying there after the war… Peeta is under the impression Katniss is a cold woman that only married his friend out of obligation but finds out the other side of the story soon enough. [submitted by @alliswell21]

Tags: era-appropriate derogatory terms for Axis powers, angst

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Chapter 2

The shadows are stretching long by the time we hear hooves coming up the road. Prim jumps out of her seat saying she needs to check on the sheep as Katniss continues dinner preparations in the small kitchen. I try to stand up to help just to have her shush me back down again. I’ve offered more than once, but somewhere in the last couple hours, as we’ve talked about nothing in particular, she’s come to decide I’m an acceptable guest, and I’ve barely been able to take my eyes off her. As she turns her back to me, I snag the rumpled photo back off the table and slip it in my pocket

It’s become my personal challenge to get her to smile as much as I can, telling stories about every Good-time Charley and cracked egg I met in the service. I even managed a blush out of her, and Prim for that matter, delicately explaining why most guys referred to letters from their girls back home as sugar reports. It prompted her to ask me about my own special someone, of which I had to admit I had none. Delly Cartwright and I used to pal around a bit, but last I’d heard she’d gone and hitched up with Thom Quinn after he’d come back from France. I wasn’t surprised to hear she’d fallen for the flyboy, nor was I hurt. She and I weren’t cut out for one-and-only.

I’m still watching Katniss push onions around a pan when she starts to sing quietly to herself. It’s a song from before the war, one I haven’t heard since before I shipped out to Parris Island, but what catches me isn’t sentimentality toward the song, but the rich tone of her voice. Gale never mentioned she could sing. He spoke endlessly about her hunting acumen, how sensible she was, if a bit distant and frigid in her demeanor. He made it seem like getting any affection from her was hard-fought. That even after they had married, he still didn’t think she really felt much love for him. To hear the emotion in her voice as she sings, I know how wrong he was. Not that she was in love—it does seem clear that wasn’t the case—but that she wears her heart where it can get trampled. That this ‘cold woman with a hard stare’ as he often put it, is in fact a woman full of warmth. Each smile I’ve earned from her has felt like a victory and now, to hear her singing as though she’s perfectly comfortable with me in her kitchen, I can’t imagine ever being able to tear myself away from this shack on this rock outcrop of a mountain. From her.

And I immediately fill with shame for feeling it. I shouldn’t be a goner for my best friend’s not-an-ex-wife. We’ve only just met. We know nothing about one another beyond the pleasantries we’ve exchanged these past couple hours. There’s no way I could ever convince her that I’m an upstanding man if I were to tell her the thoughts running through my mind. I’d only confirm her initial misgivings of having me here in the first place.

Prim stomps back through the door with a tall young man on her heels who is the spitting image of his older brother. This must be Rory, the one Gale always speaks about with equal parts pride and frustration. I carefully stand on one leg to shake his hand as he towers over me and Katniss gasps.

“We never went to your mother’s house! Oh no, we got so caught up talking about…what were we even talking about?” She looks to me to fill in the gap and I return Rory’s solid handshake.

“Matters of deep importance, if I do recall. Rory, I presume. Your brother didn’t lie about how strong you are, but I doubt he realizes how tall you’ve gotten. He was always proud of having a coupla inches on you. I daresay you’re taller’an him now. You must have been stealin’ rations.”

A grin breaks out on Rory’s face before he pulls me in for a quick, surprising hug, knocking me slightly off balance. “It’s all the squirrel Katniss keeps feedin’ us. Where is he? Prim wouldn’t tell me anything.” He hasn’t let go of my hand, but he’s looking around the shack, as though the Lance Corporal will appear any moment.

“We should go talk to you mother.” Katniss jumps in. She turns back to the stove and shuffles pans away from the heat. “Come on. Let’s head over there. Rory, can you help Peeta walk?”

“Peter?” He glances back at me and his eyes trail down to my prosthetic propped against the wall by my chair.

“Peeta,” she corrects before I can, and I have to fight the smile that threatens to take over my face at how natural my name sounds on her lips. Lips I’m not supposed to be staring at. The guilt flares again. I have got to get a handle on myself.

“Peeta Mellark,” I fill in. “Your brother and I served together for over two years. Not many guys I can say that about, unfortunately.”

“But he’s okay, right?”

“Yes. Likely already back in Japan with the occupying forces. I would be there too, if it weren’t for my leg.”

His eyes widen, taking in the full extent of the situation. Prim steps up. “I told you, he walked all the way up here. He can’t put weight on it for a coupla days.”

“Can you mount a horse?”

“Sorry, city boy here. I’ve never been within twenty feet of a horse.”

“Huh. Hard to imagine life without one ‘round here. Okay, let’s see here.”

As Rory’s scratching his head, Katniss turns back to the stove and shuffles things around again.

“Rory, just go run and get your mother and bring the crew back here. You can all eat here tonight. I was just tossin’ together some stew anyway.”

He nods at the order as though Katniss were his CO and Gale’s words about her strength pop back into my head. He’s out the door before I can say anything else.

“You run a tight ship ‘round here.”

“Hardly, but I’m his big sister, whether we share blood or not. I carried that boy on my hip as much as any other woman on this mountain, and his little brother even more so. They know better’an to give me lip.”

“Yes ma’am.” I salute her quickly before I return to my seat, surprised by how much standing for the short period on one leg has exhausted me. I feel so far from the strong boot I was so few months ago.

She graces me with another small smile and I find myself berating Gale in my mind. How dare you call this woman cold? With the exception of her pointing an arrow at me when I first appeared on the mountain, she’s been nothing if not understanding and warm. And she sings! How could anyone walk away from her? Just as quickly the scolding turns back on myself. She’s married, you cracked egg! To your best friend! Let it go!

In no time, Rory is back through the door with an even younger version of Gale in tow as well as a young girl who must be Posy. I can see immediately why he is so protective of her. Delicate features that are slightly gaunt, pointing to a rough life. So beautiful and sweet in her countenance. Her large grey eyes take me in and immediately turn back to her big brother.

“He’s Gale’s friend? Where’s Gale?” Rory puts his index finger up to his lips and she falls silent. I reach out a hand toward her.

“Hi Posy. Yes, I’m Gale’s friend Peeta. He sent me here to make sure you were all doin’ well. He misses you so much, li’l sweetheart. He told me lots about you, including how beautiful you are. I’m sorry he’s not here himself.”

Katniss cuts in before I can say anything more. “Where’s your Ma?”

“She put herself to bed early and Vick couldn’t get her to crack an eye when he went in to wake her.”

Silence fills the small room. What would they have done for dinner if Katniss hadn’t invited them over? Looking at the boys, I’m sure they can fend for themselves, but it still reinforces the reason Gale wanted to marry Katniss before he left. She’s the one who makes sure these kids are taken care of.

“Well, I guess there’s no reason to keep it hush-hush,” Katniss starts. “Gale’s doing fine. He got injured back on Okinawa, but he’s back with his battalion over in Japan now. Thing is, he’s not gonna be comin’ home after he’s done over there. He found a lady on an island that loves him and they’re havin’ a baby. He’s gonna stay and live with her after he’s done his tour.”

Posy’s innocence cuts to the heart of it. “But I thought he was gonna have babies with you?”

Katniss shakes her head. “No, Pose, me and Gale never was gonna have kids. We’ve got you guys. You’re all the family we ever wanted. Don’t need no babies underfoot when I’m huntin’ or milkin’ the goats.”

“But you guys love each other.”

Katniss reaches out and pulls Posy into her lap like she’s done it a thousand times. My heart breaks to see the comfort between them. This is Gale’s family. He should be here. How did he walk away from this?

“Ya’ know Posy, you’re right. Gale and I do love each other, but not the way your Ma and Pa loved each other. Not the way Prim and Rory love each other. Gale and I, we know, knew each other inside and out, but we were never big into kissing and hugging. And this lady he met, he loves her much bigger than he loves me. And that’s alright. I’m happy for him Posy, ya’ hear? Happy he gets to have someone who loves him like he’s the most important guy on this here Earth. Someone who can give him babies and make him smile, because he deserves that, don’t he, Pose?”

The little one rests her head on Katniss’s shoulder and snuggles in tighter. “Will you still give me hugs and kisses?”

“Oh, sugar, you and I? We’re together ‘til you can’t stand me, ya’ hear? We’re family. That had nothin’ to do with Gale and everythin’ to do with bein’ there for your first steps and first words, and holdin’ your hand on the way to school. Gale can go have his big adventure. We’ll keep being family here, no matter.”

“So he’s not takin’ you away?” The sweet girl points at me and Katniss’s eyes widen briefly before a soft smile graces her face.

“No, he’s not takin’ me anywhere. Gale sent him here to make sure I was okay, to make sure we all are. He doesn’t want us to be angry with him for stayin’ there. And we’re not, are we?”

Posy shakes her head slowly against Katniss’s shoulder, her hand absently playing with the end of Katniss’s braid.

“Ma’s gonna be angry,” Vick speaks up and all eyes turn to him.

“Well, she’ll jus’ have to take that up with me,” Katniss states, leaving no room for argument. “Now, if you wanna know how your brother’s doin’, this nice gentleman here, Mr. Peeta, can answer all your questions. I recommend you ask ‘em one on top of ‘nother so that he can hardly keep up.”

She slides Posy off her lap and turns back toward the pots on the stove, but not before I catch the glint of mischief in her eyes. Posy doesn’t disappoint, asking everything from what color Gale’s clothes are these days to what the baby’s name will be. She keeps going all the way through dinner and up to the moment Rory picks her up to carry her tired frame back across the field to their home.

Prim follows them out the door, her hand resting on the small of Rory’s back. I’ll have to write to Gale to let him know that Rory’s found his O.A.O., his one-and-only. I wonder how he’ll react to it being Prim. And I’ll have to fill him in on Posy’s interrogation.

Behind me I can hear Katniss shuffling around by the small couch that Prim called her bed. Just moments before Vick was sitting on it with Katniss and as I turn to watch I notice the threadbare sheets that are creating a home for me tonight.

“I know Prim didn’t really give you much choice, but if you’re more comfortable, I can sleep outside or in the barn. I’m usta sleepin’ sittin’ up at this point. I don’t need to be in your space.”

“Don’t you know better than to turn down mountain hospitality? No, I don’t mind you being here. It may not make much sense, but I kinda like havin’ you here. The house feels a little safer, a little fuller. I don’t know, maybe it’s just all those stories you told about Gale and the rest of the guys, but I feel like I already know you. Like you’re just a long-lost friend that Gale managed to wrangle back to the mountain.”

She’ll never know how much those words mean to me, or how she’s brought hope to a man that has felt his worth in the world dwindling by the day, but I try to express at least a little of it. “Thank you. Gale told me you were fiercely protective of your brood up here. I can see why, but yeah, from all his stories I kinda feel like I know all of you as well, although you’re a bit of a surprise.”

She turns to catch my eyes, a question on her lips so I plunge ahead.

“I didn’t know how you would handle the news. Most gals don’t take kindly to word their man’s shacked up with another girl. Since I’ve told you, I’ve seen you smile and sing. I dare say you’re genuinely happy for him.”

Bringing herself up straight and rigid, she rolls her shoulders back, incidentally drawing my attention to areas I’m better off not noticing. “Ya’know Corporal, I am happy. When we got married, I felt like I’d been trapped. I knew it was the right thing to do. I understood why he’d suggested it, but he, well, he had these feelings that I just didn’t have. Only time we ever kissed was after the preacher finished our vows. Shouldn’t a wife want to kiss her husband? We didn’t even sleep in the same house that night! He tried to…well, I shoun’t be tellin’ you all this.”

“You weren’t in love with him and he wanted you to be.”

She nods solemnly. “We needed each other to survive for those many years after our Pa’s died, and he knew I’d take care o’ his family while he was gone. I wasn’t lyin’ to Posy. They’re my family, no matter what. I didn’t need to marry him for that to be so. But he wanted ta make sure his pay came here and that his mother didn’t drink it.”

“If you don’t mind my askin’, has there been a guy you did want?”

Her eyebrow raises, almost like a challenge. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Just wantin’ to make sure no one’s showing up with a shotgun while I’m sleepin’ in your house. I’ve already been shot at enough in this life.”

She drops to the edge of the bed and levels me with her stare. “You grew up in a city, so I’ll excuse you not knowin’ anything about small towns, but let me just tell ya, I’ve known ev’ry boy in this town since the days when they still ran around in nappies. You’re the first new man I’ve met since before the war—ain’t no young fellas been around. They all took off to fight the Jerries and the Japs, and those that stayed behind were chickens and ‘shiners. No, Corporal Mellark, there’s no one poundin’ down our door in the middle of the night who’ll batt an eye at you on our cot, and if they did, I’d point my arrow right back at’em.”

“Hell, you’re like Artemis herself. How could any man resist that?” I retort.

Happy with herself, the grin that splits her cheeks makes up for every bad thing I’ve seen in the last three years. The heavy silence that sits between us stretches on until I wonder if I’m not the only one feeling awake and alive in a new way.

When Prim pushes through the door several minutes later, she finds us still smiling silently at one another. Shaking her head, she walks past us and into the back of the house to where I presume Katniss’s bedroom must be. The spell is broken, but the smiles remain.

“I should be gettin’ to bed, Miss Everdeen. My nurse says I have to rest up and I want to make sure I can help out while I’m here. You got the fixin’s for pancakes in the morning?” I don’t think my use of her maiden name goes unnoticed as she leans in so slightly toward me.

“You just have to sweet talk the chickens into givin’ you a coupla eggs, but I doubt that’ll be a problem for you, Corporal.” Something about the way she says my rank sounds oh so good and my thoughts take a decidedly un-Christian turn, particularly with her sitting just across from me on what sure as hell looks like a bed. Luckily, she takes that moment to stand.

“Goodnight Corporal Peeta Mellark.” It rolls off her tongue, leaving me wondering if the innuendo is all in my head. It has to be, right? No way this beautiful woman could be flirting with someone as damaged as me.

My “Goodnight Katniss” as her skirt swishes past my knees comes out just shy of a whisper, but I swear she pauses to smile again.

I’ve slept sitting up in the pouring rain as machine-gun fire bounced around me. How in the world am I going to sleep tonight?

#Springtime Edition 2019 #submission #noneyabidnes #Alliswell21 #prompt 73

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adobe-outdesign · 5 years

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Re-Created: Chapter 5

After Joey passes away, Henry finds a way to make everyone look human again, one by one, using the Ink Machine. And this story is going to have a happy ending, even if he has to write it himself.

“I don’t think we should be doing this.”

“We’re not doing anything except going down to the Music Department,” Thomas points out. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“And visiting a sermon lead by a guy who wants to kill us,” Allison counters, placing her sword into its sheath.

“Listen, we either sit back and let Sammy keep ruining everyone’s lives, or we hear whatever crazy bullshit he has to say and see if there’s anything we can use to prove him wrong.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t think it was a good idea. I just said I don’t think we should be doing this.”

“So you think it is a good idea?”

“No.”

Tom lets out a snort of laughter and Allison smiles, then gazes down the hallway in anticipation.

“Shouldn’t we at least tell Henry?” she asks. They start down the stairs, Thomas leading.

“It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. Besides, if we tell him he’ll probably insist on coming with us, and we’d all be screwed if something happened to him.”

“And if something happens to us?”

Thomas doesn’t answer.

They arrive in the Music Department less than fifteen minutes later after traveling through a complex series of stairs and doors that Thomas could’t hope to understand. “How the hell do you remember where you’re going?”

“I’ve tried mapping this place before with no luck. You learn the layout of everything after a while, but it doesn’t connect logically, so- shh.” She holds out her hand, Thomas grumbling that he wasn’t saying anything. Sammy’s voice drifts down the hallway to the left.

“This way.” They move in the opposite direction, ducking down into an open area with a recording sign decorating the far wall, then into a larger room that was probably intended for a band back when the studio was still open. They slide into a nearby recording booth, ducking down behind the wall where the glass ended.

“I remember this!” Allison whispers, grinning excitedly. “I used to spend hours in here recording my lines. Sammy would stand nearby and complain about my pitch.”

“I’m sure you sounded wonderful,” Thomas whispers back with a smile. He motions for her to be quiet as the room starts to fill with voices.

Allison peers over the ledge, watching as the once empty space suddenly becomes crowded. Inky figures appear, some entering through the door, some seeping out of the walls in a black mass. The recreated Lost Ones had claimed that Sammy announced the times of the sermons from within the ink, as it was near impossible to tell time in the studio. Apparently, everybody had gotten the message.

“There he is,” mutters Thomas as a black shape forms into something vaguely human-like up on the balcony above. Sammy clears his throat, and the crowd goes quiet.

“I’m glad to see you here, my sheep. As always, it is an honor to have so many attend our sermon. May those who don’t be shown mercy by our Savior.” His gaze sweeps over the crowd, expression unreadable due to the mask covering his face. A soft chorus of murmured agreements rise from the group.

“I’m sure you’re all well aware of the... issue of the false prophet, claiming he can free us from the ink.” Sammy leans forward on the balcony, resting his hands on the guard rail. Allison leans forward in anticipation.

“Remember, my sheep. The creatures this newcomer makes only look human. That is because only our Lord is capable of freeing us from the ink, restoring our bodies back to flesh and blood. If you follow the false prophet’s advice... that would be blasphemy, and your resulting sin would keep you from ever truly being saved. We must remain devout to our Savior and be patient... can I get an amen?”

A few “amens” rise from the gathered Lost Ones. Allison puts a hand on Tom’s shoulder and squeezes it, noticing the way his fist is clenched in anger.

“Furthermore, I have proof that the false prophet lives up to his title. He visited our humble Music Department the other day, claiming he could save Jack... I’m sure you’re all familiar with him at this point, correct?” Sammy pauses,waiting for confirmation, and a few people nod.

“I could not leave the studio to watch, for as we all know that would be against our Savior’s will. However, I did return to the dark abyss once more to see what had happened, and Jack was still there, lost to the ink. May our Lord have mercy on him.” Sammy turns towards the recording booth, and Allison feels her heartbeat pick up.

"Of course, if you still feel inclined to believe these lies, we have two visitors here that can offer some insight. Come on out, my sheep. I know you’re there.”

Allison feels a pit form in her stomach as turns to Tom. “How did he-?”

“Never mind that,” Tom growls. “What the hell are we going to do? There’s a lot more of them then I thought there would be.” He pulls his axe close to his chest, peering over the edge of the booth.

“Now, now. Come on out. We just want to talk,” Sammy calls. “Don’t make us force you out. The results could be... unpleasant.”

“Let’s just go with it for right now,” Allison whispers, grabbing Tom’s arm. “We can make a run for it once we have an opening.”

Tom gives her a solemn nod and the two exit the booth, uncomfortably aware of the dozens of glowing eyes focused on them.

Sammy seeps down the edge of the balcony, reforming on the floor below as they approach. He beckons them over. “Leave your weapons on the ground, please. We don’t allow them during our sermons.”

Tom mutters some kind of insult and drops his axe on the ground. Allison follows, setting her sword down next to the axe considerably more gently.

“There. Now that we’re all situated, may I ask what brings you here? I doubt you’ve come to worship the savior like the rest of us. Or, perhaps, you’re merely here to spy?”

Neither of them speak.

“That’s what I thought.” He leans in close to Allison. “Do I know you? You seem familiar...”

“We used to work together, remember? I took over Susie’s role as Alice. I used to be Alice,” Allison mutters in a reserved tone, subtly glancing at the exit. The Lost Ones were scattered haphazardly around the room, and a few Searchers had spawned at some point. They’d have to fight through at least twenty or so of them to get to the door, and that wasn’t counting the ones who would inevitably pursue.

“That’s right, I remember now! You always had a lovely voice.” Sammy leans in, mere inches from her face. Tom grabs her and pulls her away, looking like he was about to punch the music director any second now.

“Easy, now. I’ll let you go... if you do one thing first.”

“What makes you think you get to bargain?” Tom snaps. Sammy turns towards him, ink dripping from his form.

“What do you want?” Allison asks, stepping in front of Tom before he can say anything else that might put them in jeopardy.

“Simply admit that the false prophet did nothing to save you, and that he can’t do anything to save us. Admit your sins before the Lord, so that you can be forgiven for them.” A Bendy cutout stares at then unnervingly from the corner.

“I...” Allison glances at Tom, who had wisely decided to keep his mouth shut. “I... confess. Henry didn’t do anything to save us.” The words feel bitter on her tongue.

“That’s right. Thank you for confession, and may our Lord have mercy on you.” He motions two Lost Ones from the crowd forward. “Please, escort these two back to the upper levels. We’ll be holding onto the weapons, just to make sure you don’t try anything.”

They walk in silence out of the department.

Tom waits until they’re out of earshot to speak. “I’m going to goddamn kill him,” he mutters.

There’s a chattering noise coming from outside.

“Easy, buddy,” Henry murmurs, standing up from the table where his drawings are. He eyes the door warily. “I’ll go take care of it.”

Allison and Tom had left to pick up supplies a while ago, and the other former Lost Ones had left the hideout to work on clearing out some suitable living spaces in the lower levels, as the small room was getting overcrowded. He was alone save for Boris, who, judging by the way he was currently cowering in the corner, wasn’t going to be much help in a fight.

He grabs a pipe wrench off the table and ducks down by the base of the makeshift door, which was really just a large plank of wood leaning up against the open frame. He nudges it forward, peeking around the edge. A single Butcher Gang member - one of the Pipers - stands in the hall, making a strange garbled noise. Henry expects it to attack, but instead it just stares.

“Help,” it finally manages to say. “Me?”

“You want me... to hep you?” Henry repeats, not sure if heard that correctly. The creature nods. Henry hesitates, glancing back at the still-cowing Boris, who had climbed on top of the chair for safety. He was so used to seeing the cartoons as enemies that it was hard to remember that they must have been people too, if what Tom said was to be believed.

“Wait. That message.” He nods to the writing near the bottom of the nearby wall, asking for help. “Did you leave that?”

“Of course,” it rasps, the noise mostly a mess of garbled syllables. “Who did you think?”

Henry glances back to the hideout one more time before making his decision. “Okay. You can come in. But you have to leave the wrench here.” He nudges the wood open the rest of the way and the Piper slips through the entranceway, obediently dropping the weapon on the ground.

“It’s okay Boris,” Henry calls, pulling the door back into place. “He won’t hurt you. I think.” The wolf slowly uncovers his eyes and sniffs at the newcomer, but doesn’t dare to get down from the chair. Charley drags himself slowly to the far wall, collapsing against it with a light thud. He breathes with an awful rasping sound.

“Are you... okay? You seem hurt.”

“Always hurt,” the creature snaps.

“Right,” Henry says, not entirely sure how to respond. “Well, Allison and Tom are out. We’ll need to wait until they get back to get things set up. In the meantime, we can at least figure out who you are-”

“Shawn,” the Piper rasps between labored breaths, sitting up straight to stare at him with half blind eyes.

“Wait, you mean like the guy who worked in the toy department?” He had never meet the man, but he had learned about him through the tapes and Joey’s notes. “Shawn... Foley?”

“Flynn,” the cartoon corrects. Now that he thought about it, the creature did seem to have an accent underneath of the garbled tones.

“Well... that’s one mystery solved, I guess. Now we just have to wait for Allison and Tom to get back.”

There’s a knock on the makeshift door.

“Wow,” is all Henry can say after the two have finished explaining. “You guys aren’t hurt, right?”

“Thankfully not,” Allison mutters. “Sorry. It was a pretty stupid plan in hindsight.”

“It would’ve worked fine if Sammy didn’t see us,” Tom mutters. Allison shoots him a look.

“Did you find out anything useful, at least?”

“Not really. He just talked about how you can’t be trusted because you can’t actually free us from the ink. Which isn’t true,” she adds quickly, noticing the expression on Henry’s face.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah... he mentioned that Jack guy. Used him as an example of how you can’t save people very well,” Thomas muses. Henry swears softly.

“What?”

“Sammy said that Jack knew where to find him once he was remade, but that was the first attempt. After all of the chaos I completely forgot to tell Jack to go back and talk to him.”

“No wonder he thinks you’re a failure,” Alice muses, leaning back in her chair. “Do you think Sammy will change his mind if he sees him now?”

“I have no idea. Can’t hurt to try, I suppose.” Henry’s gaze drifts back to Charley, who had procured a needle and thread from somewhere and was now stitching one of the many holes in his side shut. Tom follows his gaze.

“So you want to tell us why you let that thing in here?” he asks, clearly not happy about the arrangement. The Piper emits a low warning snarl at the word “thing”.

Henry briefly goes back over what Shawn had told him. “I figured we should help him too,” he says in a low voice, keeping his eye on the Piper as he speaks. “It’s not really fair to leave them out, especially if they were once human. Even if they keep attacking us.”

“Look, I respect what you’re trying to do here, but those things are dangerous. You’re going to get yourself killed one day letting every sorry soul who shows up at the door in here.”

“So you won’t help?”

Tom averts eye contact. “I didn’t say that.”

“We can go get the Machine prepped while you get the ritual set up,” Allison offers. Henry nods and utters a quick thanks as the two get up to leave. Allison walks out, but Tom stays behind, motioning Henry into the corner.

“I don’t mean to stick my nose in places it shouldn’t be, but I figured it was worth asking,” he intones in a low voice, grabbing a nearby chair to sit in. “When are you going to change the dog back?”

Henry looks back at the table. Charley had finished with his impromptu stitching and had joined Boris, who was happily lounging on one of the many cots. The wolf sniffs at him cautiously for a moment, then moves aside to let the other cartoon join him. “You mean Boris?”

“I keep expecting you to announce that he’s next, but instead you keep ignoring him completely. I mean, have you even talked to him about it?”

“I mean- no, I haven’t. I didn’t realize...” He looks back at Boris, feeling unnerved. With the others, it was obvious they were once human - you could see it in their off-model designs, in how out of character they acted. Boris just seemed like Boris.

“How many times do have to tell you this before you get it? Every living thing in this studio used to be human. That includes him.” Tom crosses his arms.

“I... guess we could try something. We’d need to figure out who he was first-”

“He’s Franks,” Thomas interjects. Henry stares at him dumbly.

“You mean the janitor? How can you-?”

“I have my ways of knowing, all right? Besides, you can tell just by looking at him. Kid was always a dumbass.” There’s a strange, evasive tone to Thomas’ voice.

Henry opens his mouth, then closes it agin, struggling to find the right words. “I’ll talk to him about it,” he finally finds himself saying.

“Good. Let me know how it goes.” Thomas pushes the chair back with a screech and leaves, taking a toolbox with him. Henry sits there for a while, thinking, then goes over to Boris and gives him a gentle scratch on the nose.

“Hey buddy. You want to play rummy? I’ll deal. Shawn, you can join us if you want.” Boris nods his approval and Charley falls off the cot, stumbling over to the table with them.

He wasn’t lying. He would talk to Boris, of course.

Later.

#bendy and the ink machine #batim #henry stein #shawn flynn #boris #thomas connor #allison pendle #sammy lawrence #outdesign posts things #outdesign attempts to write #recreated au #this chapter and the next one were supposed to be one chapter originally but this is getting long so i'll split it here

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rotttnapple · 5 years

Text

count: 1,379 tw: loss, death, sadness, animal death mention (non violent) part 1 | part 2 under a cut because of the absolute sadness, okay

country roads, take me home @pohocounty

“Can you take me out on the porch for a spell, darling?”

An old voice, soft and dusty, still smiling in it's age. Dulu nods his reply, making that long lean down (his back gives a twinge, he makes no complaint) to pick up a body as light as a crow. Frail bones and paper-thin skin. Charley rests a head gone white as the snow atop the mountains against Dulu's strong chest, arthritis bunched hands folded in his lap. There is no pain, his mind is clear, he knows his time is near and he would like to look out on their land one last time.

Dulu carries him through the house full of their life, art and artifacts, photos of marches and causes and lost children they called their own long since grown. Photos of children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Christmas cards and birthday cards. Celebrations of old festivals with old friends, some as ancient as Dulu, campfires and bonfires. Dulu nearly invisible, covered in kittens. Dulu with his arms full of a litter of mutt puppies. Dulu and Slaughter. Snapshots papering the fridge, selfies that spanned long years, good years and hard years, fences repaired and roofs replaced. Their old home, it's walls warm, full of laughter and love. Dulu is careful setting Charley down in his rocker, it's wood worn smooth from a thousand, a hundred thousand touches. The boards underneath show the movement of that rocker, neat grooves in the cedar wood. There's a willow tree out there in the yard, full of corn and pumpkins and flowers, it's trunk a broad expanse, planted some sixty years past. Dulu's settling that quilt over Charley's lap now too, the old man that was once a young man gets chilled so easily now, even in the heat of the summer. Charley doesn't rock now, he's too fragile for that, but when Dulu settles down next to him, he lays a hand on that broad forearm. Dulu can feel the ponderous beat of Charley's heart in his fingertips.

“Seventy-two years.” Charley murmurs. Dulu nods again, daring a low, chuffed grunt. He doesn't dare say too much, as little as he speaks. There's a strange sting in the back of his eyes, dark brown, the color of fresh turned earth. No, he doesn't dare say too much.

“You're going to keep this place going?” Another nod from Dulu, the smallest little grunt. There's a thickness in the back of his throat now, he tries to swallow it down and finds that it won't budge. Not one bit.

“And brush your teeth.” A big orange cat slowly, carefully, reaches out with one paw to tap at Charley's blanketed lap. With exceeding care she moves the rest of her mass there, settling down and purring soft and deep. There's snow around Poppy's whiskers too, it's been many long years since Dulu had taken her out of the tree amid the raging floodwater, Poppy and her three tiny kittens, trapped up there in the fork of an elm with the water rising fast below them. Out there on the farm a small herd of deer meander past a tom turkey (he ruffles his feathers and gobbles fetchingly to no avail), nibbling as they go. “Yuuh-yea.” Dulu manages to speak, just a little. His voice is lower, gruffer than it usually is. Charley doesn't mind, he rests his other hand on Poppy's warm orange coat.

Dulu knew man's time was finite, he had known it for as long as he had walked this earth. He knew this would hurt, but it still didn't prepare him for the pain. It had been coming a while, little signs here and there. Sometimes Charley would wake him, ask if he wouldn't mind checking on Slaughter out in the barn – Slaughter, long since buried, still Dulu would yawn and stretch and walk out to the barn where new eyes glowed in the darkness. Assure Charley, in his way, that the cat was just fine so his partner could rest without worry. Ask him if he's fed the goats, Dulu knowing he's talking about Speedy the First and her companion Peaches, also gone many, many summers now. Man's time was finite, but it didn't help that lump in his throat any.

Seventy-two years. They'd had a long life together, a good one. Two old friends, two old life partners, two old men, sit together on the porch as they had sat thousands of times before. Listening to the peace-noise of the farm. Guinea fowl and chickens, ducks and geese, goats and donkeys and turkeys and crows. Crows landing in thick blankets on the barn roof, weighing down the branches of trees. Crowding the perches in the corn, lining the fence.

Dulu realizes he can no longer feel Charley's heartbeat in his fingertips. No longer hears the slow, ponderous draw of his breath.

Dulu can't stop the heavy, braying sobs that spill out of him like thunder. The crows take flight all at once, and for a moment they block out the sun.

Dulu digs the grave with his hands, it's more efficient than the shovel. Great big scoops of black dirt, one after another, until the pile looms over his kneeling figure. He pats the bottom smooth, not wanting any rocks poking at his friend. Pats it real smooth before he stands (knees popping like firecrackers, he's not so young himself, hasn't really replaced nothing these past few years) and takes slow, even steps back to the house where Charley rests in his funeral shroud, a bunch of snapdragons – daughters and sons of that first one, the very first one seventy years ago – resting on his chest, over where his heart once beat so strong and young. A heart that now rested next to his, so carefully wrapped. There was just some things Dulu didn't want Charley to see.

Out there among the graves, of crows, of dogs and cats, goats and birds and deer, some that didn't make it farther than their infant days and some that lived well into their golden years, Dulu takes the earth and lays it down one hand at a time. Gently patting it down, settling it around, over, until the grave is filled again. He plants flowers atop it, flowers that Charley loved.

Later he'll set a great, ancient river stone at the top. A guardian stone, Charley's name written in the old tongue, but first he has something else to do. Something Charley had asked him to do, many years ago.

For the first time in a timeless age Dulu isn't sure he'll be able, not with that thick lump sticking in his throat still, but he swallows the heart well enough and it joins the beating of countless others. For a while, Charley allows the man his space. He gives Dulu his time to grieve.

Charley's young again, still so full of life even in death, there to remind Dulu to brush his teeth, showing him how to thread the sewing machine so his clothes don't fall to tatters all over again. He's there in the comforting touch of a hand resting on Dulu's arm, there and not there all at once. Charley's voice is gentle as he tells Dulu which vials to use, how to draw blood, how to give shots, how to mix the formula just right. Which formula is right because there's so many different kinds in the cupboards now for all manner of animals in need. He's there to help him change bandages and splint wings, he's there to remind him to be careful.

Charley's there, rocking his chair again, mindful of kitten paws and kitten tails. Laughing with him, still pulling those booming belly laughs out him like a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat, singing songs so old they're all but forgotten when Dulu settles his guitar in his lap and plays the tunes. Wishing him sweet dreams every night, nagging him to eat breakfast every morning. Gone from life and yet immortalized in death.

When I'm gone, Dulu, I'd like you to take a little piece of me. Take a little piece of me, I don't want you to ever be alone again. Promise me that, please. I promise.

#;charley #;dulu #don't look at me i'm too sad!!#tw: loss #tw: death #tw: sadness #tw: animal death mention #no violence :(#just tears #verse: jeepers creepers (crow dad)#thanks I love stabbing myself in my own heart #I swear I will write happier things in the coming week ok #much happier things #pohocounty

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unsettlingshortstories · 4 years

Text

The Screaming Skull

F. Marion Crawford (1911)

I have often heard it scream. No, I am not nervous, I am not imaginative, and I never believed in ghosts, unless that thing is one. Whatever it is, it hates me almost as much as it hated Luke Pratt, and it screams at me.

If I were you, I would never tell ugly stories about ingenious ways of killing people, for you never can tell but that some one at the table may be tired of his or her nearest and dearest. I have always blamed myself for Mrs. Pratt’s death, and I suppose I was responsible for it in a way, though heaven knows I never wished her anything but long life and happiness. If I had not told that story she might be alive yet. That is why the thing screams at me, I fancy.

She was a good little woman, with a sweet temper, all things considered, and a nice gentle voice; but I remember hearing her shriek once when she thought her little boy was killed by a pistol that went off though everyone was sure that it was not loaded. It was the same scream; exactly the same, with a sort of rising quaver at the end; do you know what I mean? Unmistakable.

The truth is, I had not realized that the doctor and his wife were not on good terms. They used to bicker a bit now and then when I was here, and I often noticed that little Mrs. Pratt got very red and bit her lip hard to keep her temper, while Luke grew pale and said the most offensive things. He was that sort when he was in the nursery, I remember, and afterwards at school. He was my cousin, you know; that is how I came by this house; after he died, and his boy Charley was killed in South Africa, there were no relations left. Yes, it’s a pretty little property, just the sort of thing for an old sailor like me who has taken to gardening.

One always remembers one’s mistakes much more vividly than one’s cleverest things, doesn’t one? I’ve often noticed it. I was dining with the Pratts one night, when I told them the story that afterwards made so much difference. It was a wet night in November, and the sea was moaning. Hush!–if you don’t speak you will hear it now. . .

Do you hear the tide? Gloomy sound, isn’t it? Sometimes, about this time of year–hallo!–there it is! Don’t be frightened, man–it won’t eat you–it’s only a noise, after all! But I’m glad you’ve heard it, because there are always people who think it’s the wind, or my imagination, or something. You won’t hear it again tonight, I fancy, for it doesn’t often come more than once. Yes–that’s right. Put another stick on the fire, and a little more stuff into that weak mixture you’re so fond of. Do you remember old Blauklot the carpenter, on that German ship that picked us up when the Clontarf went to the bottom? We were hove to in a howling gale one night, as snug as you please, with no land within five hundred miles, and the ship coming up and falling off as regularly as clockwork–“Biddy te boor beebles ashore tis night, poys!” old Blauklot sang out, as he went off to his quarters with the sail-maker. I often think of that, now that I’m ashore for good and all.

Yes, it was on a night like this, when I was at home for a spell, waiting to take the Olympia out on her first trip–it was on the next voyage that she broke the record, you remember–but that dates it. Ninety-two was the year, early in November.

The weather was dirty, Pratt was out of temper, and the dinner was bad, very bad indeed, which didn’t improve matters, and cold, which made it worse. The poor little lady was very unhappy about it, and insisted on making a Welsh rarebit on the table to counteract the raw turnips and the half-boiled mutton. Pratt must have had a hard day. Perhaps he had lost a patient. At all events, he was in a nasty temper.

“My wife is trying to poison me, you see!” he said. “She’ll succeed some day.” I saw that she was hurt, and I made believe to laugh, and said that Mrs. Pratt was much too clever to get rid of her husband in such a simple way; and then I began to tell them about Japanese tricks with spun glass and chopped horsehair and the like.

Pratt was a doctor, and knew a lot more than I did about such things, but that only put me on my mettle, and I told a story about a woman in Ireland who did for three husbands before anyone suspected foul play.

Did you never hear that tale? The fourth husband managed to keep awake and caught her, and she was hanged. How did she do it? She drugged them, and poured melted lead into their ears through a little horn funnel when they were asleep… No–that’s the wind whistling. It’s backing up to the southward again. I can tell by the sound. Besides, the other thing doesn’t often come more than once in an evening even at this time of year–when it happened. Yes, it was in November. Poor Mrs. Pratt died suddenly in her bed not long after I dined here. I can fix the date, because I got the news in New York by the steamer that followed the Olympia when I took her out on her first trip. You had the Leofric the same year? Yes, I remember. What a pair of old buffers we are coming to be, you and I. Nearly fifty years since we were apprentices together on the Clontarf. Shall you ever forget old Blauklot? “Biddy te boor beebles ashore, poys!” Ha, ha! Take a little more, with all that water. It’s the old Hulstkamp I found in the cellar when this house came to me, the same I brought Luke from Amsterdam five-and-twenty years ago. He had never touched a drop of it. Perhaps he’s sorry now, poor fellow.

Where did I leave off? I told you that Mrs. Pratt died suddenly–yes. Luke must have been lonely here after she was dead, I should think; I came to see him now and then, and he looked worn and nervous, and told me that his practice was growing too heavy for him, though he wouldn’t take an assistant on any account. Years went on, and his son was killed in South Africa, and after that he began to be queer. There was something about him not like other people. I believe he kept his senses in his profession to the end; there was no complaint of his having made mad mistakes in cases, or anything of that sort, but he had a look about him—-

Luke was a red-headed man with a pale face when he was young, and he was never stout; in middle age he turned a sandy grey, and after his son died he grew thinner and thinner, till his head looked like a skull with parchment stretched over it very tight, and his eyes had a sort of glare in them that was very disagreeable to look at.

He had an old dog that poor Mrs. Pratt had been fond of, and that used to follow her everywhere. He was a bulldog, and the sweetest tempered beast you ever saw, though he had a way of hitching his upper lip behind one of his fangs that frightened strangers a good deal. Sometimes, of an evening, Pratt and Bumble–that was the dog’s name–used to sit and look at each other a long time, thinking about old times, I suppose, when Luke’s wife used to sit in that chair you’ve got. That was always her place, and this was the doctor’s, where I’m sitting. Bumble used to climb up by the footstool–he was old and fat by that time, and could not jump much, and his teeth were getting shaky. He would look steadily at Luke, and Luke looked steadily at the dog, his face growing more and more like a skull with two little coals for eyes; and after about five minutes or so, though it may have been less, old Bumble would suddenly begin to shake all over, and all on a sudden he would set up an awful howl, as if he had been shot, and tumble out of the easy-chair and trot away, and hide himself under the sideboard, and lie there making odd noises.

Considering Pratt’s looks in those last months, the thing is not surprising, you know. I’m not nervous or imaginative, but I can quite believe he might have sent a sensitive woman into hysterics–his head looked so much like a skull in parchment.

At last I came down one day before Christmas, when my ship was in dock and I had three weeks off. Bumble was not about, and I said casually that I supposed the old dog was dead.

“Yes,” Pratt answered, and I thought there was something odd in his tone even before he went on after a little pause. “I killed him,” he said presently. “I could stand it no longer.”

I asked what it was that Luke could not stand, though I guessed well enough.

“He had a way of sitting in her chair and glaring at me, and then howling,” Luke shivered a little. “He didn’t suffer at all, poor old Bumble,” he went on in a hurry, as if he thought I might imagine he had been cruel. “I put dionine into his drink to make him sleep soundly, and then I chloroformed him gradually, so that he could not have felt suffocated even if he was dreaming. It’s been quieter since then.”

I wondered what he meant, for the words slipped out as if he could not help saying them. I’ve understood since. He meant that he did not hear that noise so often after the dog was out of the way. Perhaps he thought at first that it was old Bumble in the yard howling at the moon, though it’s not that kind of noise, is it? Besides, I know what it is, if Luke didn’t. It’s only a noise after all, and a noise never hurt anybody yet. But he was much more imaginative than I am. No doubt there really is something about this place that I don’t understand; but when I don’t understand a thing, I call it a phenomenon, and I don’t take it for granted that it’s going to kill me, as he did. I don’t understand everything, by long odds, nor do you, nor does any man who has been to sea. We used to talk of tidal waves, for instance, and we could not account for them; now we account for them by calling them submarine earthquakes, and we branch off into fifty theories, any one of which might make earthquakes quite comprehensible if we only knew what they were. I fell in with one of them once, and the inkstand flew straight up from the table against the ceiling of my cabin. The same thing happened to Captain Lecky–I dare say you’ve read about it in his “Wrinkles”. Very good. If that sort of thing took place ashore, in this room for instance, a nervous person would talk about spirits and levitation and fifty things that mean nothing, instead of just quietly setting it down as a “phenomenon” that has not been explained yet. My view of that voice, you see.

Besides, what is there to prove that Luke killed his wife? I would not even suggest such a thing to anyone but you. After all, there was nothing but the coincidence that poor little Mrs. Pratt died suddenly in her bed a few days after I told that story at dinner. She was not the only woman who ever died like that. Luke got the doctor over from the next parish, and they agreed that she had died of something the matter with her heart Why not? It’s common enough.

Of course, there was the ladle. I never told anybody about that, and, it made me start when I found it in the cupboard in the bedroom. It was new, too–a little tinned iron ladle that had not been in the fire more than once or twice, and there was some lead in it that had been melted, and stuck to the bottom of the bowl, all grey, with hardened dross on it. But that proves nothing. A country doctor is generally a handy man, who does everything for himself, and Luke may have had a dozen reasons for melting a little lead in a ladle. He was fond of sea-fishing, for instance, and he may have cast a sinker for a night-line; perhaps it was a weight for the hall clock, or something like that. All the same, when I found it I had a rather queer sensation, because it looked so much like the thing I had described when I told them the story. Do you understand? It affected me unpleasantly, and I threw it away; it’s at the bottom of the sea a mile from the Spit, and it will be jolly well rusted beyond recognizing if it’s ever washed up by the tide.

You see, Luke must have bought it in the village, years ago, for the man sells just such ladles still. I suppose they are used in cooking. In any case, there was no reason why an inquisitive housemaid should find such a thing lying about, with lead in it, and wonder what it was, and perhaps talk to the maid who heard me tell the story at dinner–for that girl married the plumber’s son in the village, and may remember the whole thing.

You understand me, don’t you? Now that Luke Pratt is dead and gone, and lies buried beside his wife, with an honest man’s tombstone at his head, I should not care to stir up anything that could hurt his memory. They are both dead, and their son, too. There was trouble enough about Luke’s death, as it was.

How? He was found dead on the beach one morning, and there was a coroner’s inquest. There were marks on his throat, but he had not been robbed. The verdict was that he had come to his end “By the hands or teeth of some person or animal unknown,” for half the jury thought it might have been a big dog that had thrown him down and gripped his windpipe, though the skin of his throat was not broken. No one knew at what time he had gone out, nor where he had been. He was found lying on his back above high-water mark, and an old cardboard bandbox that had belonged to his wife lay under his hand, open. The lid had fallen off. He seemed to have been carrying home a skull in the box–doctors are fond of collecting such things. It had rolled out and lay near his head, and it was a remarkably fine skull, rather small, beautifully shaped and very white, with perfect teeth. That is to say, the upper jaw was perfect, but there was no lower one at all, when I first saw it.

Yes, I found it here when I came. You see, it was very white and polished, like a thing meant to be kept under a glass case, and the people did not know where it came from, nor what to do with it; so they put it back into the bandbox and set it on the shelf of the cupboard in the best bedroom, and of course they showed it to me when I took possession. I was taken down to the beach, too, to be shown the place where Luke was found, and the old fisherman explained just how he was lying, and the skull beside him. The only point he could not explain was why the skull had rolled up the sloping sand towards Luke’s head instead of rolling downhill to his feet. It did not seem odd to me at the time, but I have often thought of it since, for the place is rather steep. I’ll take you there tomorrow if you like–I made a sort of cairn of stones there afterwards.

When he fell down, or was thrown down–whichever happened–the bandbox struck the sand, and the lid came off, and the thing came out and ought to have rolled down. But it didn’t. It was close to his head almost touching it, and turned with the face towards it. I say it didn’t strike me as odd when the man told me; but I could not help thinking about It afterwards, again and again, till I saw a picture of it all when I closed my eyes; and then I began to ask myself why the plaguey thing had rolled up instead of down, and why it had stopped near Luke’s head instead of anywhere else, a yard away, for instance.

You naturally want to know what conclusion I reached, don’t you? None that at all explained the rolling, at all events. But I got something else into my head, after a time, that made me feel downright uncomfortable.

Oh, I don’t mean as to anything supernatural! There may be ghosts, or there may not be. If there are, I’m not inclined to believe that they can hurt living people except by frightening them, and, for my part, I would rather face any shape of ghost than a fog in the Channel when it’s crowded. No. What bothered me was just a foolish idea, that’s all, and I cannot tell how it began, nor what made it grow till it turned into a certainty.

I was thinking about Luke and his poor wife one evening over my pipe and a dull book, when it occurred to me that the skull might possibly be hers, and I have never got rid of the thought since. You’ll tell me there’s no sense in it, no doubt, that Mrs. Pratt was buried like a Christian and is lying in the churchyard where they put her, and that it’s perfectly monstrous to suppose her husband kept her skull in her old bandbox in his bedroom. All the same, in the face of reason, and common sense, and probability, I’m convinced that he did. Doctors do all sorts of queer things that would make men like you and me feel creepy, and those are Just the things that don’t seem probable, nor logical, nor sensible to us.

Then, don’t you see?–if it really was her skull, poor woman, the only way of accounting for his having it is that he really killed her, and did it in that way, as the woman killed her husbands in the story, and that he was afraid there might be an examination some day which would betray him. You see, I told that too, and I believe it had really happened some fifty or sixty years ago. They dug up the three skulls, you know, and there was a small lump of lead rattling about in each one. That was what hanged the woman. Luke remembered that, I’m sure. I don’t want to know what he did when he thought of it; my taste never ran in the direction of horrors, and I don’t fancy you care for them either, do you? No. If you did, you might supply what is wanting to the story.

It must have been rather grim, eh? I wish I did not see the whole thing so distinctly, just as everything must have happened. He took it the night before she was buried, I’m sure, after the coffin had been shut, and when the servant girl was asleep. I would bet anything, that when he’d got it, he put something under the sheet in its place, to fill up and look like it. What do you suppose he put there, under the sheet?

I don’t wonder you take me up on what I’m saying! First I tell you that I don’t want to know what happened, and that I hate to think about horrors, and then I describe the whole thing to you as if I had seen it. I’m quite sure that it was her work-bag that he put there. I remember the bag very well, for she always used it of an evening; it was made of brown plush, and when it was stuffed full it was about the size of–you understand. Yes, there I am, at it again! You may laugh at me, but you don’t live here alone, where it was done, and you didn’t tell Luke the story about the melted lead. I’m not nervous, I tell you, but sometimes I begin to feel that I understand why some people are. I dwell on all this when I’m alone, and I dream of it, and when that thing screams–well, frankly, I don’t like the noise any more than you do, though I should be used to it by this time.

I ought not to be nervous. I’ve sailed in a haunted ship. There was a Man in the Top, and two-thirds of the crew died of the West Coast fever inside of ten days after we anchored; but I was all right, then and afterwards. I have seen some ugly sights, too, just as you have, and all the rest of us. But nothing ever stuck in my head in the way this does.

You see, I’ve tried to get rid of the thing, but it doesn’t like that. It wants to be there in its place, in Mrs. Pratt’s bandbox in the cupboard in the best bedroom. It’s not happy anywhere else. How do I know that? Because I’ve tried it. You don’t suppose that I’ve not tried, do you? As long as it’s there it only screams now and then, generally at this time of year, but if I put it out of the house it goes on all night, and no servant will stay here twenty-four hours. As it is, I’ve often been left alone and have been obliged to shift for myself for a fortnight at a time. No one from the village would ever pass a night under the roof now, and as for selling the place, or even letting it, that’s out of the question. The old women say that if I stay here I shall come to a bad end myself before long.

I’m not afraid of that. You smile at the mere idea that anyone could take such nonsense seriously. Quite right. It’s utterly blatant nonsense, I agree with you. Didn’t I tell you that it’s only a noise after all when you started and looked round as if you expected to see a ghost standing behind your chair?

I may be all wrong about the skull, and I like to think that I am when I can. It may be just a fine specimen which Luke got somewhere long ago, and what rattles about inside when you shake it may be nothing but a pebble, or a bit of hard clay, or anything. Skulls that have lain long in the ground generally have something inside them that rattles don’t they? No, I’ve never tried to get it out, whatever it is; I’m afraid it might be lead, don’t you see? And if it is, I don’t want to know the fact, for I’d much rather not be sure. If it really is lead, I killed her quite as much as if I had done the deed myself. Anybody must see that, I should think. As long as I don’t know for certain, I have the consolation of saying that it’s all utterly ridiculous nonsense, that Mrs. Pratt died a natural death and that the beautiful skull belonged to Luke when he was a student in London. But if I were quite sure, I believe I should have to leave the house; indeed I do, most certainly. As it is, I had to give up trying to sleep in the best bedroom where the cupboard is

You ask me why I don’t throw it into the pond–yes, but please don’t call it a “confounded bugbear”–it doesn’t like being called names.

There! Lord, what a shriek! I told you so! You’re quite pale, man. Fill up your pipe and draw your chair nearer to the fire, and take some more drink. Old Hollands never hurt anybody yet. I’ve seen a Dutchman in Java drink half a jug of Hulstkamp in a morning without turning a hair. I don’t take much rum myself, because it doesn’t agree with my rheumatism, but you are not rheumatic and it won’t damage you Besides, it’s a very damp night outside. The wind is howling again, and it will soon be in the south-west; do you hear how the windows rattle? The tide must have turned too, by the moaning.

We should not have heard the thing again if you had not said that. I’m pretty sure we should not. Oh yes, if you choose to describe it as a coincidence, you are quite welcome, but I would rather that you should not call the thing names again, if you don’t mind. It may be that the poor little woman hears, and perhaps it hurts her, don’t you know? Ghosts? No! You don’t call anything a ghost that you can take in your hands and look at in broad daylight, and that rattles when you shake it Do you, now? But it’s something that hears and understands; there’s no doubt about that.

I tried sleeping in the best bedroom when I first came to the house just because it was the best and most comfortable, but I had to give it up It was their room, and there’s the big bed she died in, and the cupboard is in the thickness of the wall, near the head, on the left. That’s where it likes to be kept, in its bandbox. I only used the room for a fortnight after I came, and then I turned out and took the little room downstairs, next to the surgery, where Luke used to sleep when he expected to be called to a patient during the night.

I was always a good sleeper ashore; eight hours is my dose, eleven to seven when I’m alone, twelve to eight when I have a friend with me. But I could not sleep after three o’clock in the morning in that room–a quarter past, to be accurate–as a matter of fact, I timed it with my old pocket chronometer, which still keeps good time, and it was always at exactly seventeen minutes past three. I wonder whether that was the hour when she died?

It was not what you have heard. If it had been that, I could not have stood it two nights. It was just a start and a moan and hard breathing for a few seconds in the cupboard, and it could never have waked me under ordinary circumstances, I’m sure. I suppose you are like me in that, and we are just like other people who have been to sea. No natural sounds disturb us at all, not all the racket of a square-rigger hove to in a heavy gale, or rolling on her beam ends before the wind. But if a lead pencil gets adrift and rattles in the drawer of your cabin table you are awake in a moment. Just so–you always understand. Very well, the noise in the cupboard was no louder than that, but it waked me instantly.

I said it was like a “start”. I know what I mean, but it’s hard to explain without seeming to talk nonsense. Of course you cannot exactly “hear” a person “start”; at the most,you might hear the quick drawing of the breath between the parted lips and closed teeth, and the almost imperceptible sound of clothing that moved suddenly though very slightly. It was like that.

You know how one feels what a sailing vessel is going to do, two or three seconds before she does it, when one has the wheel. Riders say the same of a horse, but that’s less strange, because the horse is a live animal with feelings of its own, and only poets and landsmen talk about a ship being alive, and all that. But I have always felt somehow that besides being a steaming machine or a sailing machine for carrying weights, a vessel at sea is a sensitive instrument, and a means of communication between nature and man, and most particularly the man at the wheel, if she is steered by hand. She takes her impressions directly from wind and sea, tide and stream, and transmits them to the man’s hand, just as the wireless telegraphy picks up the interrupted currents aloft and turns them out below in the form of a message.

You see what I am driving at; I felt that something started in the cupboard, and I felt it so vividly that I heard it, though there may have’ been nothing to hear, and the sound inside my head waked me suddenly. But I really heard the other noise. It was as if it were muffled inside a box, as far away as if it came through a long-distance telephone; and yet I knew that it was inside the cupboard near the head of my bed. My hair did not bristle and my blood did not run cold that time. I simply resented being waked up by something that had no business to make a noise, any more than a pencil should rattle in the drawer of my cabin table on board ship. For I did not understand; I just supposed that the cupboard had some communication with the outside air, and that the wind had got in and was moaning through it with a sort of very faint screech. I struck a light and looked at my watch, and it was seventeen minutes past three. Then I turned over and went to sleep on my right ear. That’s my good one; I’m pretty deaf with the other, for I struck the water with it when I was a lad in diving from the fore-topsail yard. Silly thing to do, it was, but the result is very convenient when I want to go to sleep when there’s a noise.

That was the first night, and the same thing happened again and several times afterwards, but not regularly, though it was always at the same time, to a second; perhaps I was sometimes sleeping on my good ear, and sometimes not. I overhauled the cupboard and there was no way by which the wind could get in, or anything else, for the door makes a good fit, having been meant to keep out moths, I suppose; Mrs. Pratt must have kept her winter things in it, for it still smells of camphor and turpentine.

After about a fortnight I had had enough of the noises. So far I had said to myself that it would be silly to yield to it and take the skull out of the room. Things always look differently by daylight, don’t they? But the voice grew louder–I suppose one may call it a voice–and it got inside my deaf ear, too, one night. I realized that when I was wide awake, for my good ear was jammed down on the pillow, and I ought not to have heard a foghorn in that position. But I heard that, and it made me lose my temper, unless it scared me, for sometimes the two are not far apart. I struck a light and got up, and I opened the cupboard, grabbed the bandbox and threw it out of the window, as far as I could.

Then my hair stood on end. The thing screamed in the air, like a shell from a twelve-inch gun. It fell on the other side of the road. The night was very dark, and I could not see it fall, but I know it fell beyond the road The window is just over the front door, it’s fifteen yards to the fence, more or less, and the road is ten yards wide. There’s a thick-set hedge beyond, along the glebe that belongs to the vicarage.

I did not sleep much more than night. It was not more than half an hour after I had thrown the bandbox out when I heard a shriek outside–like what we’ve had tonight, but worse, more despairing, I should call it; and it may have been my imagination, but I could have sworn that the screams came nearer and nearer each time. I lit a pipe, and walked up and down for a bit, and then took a book and sat up reading, but I’ll be hanged if I can remember what I read nor even what the book was, for every now and then a shriek came up that would have made a dead man turn in his coffin.

A little before dawn someone knocked at the front door. There was no mistaking that for anything else, and I opened my window and looked down, for I guessed that someone wanted the doctor, supposing that the new man had taken Luke’s house. It was rather a relief to hear a human knock after that awful noise.

You cannot see the door from above, owing to the little porch. The knocking came again, and I called out, asking who was there, but nobody answered, though the knock was repeated. I sang out again, and said that the doctor did not live here any longer. There was no answer, but it occurred to me that it might be some old countryman who was stone deaf. So I took my candle and went down to open the door. Upon my word, I was not thinking of the thing yet, and I had almost forgotten the other noises. I went down convinced that I should find somebody outside, on the doorstep, with a message. I set the candle on the hall table, so that the wind should not blow it out when I opened. While I was drawing the old-fashioned bolt I heard the knocking again. It was not loud, and it had a queer, hollow sound, now that I was close to it, I remember, but I certainly thought it was made by some person who wanted to get in.

It wasn’t. There was nobody there, but as I opened the door inward, standing a little on one side, so as to see out at once, something rolled across the threshold and stopped against my foot.

I drew back as I felt it, for I knew what it was before I looked down. I cannot tell you how I knew, and it seemed unreasonable, for I am still quite sure that I had thrown it across the road. It’s a French window, that opens wide, and I got a good swing when I flung it out. Besides, when I went out early in the morning, I found the bandbox beyond the thick hedge.

You may think it opened when I threw it, and that the skull dropped out; but that’s impossible, for nobody could throw an empty cardboard box so far. It’s out of the question; you might as well try to fling a ball of paper twenty-five yards, or a blown bird’s egg.

To go back, I shut and bolted the hall door, picked the thing up carefully, and put it on the table beside the candle. I did that mechanically, as one instinctively does the right thing in danger without thinking at all–unless one does the opposite. It may seem odd, but I believe my first thought had been that somebody might come and find me there on the threshold while it was resting against my foot, lying a little on its side, and turning one hollow eye up at my face, as if it meant to accuse me. And the light and shadow from the candle played in the hollows of the eyes as it stood on the table, so that they seemed to open and shut at me. Then the candle went out quite unexpectedly, though the door was fastened and there was not the least draught; and I used up at least half a dozen matches before it would burn again.

I sat down rather suddenly, without quite knowing why. Probably I had been badly frightened, and perhaps you will admit there was no great shame in being scared. The thing had come home, and it wanted to go upstairs, back to its cupboard. I sat still and stared at it for a bit till I began to feel very cold; then I took it and carried it up and set it in its place, and I remember that I spoke to it, and promised that it should have its bandbox again in the morning.

You want to know whether I stayed in the room till daybreak? Yes but I kept a light burning, and sat up smoking and reading, most likely out of fright; plain, undeniable fear, and you need not call it cowardice either, for that’s not the same thing. I could not have stayed alone with that thing in the cupboard; I should have been scared to death, though I’m not more timid than other people. Confound it all, man, it had crossed the road alone, and had got up the doorstep and had knocked to be let in.

When the dawn came, I put on my boots and went out to find the bandbox. I had to go a good way round, by the gate near the high road, and I found the box open and hanging on the other side of the hedge. It had caught on the twigs by the string, and the lid had fallen off and was lying on the ground below it. That shows that it did not open till it was well over; and if it had not opened as soon as it left my hand, what was inside it must have gone beyond the road too.

That’s all. I took the box upstairs to the cupboard, and put the skull back and locked it up. When the girl brought me my breakfast she said she was sorry, but that she must go, and she did not care if she lost her month’s wages. I looked at her, and her face was a sort of greenish yellowish white. I pretended to be surprised, and asked what was the matter; but that was of no use, for she just turned on me and wanted to know whether I meant to stay in a haunted house, and how long I expected to live if I did, for though she noticed I was sometimes a little hard of hearing, she did not believe that even I could sleep through those screams again–and if I could, why had I been moving about the house and opening and shutting the front door, between three and four in the morning? There was no answering that, since she had heard me, so off she went, and I was left to myself. I went down to the village during the morning and found a woman who was willing to come and do the little work there is and cook my dinner, on condition that she might go home every night. As for me, I moved downstairs that day, and I have never tried to sleep in the best bedroom since. After a little while I got a brace of middle-aged Scotch servants from London, and things were quiet enough for a long time. I began by telling them that the house was in a very exposed position, and that the wind whistled round it a good deal in the autumn and winter, which had given it a bad name in the village, the Cornish people being inclined to superstition and telling ghost stories. The two hard-faced, sandy-haired sisters almost smiled, and they answered with great contempt that they had no great opinion of any Southern bogey whatever, having been in service in two English haunted houses, where they had never seen so much as the Boy in Grey, whom they reckoned no very particular rarity in Forfarshire.

They stayed with me several months, and while they were in the house we had peace and quiet. One of them is here again now, but she went away with her sister within the year. This one–she was the cook–married the sexton, who works in my garden. That’s the way of it. It’s a small village and he has not much to do, and he knows enough about flowers to help me nicely, besides doing most of the hard work; for though I’m fond of exercise, I’m getting a little stiff in the hinges. He’s a sober, silent sort of fellow, who minds his own business, and he was a widower when I came here–Trehearn is his name, James Trehearn. The Scottish sisters would not admit that there was anything wrong about the house, but when November came they gave me warning that they were going, on the ground that the chapel was such a long walk from here, being in the next parish, and that they could not possibly go to our church. But the younger one came back in the spring, and as soon as the banns could be published she was married to James Trehearn by the vicar, and she seems to have had no scruples about hearing him preach since then. I’m quite satisfied, if she is! The couple live in a small cottage that looks over the churchyard.

I suppose you are wondering what all this has to do with what I was talking about. I’m alone so much that when an old friend comes to see me, I sometimes go on talking just for the sake of hearing my own voice. But in this case there is really a connection of ideas. It was James Trehearn who buried poor Mrs. Pratt, and her husband after her in the same grave, and it’s not far from the back of his cottage. That’s the connection in my mind, you see. It’s plain enough. He knows something; I’m quite sure that he does, though he’s such a reticent beggar.

Yes, I’m alone in the house at night now, for Mrs. Trehearn does everything herself, and when I have a friend the sexton’s niece comes in to wait on the table. He takes his wife home every evening in winter, but in summer, when there’s light, she goes by herself. She’s not a nervous woman, but she’s less sure than she used to be that there are no bogies in England worth a Scotch-woman’s notice. Isn’t it amusing, the idea that Scotland has a monopoly of the supernatural? Odd sort of national pride, I call that, don’t you?

That’s a good fire, isn’t it? When driftwood gets started at last there’s nothing like it, I think. Yes, we get lots of it, for I’m sorry to say there are still a great many wrecks about here. It’s a lonely coast, and you may have all the wood you want for the trouble of bringing it in. Trehearn and I borrow a cart now and then, and load it between here and the Spit. I hate a coal fire when I can get wood of any sort A log is company, even if it’s only a piece of a deck beam or timber sawn off, and the salt in it makes pretty sparks. See how they fly, like Japanese hand-fireworks! Upon my word, with an old friend and a good fire and a pipe, one forgets all about that thing upstairs, especially now that the wind has moderated. It’s only a lull, though, and it will blow a gale before morning.

You think you would like to see the skull? I’ve no objection. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have a look at it, and you never saw a more perfect one in your life, except that there are two front teeth missing in the lower jaw.

Oh yes–I had not told you about the jaw yet. Trehearn found it in the garden last spring when he was digging a pit for a new asparagus bed. You know we make asparagus beds six or eight feet deep here. Yes, yes–I had forgotten to tell you that. He was digging straight down, just as he digs a grave; if you want a good asparagus bed made, I advise you to get a sexton to make it for you. Those fellows have a wonderful knack at that sort of digging.

Trehearn had got down about three feet when he cut into a mass of white lime in the side of the trench. He had noticed that the earth was a little looser there, though he says it had not been disturbed for a number of years. I suppose he thought that even old lime might not be good for asparagus, so he broke it out and threw it up. It was pretty hard, he says, in biggish lumps, and out of sheer force of habit he cracked the lumps with his spade as they lay outside the pit beside him; the jaw bone of the skull dropped out of one of the pieces. He thinks he must have knocked out the two front teeth in breaking up the lime, but he did not see them anywhere. He’s a very experienced man in such things, as you may imagine, and he said at once that the jaw had probably belonged to a young woman, and that the teeth had been complete when she died. He brought it to me, and asked me if I wanted to keep it; if I did not, he said he would drop it into the next grave he made in the churchyard, as he supposed it was a Christian jaw, and ought to have decent burial, wherever the rest of the body might be. I told him that doctors often put bones into quicklime to whiten them nicely, and that I supposed Dr Pratt had once had a little lime pit in the garden for that purpose, and had forgotten the jaw. Trehearn looked at me quietly.

“Maybe it fitted that skull that used to be in the cupboard upstairs, sir,” he said. “Maybe Dr Pratt had put the skull into the lime to clean it, or something, and when he took it out he left the lower jaw behind. There’s some human hair sticking in the lime, sir.”

I saw there was, and that was what Trehearn said. If he did not suspect something, why in the world should he have suggested that the jaw might fit the skull? Besides, it did. That’s proof that he knows more than he cares to tell. Do you suppose he looked before she was buried? Or perhaps–when he buried Luke in the same grave—-

Well, well, it’s of no use to go over that, is it? I said I would keep the jaw with the skull, and I took it upstairs and fitted it into its place. There’s not the slightest doubt about the two belonging together, and together they are.

Trehearn knows several things. We were talking about plastering the kitchen a while ago, and he happened to remember that it had not been done since the very week when Mrs. Pratt died. He did not say that the mason must have left some lime on the place, but he thought it, and that it was the very same lime he had found in the asparagus pit. He knows a lot. Trehearn is one of your silent beggars who can put two and two together. That grave is very near the back of his cottage, too, and he’s one of the quickest men with a spade I ever saw. If he wanted to know the truth, he could, and no one else would ever be the wiser unless he chose to tell. In a quiet village like ours, people don’t go and spend the night in the churchyard to see whether the sexton potters about by himself between ten o’clock and daylight.

What is awful to think of, is Luke’s deliberation, if he did it; his cool certainty that no one would find him out; above all, his nerve, for that must have been extraordinary. I sometimes think it’s bad enough to live in the place where it was done, if it really was done. I always put in the condition, you see, for the sake of his memory, and a little bit for my own sake, too.

I’ll go upstairs and fetch the box in a minute. Let me light my pipe; there’s no hurry! We had supper early, and it’s only half-past nine o’clock. I never let a friend go to bed before twelve, or with less than three glasses–you may have as many more as you like, but you shan’t have less, for the sake of old times.

It’s breezing up again, do you hear? That was only a lull just now, and we are going to have a bad night.

A thing happened that made me start a little when I found that the jaw fitted exactly. I’m not very easily startled in that way myself, but I have seen people make a quick movement, drawing their breath sharply, when they had thought they were alone and suddenly turned and saw someone very near them. Nobody can call that fear. You wouldn’t, would you? No. Well, just when I had set the jaw in its place under the skull, the teeth closed sharply on my finger. It felt exactly as if it were biting me hard, and I confess that I jumped before I realized that I had been pressing the jaw and the skull together with my other hand. I assure you I was not at all nervous. It was broad daylight, too, and a fine day, and the sun was streaming into the best bedroom. It would have been absurd to be nervous, and it was only a quick mistaken impression, but it really made me feel queer. Somehow it made me think of the funny verdict of the coroner’s jury on Luke’s death, “by the hand or teeth of some person or animal unknown”. Ever since that I’ve wished I had seen those marks on his throat, though the lower jaw was missing then.

I have often seen a man do insane things with his hands that he does not realize at all. I once saw a man hanging on by an old awning stop with one hand, leaning backward, outboard, with all his weight on it, and he was just cutting the stop with the knife in his other hand when I got my arms round him. We were in mid-ocean, going twenty knots. He had not the smallest idea what he was doing; neither had I when I managed to pinch my finger between the teeth of that thing. I can feel it now. It was exactly as if it were alive and were trying to bite me. It would if it could, for I know it hates me, poor thing! Do you suppose that what rattles about inside is really a bit of lead? Well, I’ll get the box down presently, and if whatever it is happens to drop out into your hands, that’s your affair. If it’s only a clod of earth or a pebble, the whole matter would be off my mind, and I don’t believe I should ever think of the skull again; but somehow I cannot bring myself to shake out the bit of hard stuff myself. The mere idea that it may be lead makes me confoundedly uncomfortable, yet I’ve got the conviction that I shall know before long. I shall certainly know. I’m sure Trehearn knows, but he’s such a silent beggar

I’ll go upstairs now and get it. What? You had better go with me? Ha, ha! do you think I’m afraid of a bandbox and a noise? Nonsense!

Bother the candle, it won’t light! As if the ridiculous thing understood what it’s wanted for! Look at that–the third match. They light fast enough for my pipe. There, do you see? It’s a fresh box, just out of the tin safe where I keep the supply on account of the dampness. Oh, you think the wick of the candle may be damp, do you? All right, I’ll light the beastly thing in the fire. That won’t go out, at all events. Yes, it sputters a bit, but it will keep lighted now. It burns just like any other candle, doesn’t it? The fact is, candles are not very good about here. I don’t know where they come from, but they have a way of burning low occasionally, with a greenish flame that spits tiny sparks, and I’m often annoyed by their going out of themselves. It cannot be helped, for it will be long before we have electricity in our village. It really is rather a poor light, isn’t it?

You think I had better leave you the candle and take the lamp, do you? I don’t like to carry lamps about, that’s the truth. I never dropped one in my life, but I have always thought I might, and it’s so confoundedly dangerous if you do. Besides, I am pretty well used to these rotten candles by this time.

You may as well finish that glass while I’m getting it, for I don’t mean to let you off with less than three before you go to bed. You won’t have to go upstairs, either, for I’ve put you in the old study next to the surgery–that’s where I live myself. The fact is, I never ask a friend to sleep upstairs now. The last man who did was Crackenthorpe, and he said he was kept awake all night. You remember old Crack, don’t you? He stuck to the Service, and they’ve just made him an admiral. Yes, I’m off now–unless the candle goes out. I couldn’t help asking if you remembered Crackenthorpe. If anyone had told us that the skinny little idiot he used to be was to turn out the most successful of the lot of us, we should have laughed at the idea, shouldn’t we? You and I did not do badly, it’s true–but I’m really going now. I don’t mean to let you think that I’ve been putting it off by talking! As if there were anything to be afraid of! If I were scared, I should tell you so quite frankly, and get you to go upstairs with me.

Here’s the box. I brought it down very carefully, so as not to disturb it, poor thing. You see, if it were shaken, the jaw might get separated from it again, and I’m sure it wouldn’t like that. Yes, the candle went out as I was coming downstairs, but that was the draught from the leaky window on the landing. Did you hear anything? Yes, there was another scream. Am I pale, do you say? That’s nothing. My heart is a little queer sometimes, and I went upstairs too fast. In fact, that’s one reason why I really prefer to live altogether on the ground floor.

Wherever the shriek came from, it was not from the skull, for I had the box in my hand when I heard the noise, and here it is now; so we have proved definitely that the screams are produced by something else. I’ve no doubt I shall find out some day what makes them. Some crevice in the wall, of course, or a crack in a chimney, or a chink in the frame of a window. That’s the way all ghost stories end in real life. Do you know, I’m jolly glad I thought of going up and bringing it down for you to see, for that last shriek settles the question. To think that I should have been so weak as to fancy that the poor skull could really cry out like a living thing!

Now I’ll open the box, and we’ll take it out and look at it under the bright light. It’s rather awful to think that the poor lady used to sit there, in your chair, evening after evening, in just the same light, isn’t it? But then–I’ve made up my mind that it’s all rubbish from beginning to end, and that it’s just an old skull that Luke had when he was a student and perhaps he put it into the lime merely to whiten it, and could not find the jaw.

I made a seal on the string, you see, after I had put the jaw in its place, and I wrote on the cover. There’s the old white label on it still, from the milliner’s, addressed to Mrs. Pratt when the hat was sent to her, and as there was room I wrote on the edge: “A skull, once the property of the late Luke Pratt, MD.” I don’t quite know why I wrote that, unless it was with the idea of explaining how the thing happened to be in my possession. I cannot help wondering sometimes what sort of hat it was that came in the bandbox. What colour was it, do you think? Was it a gay spring hat with a bobbing feather and pretty ribands? Strange that the very same box should hold the head that wore the finery–perhaps. No–we made up our minds that it just came from the hospital in London where Luke did his time. It’s far better to look at it in that light, isn’t it? There’s no more connection between that skull and poor Mrs. Pratt than there was between my story about the lead and—-

Good Lord! Take the lamp–don’t let it go out, if you can help it–I’ll have the window fastened again in a second–I say, what a gale! There, it’s out! I told you so! Never mind, there’s the firelight–I’ve got the window shut–the bolt was only half down. Was the box blown off the table? Where the deuce is it? There! That won’t open again, for I’ve put up the bar. Good dodge, an old-fashioned bar–there’s nothing like it. Now, you find the bandbox while I light the lamp. Confound those wretched matches! Yes, a pipe spill is better–it must light in the fire–hadn’t thought of it–thank you–there we are again. Now, where’s the box? Yes, put it back on the table, and we’ll open it.

That’s the first time I have ever known the wind to burst that window open; but it was partly carelessness on my part when I last shut it. Yes, of course I heard the scream. It seemed to go all round the house before it broke in at the window. That proves that it’s always been the wind and nothing else, doesn’t it? When it was not the wind, it was my imagination I’ve always been a very imaginative man: I must have been, though I did not know it. As we grow older we understand ourselves better, don’t you know?

I’ll have a drop of the Hulstkamp neat, by way of an exception, since you are filling up your glass. That damp gust chilled me, and with my rheumatic tendency I’m very much afraid of a chill, for the cold sometimes seems to stick in my joints all winter when it once gets in.

By George, that’s good stuff! I’ll just light a fresh pipe, now that everything is snug again, and then we’ll open the box. I’m so glad we heard that last scream together, with the skull here on the table between us, for a thing cannot possibly be in two places at the same time, and the noise most certainly came from outside, as any noise the wind makes must. You thought you heard it scream through the room after the window was burst open? Oh yes, so did I, but that was natural enough when everything was open. Of course we heard the wind. What could one expect?

Look here, please. I want you to see that the seal is intact before we open the box together. Will you take my glasses? No, you have your own. All right. The seal is sound, you see, and you can read the words of the motto easily. “Sweet and low”–that’s it–because the poem goes on “Wind of the Western Sea”, and says, “blow him again to me”, and all that. Here is the seal on my watch chain, where it’s hung for more than forty years. My poor little wife gave it to me when I was courting, and I never had any other. It was just like her to think of those words–she was always fond of Tennyson.

It’s no use to cut the string, for it’s fastened to the box, so I’ll just break the wax and untie the knot, and afterwards we’ll seal it up again. You see, I like to feel that the thing is safe in its place, and that nobody can take it out. Not that I should suspect Trehearn of meddling with it, but I always feel that he knows a lot more than he tells.

You see, I’ve managed it without breaking the string, though when I fastened it I never expected to open the bandbox again. The lid comes off easily enough. There! Now look!

What! Nothing in it! Empty! It’s gone, man, the skull is gone!

No, there’s nothing the matter with me. I’m only trying to collect my thoughts. It’s so strange. I’m positively certain that it was inside when I put on the seal last spring. I can’t have imagined that: it’s utterly impossible. If I ever took a stiff glass with a friend now and then, I would admit that I might have made some idiotic mistake when I had taken too much. But I don’t, and I never did. A pint of ale at supper and half a go of rum at bedtime was the most I ever took in my good days. I believe it’s always we sober fellows who get rheumatism and gout! Yet there was my seal, and there is the empty bandbox. That’s plain enough.

I say, I don’t half like this. It’s not right. There’s something wrong about it, in my opinion. You needn’t talk to me about supernatural manifestations, for I don’t believe in them, not a little bit! Somebody must have tampered with the seal and stolen the skull. Sometimes, when I go out to work in the garden in summer, I leave my watch and chain on the table. Trehearn must have taken the seal then, and used it, for he would be quite sure that I should not come in for at least an hour.

If it was not Trehearn–oh, don’t talk to me about the possibility that the thing has got out by itself! If it has, it must be somewhere about the house, in some out-of-the-way corner, waiting. We may come upon it anywhere, waiting for us, don’t you know?–just waiting in the dark. Then it will scream at me; it will shriek at me in the dark, for it hates me, I tell you!

The bandbox is quite empty. We are not dreaming, either of us. There, I turn it upside down.

What’s that? Something fell out as I turned it over. It’s on the floor, it s near your feet. I know it is, and we must find it. Help me to find it, man. Have you got it? For God’s sake, give it to me, quickly!

Lead! I knew it when I heard it fall. I knew it couldn’t be anything else by the little thud it made on the hearthrug. So it was lead after all and Luke did it.

I feel a little bit shaken up–not exactly nervous, you know, but badly shaken up, that’s the fact. Anybody would, I should think. After all, you cannot say that it’s fear of the thing, for I went up and brought it down–at least, I believed I was bringing it down, and that’s the same thing, and by George, rather than give in to such silly nonsense, I’ll take the box upstairs again and put it back in its place. It’s not that. It’s the certainty that the poor little woman came to her end in that way, by my fault, because I told the story. That’s what is so dreadful. Somehow, I had always hoped that I should never be quite sure of it, but there is no doubting it now. Look at that!

Look at it! That little lump of lead with no particular shape. Think of what it did, man! Doesn’t it make you shiver? He gave her something to make her sleep, of course, but there must have been one moment of awful agony. Think of having boiling lead poured into your brain. Think of it. She was dead before she could scream, but only think of–oh! there it is again–it’s just outside–I know it’s just outside–I can’t keep it out of my head!–oh!–oh!

You thought I had fainted? No, I wish I had, for it would have stopped sooner. It’s all very well to say that it’s only a noise, and that a noise never hurt anybody–you’re as white as a shroud yourself. There’s only one thing to be done, if we hope to close an eye tonight. We must find it and put it back into its bandbox and shut it up in the cupboard, where it likes to be I don’t know how it got out, but it wants to get in again. That’s why it screams so awfully tonight–it was never so bad as this–never since I first—-

Bury it? Yes, if we can find it, we’ll bury it, if it takes us all night. We’ll bury it six feet deep and ram down the earth over it, so that it shall never get out again, and if it screams, we shall hardly hear it so deep down. Quick, we’ll get the lantern and look for it. It cannot be far away; I’m sure it’s just outside–it was coming in when I shut the window, I know it.

Yes, you’re quite right. I’m losing my senses, and I must get hold of myself. Don’t speak to me for a minute or two; I’ll sit quite still and keep my eyes shut and repeat something I know. That’s the best way.

“Add together the altitude, the latitude, and the polar distance, divide by two and subtract the altitude from the half-sum; then add the logarithm of the secant of the latitude, the cosecant of the polar distance, the cosine of the half-sum and the sine of the half-sum minus the altitude”–there! Don’t say that I’m out of my senses, for my memory is all right, isn’t it?

Of course, you may say that it’s mechanical, and that we never forget the things we learned when we were boys and have used almost every day for a lifetime. But that’s the very point. When a man is going crazy, it’s the mechanical part of his mind that gets out of order and won’t work right; he remembers things that never happened, or he sees things that aren’t real, or he hears noises when there is perfect silence. That’s not what is the matter with either of us, is it?

Come, we’ll get the lantern and go round the house. It’s not raining–only blowing like old boots, as we used to say. The lantern is in the cupboard under the stairs in the hall, and I always keep it trimmed in case of a wreck.

No use to look for the thing? I don’t see how you can say that. It was nonsense to talk of burying it, of course, for it doesn’t want to be buried; it wants to go back into its bandbox and be taken upstairs, poor thing! Trehearn took it out, I know, and made the seal over again. Perhaps he took it to the churchyard, and he may have meant well. I dare say he thought that it would not scream any more if it were quietly laid in consecrated ground, near where it belongs. But it has come home. Yes, that’s it. He’s not half a bad fellow, Trehearn, and rather religiously inclined, I think. Does not that sound natural, and reasonable, and well meant? He supposed it screamed because it was not decently buried–with the rest. But he was wrong. How should he know that it screams at me because it hates me, and because it’s my fault that there was that little lump of lead in it?

No use to look for it, anyhow? Nonsense! I tell you it wants to be found–Hark! what’s that knocking? Do you hear it? Knock–knock–knock–three times, then a pause, and then again. It has a hollow sound, hasn’t it?

It has come home. I’ve heard that knock before. It wants to come in and be taken upstairs in its box. It’s at the front door.

Will you come with me? We’ll take it in. Yes, I own that I don’t like to go alone and open the door. The thing will roll in and stop against my foot, just as it did before, and the light will go out. I’m a good deal shaken by finding that bit of lead, and, besides, my heart isn’t quite right–too much strong tobacco, perhaps. Besides, I’m quite willing to own that I’m a bit nervous tonight, if I never was before in my life.

That’s right, come along! I’ll take the box with me, so as not to come back. Do you hear the knocking? It’s not like any other knocking I ever heard. If you will hold this door open, I can find the lantern under the stairs by the light from this room without bringing the lamp into the hall–it would only go out.

The thing knows we are coming–hark! It’s impatient to get in. Don’t shut the door till the lantern is ready, whatever you do. There will be the usual trouble with the matches, I suppose–no, the first one, by Jove! I tell you it wants to get in, so there’s no trouble. All right with that door now; shut it, please. Now come and hold the lantern, for it’s blowing so hard outside that I shall have to use both hands. That’s it, hold the light low. Do you hear the knocking still? Here goes–I’ll open just enough with my foot against the bottom of the door–now!

Catch it! it’s only the wind that blows it across the floor, that’s all–there s half a hurricane outside, I tell you! Have you got it? The bandbox is on the table. One minute, and I’ll have the bar up. There!

Why did you throw it into the box so roughly? It doesn’t like that, you know.

What do you say? Bitten your hand? Nonsense, man! You did just what I did. You pressed the jaws together with your other hand and pinched yourself. Let me see. You don’t mean to say you have drawn blood? You must have squeezed hard by Jove, for the skin is certainly torn. I’ll give you some carbolic solution for it before we go to bed, for they say a scratch from a skull’s tooth may go bad and give trouble.

Come inside again and let me see it by the lamp. I’ll bring the bandbox–never mind the lantern, it may just as well burn in the hall for I shall need it presently when I go up the stairs. Yes, shut the door if you will; it makes it more cheerful and bright. Is your finger still bleeding? I’ll get you the carbolic in an instant; just let me see the thing.

Ugh! There’s a drop of blood on the upper jaw. It’s on the eyetooth. Ghastly, isn’t it? When I saw it running along the floor of the hall, the strength almost went out of my hands, and I felt my knees bending, then I understood that it was the gale, driving it over the smooth boards. You don t blame me? No, I should think not! We were boys together, and we’ve seen a thing or two, and we may just as well own to each other that we were both in a beastly funk when it slid across the floor at you. No wonder you pinched your finger picking it up, after that, if I did the same thing out of sheer nervousness, in broad daylight, with the sun streaming in on me.

Strange that the jaw should stick to it so closely, isn’t it? I suppose it’s the dampness, for it shuts like a vice–I have wiped off the drop of blood, for it was not nice to look at. I’m not going to try to open the jaws, don’t be afraid! I shall not play any tricks with the poor thing, but I’ll just seal the box again, and we’ll take it upstairs and put it away where it wants to be. The wax is on the writing-table by the window. Thank you. It will be long before I leave my seal lying about again, for Trehearn to use, I can tell you. Explain? I don’t explain natural phenomena, but if you choose to think that Trehearn had hidden it somewhere in the bushes, and that the gale blew it to the house against the door, and made it knock, as if it wanted to be let in, you’re not thinking the impossible, and I’m quite ready to agree with you.

Do you see that? You can swear that you’ve actually seen me seal it this time, in case anything of the kind should occur again. The wax fastens the strings to the lid, which cannot possibly be lifted, even enough to get in one finger. You’re quite satisfied, aren’t you? Yes. Besides, I shall lock the cupboard and keep the key in my pocket hereafter.

Now we can take the lantern and go upstairs. Do you know? I’m very much inclined to agree with your theory that the wind blew it against the house. I’ll go ahead, for I know the stairs; just hold the lantern near my feet as we go up. How the wind howls and whistles! Did you feel the sand on the floor under your shoes as we crossed the hall?

Yes–this is the door of the best bedroom. Hold up the lantern, please. This side, by the head of the bed. I left the cupboard open when I got the box. Isn’t it queer how the faint odour of women’s dresses will hang about an old closet for years? This is the shelf. You’ve seen me set the box there, and now you see me turn the key and put it into my pocket. So that’s done!

Goodnight. Are you sure you’re quite comfortable? It’s not much of a room, but I dare say you would as soon sleep here as upstairs tonight. If you want anything, sing out; there’s only a lath and plaster partition between us. There’s not so much wind on this side by half. There’s the Hollands on the table, if you’ll have one more nightcap. No? Well, do as you please. Goodnight again, and don’t dream about that thing, if you can.

The following paragraph appeared in the Penraddon News, 23rd November 1906:

MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF A RETIRED SEA CAPTAIN

The village of Tredcombe is much disturbed by the strange death of Captain Charles Braddock, and all sorts of impossible stories are circulating with regard to the circumstances, which certainly seem difficult of explanation. The retired captain, who had successfully commanded in his time the largest and fastest liners belonging to one of the principal transatlantic steamship companies, was found dead in his bed on Tuesday morning in his own cottage, a quarter of a mile from the village. An examination was made at once by the local practitioner, which revealed the horrible fact that the deceased had been bitten in the throat by a human assailant, with such amazing force as to crush the windpipe and cause death. The marks of the teeth of both jaws were so plainly visible on the skin that they could be counted, but the perpetrator of the deed had evidently lost the two lower middle incisors. It is hoped that this peculiarity may help to identify the murderer, who can only be a dangerous escaped maniac. The deceased, though over sixty-five years of age, is said to have been a hale man of considerable physical strength, and it is remarkable that no signs of any struggle were visible in the room, nor could it be ascertained how the murderer had entered the house. Warning has been sent to all the insane asylums in the United Kingdom, but as yet no information has been received regarding the escape of any dangerous patient.

The coroner's Jury returned the somewhat singular verdict that Captain Braddock came to his death "by the hands or teeth of some person unknown". The local surgeon is said to have expressed privately the opinion that the maniac is a woman, a view he deduces from the small size of the jaws, as shown by the marks of the teeth. The whole affair is shrouded in mystery. Captain Braddock was a widower, and lived alone. He leaves no children.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE.–Students of ghost lore and haunted houses will find the foundation of the foregoing story in the legends about a skull which is still preserved in the farmhouse called Bettiscombe Manor, situated, I believe, on the Dorsetshire coast.)

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youngerdrgrey · 7 years

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dinners with dad (or, forced attempts at parenting) // a queen sugar fic, part 1

about... Micah could do without these forced attempts at bonding with his dad. But, if he has to go, maybe he can use them to learn something. How to be a better person, or maybe just how not to act when you betray your whole family and ruin everything. + read on ao3

Davis grinds his jaw so many times that he can hear the crunch of his own teeth. They’re fine — the teeth — he knows they are; Charley had always insisted that they keep up with their dentist visits and family oral hygiene. Can’t be smiling to millions with a smile anything less than perfect. Unless it’s something cute and genetic, like a little gap that could have the fans going wild or something. She always thought about twenty things at once. And she’d tell him all that stuff too, usually in bed, or over some long phone call while he was in the gym. Now he listens to music when he’s working out, or podcasts when he just misses hearing someone else’s voice. It’d sound pathetic if he said out loud, so he mostly just doesn’t talk about his work outs anymore. Doesn’t talk about much other than the lines Miriam gives him to tell the press. Stuff like, I’m really focusing on the game right now, or I hate the way everything went down, and all I can do now is try to move forward, or Charley’s fine; she’s taking some time with her family right now. Her other family. We’re still — we’re not officially in divorce proceedings yet.

“You’re doing the thing, Dad.” Micah glares up at Davis for a second before dropping his eyes back to the menu. “Wear your nightguard or something. It’s hard to think.”

Davis grinds his jaw again. “I am wearing it. You’d know if you ever took me up on my offer.” Which he’s given at least ten times since officially agreeing to move to New Orleans. “Stay at my hotel a night or two.” Davis ducks his head to try and catch Micah’s eye, but the boy’s stubborn. “I’ve got great service out there. Five star chefs in the kitchen.”

“I’m good at Aunt Vi’s.” He flips over his menu. “Thanks though.”

“Well, let me take you out for something else. The food near the hotel’s—“

“I’ve had plenty of hotel food, Dad.” Micah huffs. "Plenty of all kinds of food around the world, and I still would rather eat at Vi’s. She puts sugar in the spaghetti sauce and always makes some without mushrooms so I don’t have to pick them out.”

He says that like restaurants can’t take requests, like whatever Davis could provide for him wouldn’t be enough. Like this whole damn world has forgotten how he provided for his family for eighteen years before all this. And suddenly he’s not enough for anyone anymore? Not for the team who resent him for agreeing to leave, and the new team for him bringing his drama over with him. Certainly not for Micah, who has a whole family now and apparently has no use for his father. Fuck, he’s not even enough for his fans anymore; they only tweet him to ask what Charley’s up to and if he’ll ever be able to win her back.

Not that he has a lot of opportunities for that now. She’s too busy running around at her new mill with her new partner. Remy. Who does that guy think he is anyway? Some night in shining plaid shirts? Did Remy even wait before swooping in on Charley? He wiped a few tears, held her close so she got used to finding comfort in his arms instead of Davis’s?

“You eat family dinners a lot over there,” Davis starts, “Just you, Vi, and your mom? Or…?”

Micah’s jaw ticks. Good. Nice to see the boy doing something that comes from Davis. He seems to like pretending they’re nothing alike now. Has his profile on private, but he’d still deleted a bunch of stuff with Davis before he blocked Davis from seeing it.

“Whoever Vi invites gets to eat. So everybody comes through.” His eyes have a glint to them, a warning that tucks right under his endless eyelashes (Charley’s feature) and tells Davis not to push any further. But if Davis only gets one meal a week, why not push?

“That Remy guy come too?”

Micah slaps his menu closed. Dares to stare Davis head on. “Yeah. And he sits right next to Mom when he does. Sometimes Ralph Angel sits on his other side and they bro out over farm stuff that bores everyone else. And he and Nova will walk around the land and talk about the ancestors that are everywhere. And one time —“ Micah juts up his jaw for this, grinds in to his words and the venom seeping out of them “— he cleaned up after with Mom, just the two of them, in the kitchen, while everyone else went out to see the lights in the garden. I don’t know much of what happened, but I do know it doesn’t take an hour to clean six sets of dishes. Is that what you want to know, Dad?”

“Of course not.” But it’s what he needs to know. His lawyer’s got all kinds of questions about his affairs, but what about Charley’s? What about her place in all this? He fucked up. He’ll own up to that. But she’s the one just giving up on them instead of fighting for their family. She’s the one out here with a replacement and a whole new line of work in seconds as if everything they built together doesn’t mean a damn thing anymore. “Your mother thinks she can do whatever she wants now. She’s out here rubbing him in my face and—“

Micah cuts in, “She could marry him tomorrow and it still wouldn’t hurt as bad as what you did to her. What’d you always say? ‘Hit ‘em where it hurts’ right? But we’re good people, Dad, so me and Mom could never do what you did. Can’t even dream of it.”

“It was one mistake,” Davis starts, but Micah won’t have it. He’s so much like Charley once he gets started. Doesn’t see anything in his blind rage and ambition.

“One long mistake made up of about a million smaller ones. You had an affair, Dad. Multiple affairs. With who knows how many women in how many places.”

“You want numbers?” That’s not gonna help. That’s not gonna change what Davis did, or fix anything. “You’re no better than your mama acting like that.”

Micah shoves himself back into the back of the booth. “Least I’m better than you.” He grinds his jaw once before pushing up and out of the seat. “I’ll have Vi take me home.”

“Whoa! Whoa, hold up. Micah!” Davis calls a litttle too loud. Everyone who hasn’t been looking sure is looking over now. Older folks with their whispers, younger ones with their fingers ready over their keyboards and snapchat stories. The fast waitress behind the counter even drags her eyes away from Davis’s abs long enough to look scared. “Son. Please. Don’t do this.”

Micah bounces from one foot to the other. He’s still got good knees, the kind that could really support him if he wanted to keep playing. If he didn’t fault basketball for everything Davis has done.

“I have a question, Dad,” but that doesn’t mean it’s one he wants an answer to. The lick of his lips means he already knows it. The stank in his nose, the stone in his chest. “If I’d said that to you, during everything, would you have stopped?”

If Micah had seen him, or seen a text maybe. If he’d picked up Davis’s phone and gotten through the passcode to see Goldie confirming hotel suites and asking if he’d like it the same way this time or if he wanted to do something new. If Micah had stared forward (because Micah would never be able to meet Davis’s eyes after that) and pleaded for Davis to stop….

“I would’ve tried.”

But he and Micah both know what an attempt is. Both know that Yoda said it best.

Micah pumps his fist a few times against his leg before he says the quote. “‘Do or do not. There is no try.’” He unravels his fist to wipe the sweat on his pantsleg. “Thanks for the meal."

And that’s that.

[read part two here // check out the fic tag]

#micah west #davis west #queen sugar #queen sugar fic #mine #qs: s2 #davis x micah #qs: fics #fic: dinners with dad #charley x davis x micah

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friendlyneighborhoodwhateve-blog · 7 years

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The Alphabet of Love // Rafael Casal

Here I am, this was not the first thing in writing queue but it just begged to be written.

I blame Ren ( @alexanderhamllton ) for turning me into Rafa trash and thank Charley ( @always-blame-jefferson ) for listening to my ideas.

My other stuff is here!

Requests are always open!

Word Count:3743, I’m not even sorry.

The Alphabet of Love

A is for Airport.

That’s where you first met.

You being a writer and he being a singer, there weren’t many ways you could meet but on that fateful afternoon your paths met quite forcefully when someone bumped on you on the busy airport, spilling your hot coffee all over your shirt.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry.” You looked up to see a blonde-ish man profusely apologizing.

“It’s no problem.”

“Here, take this at least.” He said, taking a shirt from his carry-on bag.

“You don’t want to spend your flight with a wet, transparent shirt.”

Looking down, you could see that you light blue shirt had become slightly see through due to the spilled drink.

“Thank you.”

The meeting was short lived as your flight was announced over the intercom system, making you smile at the man one more time before leaving.

His shirt smelled of cologne and books.

B is for Brooklyn.

That’s where you worked.

For now at least.

As a writer, you moved around a lot due to your job and since your new novel was set in Brooklyn, you had moved there to research. One, surprisingly sunny, autumn day you were walking through the streets, trying to find inspiration to write again when you caught sight of a familiar blonde head getting into a cab.

No way.

Brooklyn was also a place Rafael liked to visit once in a while; it had this feeling of home he couldn’t explain. Bored, he decided to visit Daveed at the Richard Rogers. As he got into the cab, he turned to look out of the window and saw a familiar face.

Coffee girl.

I'm

As much as he wanted to talk to you again, the cab sped down the road before either of you could say a word.

C is for Chance.

That’s what brought (Y/N) and Rafael together once again; It seemed fate was hell bent on bringing them together.

Daveed, Rafa and some other people who had arrived early for the day’s show were lounging in Daveed’s dressing room when a frantic Lin walked past the open door.

“He must’ve forgotten that someone was visiting today.” Remarked Pippa.

A few minutes later they all gathered backstage on Lin’s request, apparently someone important was visiting, Rafa stuck to the back of the small crowd.Who could it be?

No fucking way, (Y/N) thought when she looked towards the back of the room and saw him again.

“Everyone this is (Y/N) (Y/L/N), the bestselling writer and my college friend.” Lin said giddiness evident in his voice. ”She is researching for a new book and watching the show too, so just go on about your stuff as usual.”

While she remained talking to Lin, a rapid conversation that was a mixture of English and Spanish, Rafa pulled Daveed aside.

“Coffee girl is (Y/N).”

“Dude, you spilled coffee on her? Really?”

“Yes, he did. And he also owes me a new cup of coffee.” You said, cutting into their conversation. “By the way Daveed, I’m a huge fan.”

The three talked and walked around the theater until it was time for Daveed get ready; then it was just the two of you. Looking closely Rafa could recognize the shirt you were wearing; it was the same one he gave to you a week ago.

“About that cup of coffee, I know this really good place on Brooklyn if you still want it.” You smiled when he said that, it was weird the way the connection you felt to him after knowing the man for less than a day.

“Friday afternoon?”

“It’s a date.”

D is for Date.

That’s what they went on that Friday.

(Y/N) were beyond nervous, you hadn't had a date in a while, after your career had picked up three years ago, the dating scene was the last thing in your mind. It had been too long since you had felt the thrill that came when you got ready for a date, the flutter in your heart that accompanied looking at someone you liked.

Rafael was jittery waiting for you outside of the coffee shop. After the disastrous end his last relationship had, dating wasn't something he wanted to get back to so soon but then you showed up and stood beside Lin, all wide eyed and smiling, talking to everyone and he swore it was sign from above.

Down the street he could see you coming, wearing a bright orange dress and his heart skipped a beat.

"Hey there." Your smile was so bright it could stop a war, at least on Rafael's mind.

"Hello." He replied.

The afternoon flew by, the couple sat in the table, talking until the coffee closed and they were forced to go their separate ways.

E is for Eager.

Rafael couldn’t wait to see her again; you had left him with your phone number and the promise to see him again.

Currently he was sat on Daveed's couch, staring at his phone like a love sick teenager.

"Just call her already man." Said Anthony, the man had decided to join them for the afternoon and had been nagging him about (Y/N).

From Rafa

To (Y/N)

Hey, what are you doing?

From (Y/N)

To Rafa

Nothing.

From Rafa

To (Y/N)

Coffee?

From (Y/N)

To Rafa

I'll meet you there.

F is for Finnish.

"You speak Finnish?"

"And seven more languages, but yes, Finnish is one of them."

The couple laid on the couch, bodies entwined, talking. Somehow the conversation had drifted to (Y/N)'s books and how she translated them to all the languages she knew when they were done, just so she could see them with other eyes.

Rafa knew he was falling when his heart stopped upon seeing your eyes light up while you talked about all the other languages you wanted to learn, he loved the way your passion for languages and learning seeped into your voice and made your speech speed up, the tiny dimple in you left cheek and the dash of freckles across the bridge of your nose.

He loved you.

G is for Glad.

No one had seen either of them so happy before.

Wherever you went, people watched. It was rather uncommon to see two people so happy, so obviously in love with each other.

Every once in a while you visited the Richard Rodgers theater again, for research obviously, that meant that so did Rafa visit. Truth was you had taken an unexpected liking to not only the people but the place as well, the atmosphere had trapped you and refused to let go. What was supposed to be one stand-alone book had quickly turned into a trilogy, you sat in Daveed's dressing room once again, Rafa by your side, discussing how the first book was going to end, your boyfriend had insisted in co-writing the books with you.

"Look at them." Said Chris from the doorway. "They're so happy, it's beautiful."

Lin was standing beside Chris looking at his friends; he had never seen you so happy before. Since you didn't have any close family, he decided to pull a "big brother" move and held Rafa's arm as he went to follow you out of the room.

"If you hurt her, I'll end you." The seriousness in his voice surprised Rafael.

"I won't."

H is for Hospital.

That wasn’t the call (Y/N) had been expecting.

Since your boyfriend was away on business, he was calling you more often than the usual (he usually called you at least three times a day), so when your phone rang your mind automatically went to Rafa but an unknown number was showing up on the caller ID.

“Is this (Y/N) (Y/L/N)?” A male voice spoke from the other end.

“Yes. Who am I talking to?”

“This is Justin Vega, I am a nurse from the New York community Hospital and you’re listed as one of Rafael Casal’s emergency contacts, he has been in an accident…”

The rest of his words fell on deaf ears as your phone clattered to the ground. This must be some sick sort of joke from the universe; it wouldn’t dare taking away the man you loved. You were vaguely aware of Lin and Daveed entering your apartment and taking you to meet Rafa.

I is for I love you.

Rafa could hear commotion outside of the curtains they had placed around his bed, he wished to get up and see what was happening but his pounding head and broken leg made everything more difficult. In a flurry, curtains opened to reveal a frazzled looking (Y/N), the haze in his mind cleared just a little bit upon seeing her face.

“I love you.” Were the first words to leave her mouth.

“I love you too.”

J is for Jell-O

The other day he still had to stay in the hospital for observation due to the risk of a concussion and of course you had stayed by his side. Now you regretted the decision a little as you were faced with hospital food, one of the things you hated the most; the bright red gelatin practically stared at you from the tray and you began playing with it.

“What are you doing with the food?” Rafa was glad for anything that was an excuse to distract him from the awful food.

“The gelatin is bouncy. Look!” to illustrate the point, you hit the red thing your spoon. This turned out to be a bad idea because the cup bounced too much, hit you tray, throwing it to the ground. In a valiant effort to save your food, Rafa ended up dropping his tray too.

“I’ll go get us some food.” You said, happy for the fact you didn’t have to eat the hospital food anymore.

“I love you (Y/N).”

“I know.”

K is for Kiss.

You wished he didn’t have to leave again.

After the accident, Rafa had managed to get a few weeks off of work to recuperate but now life was calling again and he had to go back to his house in LA. He spent so much time with you in Brooklyn that you nearly forgot his place of residence was all the way across the country.

“I will call you every day.”

Your eyes were watery, and so were his.

“I love you (Y/N)”

“I love you Rafa.”

You kissed him one last time before he disappeared into the departure gates.

L is for Long-distance.

Skype calls were not being enough, despite spending at least one hour every night talking to him, his absence was taking its toll on you. Your visits to the theater weren’t as animated as before and your smile was less bright.

On the night of your one year anniversary, your Skype call had a little more tears than the usual. The conversation went just like every day but you longed to see his face again.

“I miss you Rafa.”

“I know love, I miss you too.”

The sound of his voice was enough for a fresh wave of tears begin.

M is for Music.

“Hear me out, a music festival in Georgia.”

That week you were supposed to meet Rafa somewhere but his schedule was tight and so was yours. Your new book was finished, your editor had loved the collaboration you did with Rafa and it was on the first stages of development, which meant a lot of meetings so Rafael had proposed that you meet halfway this weekend to do something you both loved.

Once your eyes met in the crowded airport, it was like in the movies. You dropped the bag you were holding, running to his arms.

How you had missed him, your life with him was like one song, the moments you were together being the most perfect chords.

N is for Napping.

More often than not, Daveed would find the couple asleep. time or place didn’t matter, if given more than five minutes and relative quietness, they both be asleep. It was endearing to see them laying on the couch, laptops forgotten, bodies tangled.

Every cast member, company members as well, had at least three different pictures of them, in varied occasions, asleep.

O is for Oxygen.

(Y/N) was the air he breathed.

How had he managed to live without you for so long was one of his most recurring thoughts.

Every time he looked at you, saw your smile, your eyes, the way you danced when you thought he wasn’t looking, every time you did basically anything he felt like a piece of his heart broke of and attached itself to you.

It became increasingly difficult to tell you goodbye, too know it would be days, maybe even weeks, before you saw each other again.

P is for Proposal.

A few days later, Rafael made a big decision.

“Move in with me.” He said over the video chat.

“What? Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. If you got your mail today, which I’m sure you did, there is a black box within your apartment right now.” You should have known that he had something to do with the strange package you had received that morning. “Now open it.”

Inside the box there were two things: a small silver key and plane tickets.

“Oh my, yes! Of course!”

One week later he drove her to their home.

Q is for Question.

You were an unusually early riser on weekends, they were your free days and you liked to enjoy them to their fullest, so you put on some quiet music and began making breakfast for the two of you, when Classic by Mkto began playing, you quietly began to sing and dance along with it.

The smell of pancakes woke Rafael up. You were dancing around in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, he had never been more in love with you. His feet carried him to the bedroom and back in a few seconds.

"Hey there." You could feel his arms wrap around your waist from behind so you turned off the stove and turned to face him.

"Marry me." The words were mumbled so quietly against your lips that you nearly didn't catch them.

"Okay."

"I'm being serious here (Y/N)."

"So am I."

R is for Real.

"There you go." Said Vanessa placing the final bobby pin on your hair.

A few months later you stood in a wedding dress, fidgeting nervously as Vanessa, your maid of honor, fixed your hair. You could hear Lin enter the room and stop in his tracks.

"Mi hermana, estás tan linda."

Lin was taking her down the aisle on what was the best day of her life, he and Vanessa had become her family when she didn't have one so to have them with her today only added to the amazing day, Daveed was Rafael's best man and he was elated for his friends, with time he began to see (Y/N) as his sister too.

As you swayed to the sweet sound of Ed Sheeran's Tenerife Sea, your eyes met Rafa's and the rest of the world disappeared. It was surreal the way you both were feeling.

If there was a way to freeze one moment of your life to live in it forever, this was the one you'd pick. This was real, this was you life.

S is for Someday.

"How many kids do you want?"

"Someday I'd love to have three at least."

You and Rafael were laying down on the grass in Central Park, watching the clouds and just talking about life. It was one of the rare moments your mind was completely relaxed, nothing about the whirlwind that your life had become due to the fact that your new book series was turning into a tv series could even bother you right now.

You made plans for your future because you knew that you had all the time in the world.

T is for Thor.

It was a day like any other, you were finishing your morning run through one of the many parks in LA when suddenly your legs flew out from under you, when you recovered from the fall you could see a beautiful dog sniffing away at your legs. As if a light bulb had gone off in your head, you scooped up the little guy in your arms and began walking with renewed energy.

"Love, I'm home!"

The unusual quietness in the apartment threw Rafa off, then you exited the laundry room with a nervous face and alarms began blaring in his mind.

"So you want the good news or the bad news first?"

"Bad news first." He braced himself for impact.

"Well, the bad news are, actually it's just one bad news, our son made the biggest mess in the bathroom."

"Our son?"

The question was answered in the form of a puppy excitedly running out of the laundry room and on to his legs.

"I've named him Thor."

U is for Universe.

"So? What's the result?" Came Vanessa's voice over the phone.

"It's positive. I'm going to be a mother."

That conversation had happened a week ago, your period had been mysteriously missing and you knew what it could mean, so you dialed Vanessa's phone to wait for the results with you. Now as you got ready for your date night, you thought of a way to tell him about your pregnancy. Tonight's date was rather simple, a picnic and stargazing. Your dress did little to hide the already showing small baby bump.

The basket filled to the brim with food was soon empty, Rafa stared at (Y/N).

"Why are you looking at me like that? I'm eating for two, you know?"

The cat was definitely out of the bag now.

"Two?"

V is for Valerie.

Your baby was growing healthily, a considerable bump now on display. Last week you had found out that you and Rafa would be proud parents to a baby girl.

You had made the trip down to New York to see Lin's final bow as Hamilton and catch up with the friends you had made. Currently you, Luz, Vanessa, Pippa, Jazzy and Reneé were sat in a table on the same coffee shop where your first date with Rafa had been, brainstorming names for your daughter.

"... I suggest Valerie."

Something clicked when you heard the name and you quickly sent your husband a text.

From (Y/N)

To Rafa

Valerie.

From Rafa

To (Y/N)

Perfect.

W is for Won’t.

A very bad thing has happened.

You scream into the night, waking Rafa up. Your abdomen feels like it is on fire, and you scream even more upon the sight of your bloody sheets, moments later your body decides to shut down instead of dealing with so much pain.

Lin didn't expect to wake up in the middle of the night with a call from a very frantic Rafa, the first few minutes of the call were spent trying to calm he down; then Lin called Daveed and Luz so they could go to the hospital as well. He sped to the hospital with Vanessa by his side.

You were as pale as the sheets around you, so many things attached to your body. It made Rafa's heart clench knowing that he'd have to tell you what happened to your daughter, he prepared himself once again when he felt you stir.

Your mind eases into consciousness again, the first thing your eyes saw were Rafa's hands, holding yours tightly.

"You're up." He said, the sheer happiness in his face was enough to calm you down just a bit.

"What happened?"

"The doctors said that you had a spontaneous abortion, they couldn't save Val."

No, no, how could this have happened? You had taken all of the necessary precautions for your pregnancy, only visiting the set once a week, resting enough, eating the right foods. How?

His eyes filled with tears and so did yours, your baby was dead. You cried for a long time, clinging on to him.

"Hey, look at me love. Remember when we got married, what did I tell you?"

"Us against the world."

Those words reassured you that no matter what happened, together you'd go through everything.

X is for multiplication.

Rafa made it his job to multiply the joys in your life.

The first few weeks after that were extremely difficult but he was by your side every step of the way.

When you didn't feel like doing anything the entire day, he'd call everyone to postpone your agenda (and his agenda as well), just so you could spend the day in bed, watching Friends again.

When you felt like crying, he'd hold you and cry with you.

He took you to your favorite places, bought your favorite foods, did everything he could to make you happy again.

Everyone around the both of you did what they could to help. Lin called everyday, he talked to you both for at least an hour, with his tight schedule you knew how much his time meant. Daveed gifted you with tickets to your favorite Broadway show, Pippa baked you the tastiest banana bread you had ever eaten.

And little by little, life moved on, like it always does.

Y is for Year.

It was winter again.

You were taking a walk in the park with Thor, he wasn't as active as he used to be. The past year had been an emotional roller coaster but you had made it out alive and well in the end.

You were living in London now, working in Mary Poppins with Lin while Rafael taught a course in Oxford. The city was what you needed to move on, soon enough you were happy again. On Fridays, Lin, Vanessa, Rafa and you went to nights out in the city.

Slowly, you allowed yourself to dream again.

Z is for Zeitgeist, the movie.

After many years, you had finally convinced Rafa to watch it.

Everything was set, the popcorn was ready, Netflix was loaded and Noah was blissfully asleep in his bedroom. After many years, you hadn't managed to leave London, it had grown in you and became your home. Your books were still best sellers and Rafa was successful in anything he tried to do.

Sure, there were fights, there were scream and tears but it was love.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

#rafael casal #rafael casal imagine #Rafael Casal reader #rpf #daveed diggs #lin manuel x reader #lin manuel miranda

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elsewhereuniversity · 7 years

Text

Darling

Crossposted to AO3

In the East Hall, the Gentry are called Takers-And-Givers. Marie had her best 2B pencil stolen only to find three packs of pencils - different hardnesses, sizes, colours - in her room that evening. Charley’s bottles of milk were stolen in the first week of term but now their whole flat gets weekly deliveries of dairy far better than any bought at the local shops. Sanjeet’s flowers were decimated a week before Valentines, but now they’re the best and brightest blooming flowers on campus.

First they Take and then, later, they Give, something of equal or more value. No one seems to know how or why, it just is, until the new kid arrives in halls - a late transfer, some incident at their last uni dogging her steps, giving her haunted eyes and probably-nightmares and arms clutched close around her chest whenever someone looms too close.

When people ask, she says to call her Ravenna. That that’s not her name, but her actual name isn’t one she trusts anymore, that it makes her feel unsafe in her own skin. So everyone in the Hall calls her Ravenna, or, sometimes, Blackbird if they know her well enough, and give her space.

She hates beyond hate to be touched.

–

Marie sees her one day, within touching distance of one of the Takers-and-Givers often seen around East Hall. They go by Darling - an odd moniker for a six foot creature with a greenish cast to their skin and a bird’s nest of hair, but no one would ever dare say anything to them. They stand just within arms-reach of Ravenna, watching down at the short girl with half-narrowed eyes.

“I don’t want to be afraid,” Ravenna is saying. “I'm sick of it. They say you can help with that, that you can take something away and give something in return. Can you take away my fear?”

Marie almost bolts down the hall to Ravenna, almost warns her against making a deal with the Takers-And-Givers, almost warns her against even mentioning the distance they are from normal but Darling only smiles gently, politely, not the predatory way they had when Marcus from Sumner’s Hall had tried to strike a bargain.

“No one can take your fear,” Darling says. “It’s yours. But if you give me a taste of it then I will give you protection when you are fearing.”

Marie starts backing down the hall, back towards her room, but she still sees Ravenna pause, nod, and go completely rigid as Darling bends their head to gently kiss her.

A wind blows down the hall, smelling of chickens and straw and Michaelmas daisies and Darling is vanished.

–

We need milk [Sent: 10 minutes ago | From: Maxie]

Please Charley, they’re puking everywhere [Sent: 5 minutes ago | From: Maxie]

CHARLEY. WAKE THE FUCK UP [Sent: 2 minutes ago | From: Maxie]

Charleeeeey. Please? I’ll pay for your coffee for the next week? [Sent: 30 seconds ago | From: Maxie]

Charley rolls out of bed and groans. Rubs their eyes with the heel of one hand and pulls on some trackie bottoms, a hoodie. Sticks their phone into their pocket, and their dorm card so they can get back into the halls.

Sumner’s Hall isn’t that far away but also: it’s cold out. They could text one of the others to let them back in, or make a libation of milk and see if Angrboda will use her tricks to get them back in the hall, but honestly, they can’t be fucked. The deal with Angrboda for free dairy is good, and they’re not about to add more clauses. Not after how much it had cost to pay Petey the Law Student for their help last time they’d made a change.

There’s crocs near the door, which they toe into and then pace down to the kitchen area to the fridge. Pull out a two-pint thing of milk, check their pockets again and sigh.

“Maxie,” they mutter. “You are paying for my coffee for a fortnight.”

–

When they get to Maxie’s floor in Sumner’s they see what the fuss is about. It’s a party, which is to be expected on a Friday night, and while Maxie is great at stocking up on bread, and they’d made a deal so their tapwater is the best and cleanest stuff on campus, Maxie never has enough milk.

Sometimes Charley thinks that was the price Maxie paid for the water.

The pukers are gathered in the kitchen, an array of bowls on the table, and all of them hunched over one. Maxie grins when they spot Charley, heedless of the flowers falling out of their tight curls.

“My friend,” they say. “You are the best. Stay awhile?”

Usually Charley wouldn’t but tonight, for some reason, they do. They help Maxie take care of the pukers for a few minutes, and then they go to circulate, catching up with Maxie’s flatmates.

It’s while they’re doing this they see Ravenna, her fall of dark hair and closed-in posture instantly recognisable and made worrying by the guy leaning over her, getting in her space.

Charley’s pushing through the crowd when the guy yells, turns, and Ravenna vanishes.

They cast their eyes around, searching desperately - Ravenna was one of theirs, an East Hall-er, and she was from their flat, and everyone could tell something had happened, that she had something bad in her past. Their whole flat had met a week after she’d arrived to quietly promise to make sure she was safe as far as they could manage.

They spot Ravenna in an alcove by the door. Her head’s tilted back against the wall and opposite her–

Is that Darling?

It is, six-foot Darling, built like a beanpole, green-tinted skin to match and they’re giving her space apart from a too-many-times-jointed hand on Ravenna’s wrist.

“Are you all right?” Darling is asking. “I wasn’t sure if I got here in time.”

Charley sees Ravenna draw a deep breath in and nod. As she leans forwards and Darling - slowly, very very slowly - wraps an arm around her shoulders, Charley meets Darling’s eyes.

Charley knows Darling is quite aware of the iron nails they keep in their bag. They’d burned Darling’s hand when they’d tried to Take some sugar sachets back in December.

Darling nods.

–

They all see it, in the flat. Whatever happened to Ravenna, all her nightmares, they still dog her steps, but Darling dogs those - dogs the memories, the nightmares, and provides protection whenever someone looms too close.

Darling even appears in the kitchen area one morning when Marie reaches too close to Ravenna to take a pencil - suddenly a shadow solidified into the dark-greenish skin of Darling, a shimmering reflection of light became Darling’s smile.

“Give her space,” they’d said, simply, and Marie retracted her arm.

Ravenna had smiled, reached back to Darling. “I know they won’t hurt me, Darling,” she’d said.

“Maybe,” Darling had said, taking Ravenna’s offered hand, “But I could taste your fear.”

Ravenna had smiled again, squeezed Darling’s hand.

Darling’s there in classes as well, at parties. In the library, in the cafe, even in the shops. When Sanjeet joins Ravenna to go to the gym he sees Darling solidify for a moment in a shadow by the door, unable to enter a place so full of iron.

Keep her safe, Darling mouths to Sanjeet, and he nods back.

She’s from their flat after all. One of theirs to keep safe.

–

“Mavourneen,” Darling whispers to Ravenna one day. They’re sat in Ravenna’s room, Ravenna in her chair, Darling giving her space and perched on the very edge of her bed. “That’s my name.”

Ravenna’s hands cup her elbows, and she’s all curled into herself on the chair. Less curled into herself than she had been at the beginning, before she’d approached them and made the deal, but Darling can still see how tension rests in her bones, how fear itches at the back of her neck.

There’s an unspoken promise in giving Ravenna their name, and they wonder if she quite understands it. She understood enough to ask for the deal, to make very clear what she was asking for and to only accept will give you protection, not can. But she kept no iron with her, no salt, not a single charm or medallion to confer protection.

“I don’t know if my old name is really mine anymore,” Ravenna says, and they know she’s understood. “It doesn’t feel right, not since-” she pauses, swallows. “Not since what happened.”

They offer a hand, palm up. Ravenna takes it, slowly, and for a moment there is fear before her thumb runs over their skin and she relaxes.

“What she did to you,” Darling says gently. “What she did was wrong.”

Ravenna smiles tentatively. “I think,” she says, “Ravenna is my real name, now. My true name.”

Darling smiles, showing far too many teeth. Their teeth are almost catlike, thin and almost translucent some of them.

“Mavourneen,” Ravenna says softly, sounding it out. “That’s a lovely name. Does it mean anything?”

Darling smiles wider, shows more teeth. “It means,” they say, “Darling.”

Ravenna’s delighted laugh is the sweetest thing they’ve heard in years.

[x]

#stories #essayofthoughts #this is so lovely #darling #ravenna #submission

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sevendayslater · 7 years

Text

Family Ties and Fire

August: I couldn't get the reality that my sister was standing right next to me to seep into my brain as we walk silently out of the bar. I had so many questions for her. It was a struggle to not fire them off in rapid succession. Where had she been for these long years? Why had she not even bothered to call? Didn’t she miss her only brother, the only family she had that was still amongst the living? Part of me knew the answers to the questions I wanted to ask. That was probably why was having such a difficult time asking them. We walked slowly side by side, rounding the corner and heading onto the main strip of the French Quarter before I even dared a glance at Charley. She weaved in and out of the crowds with an ease I envied. I usually spent most of my days avoiding people and their touch while she seemed to embrace life as a whole. There was a soft smile on her face that I swear had been there since the day she was born. She was beautiful, she was my little sister, and she was here.

“I missed you, Charley. I didn't realize how much until I saw you step into the bar.” It was the most honest I had been in far too long but I wasn't exactly used to expressing my feelings. To anyone. It made me uncomfortable as fuck. Charley: I turned and beamed at August as we stepped from the sidewalk and into the street. My showing up out of the blue had been so awkward, I worried the rest of my visit would be the same way. But as we walked, August seem to loosen up a bit. He was my brother and I knew he was a hard egg to crack but with me? It caught me totally off guard. Maybe it was being in his bar-- my brother's actual legal property-- that made him nervous. Maybe I should have picked a better time and place to show up and surprise him, where there weren’t employees and customers watching his every move. Either way, I was pleased he seemed to be opening up with every step we took. I smiled, linking my arm in his as we wandered from street to street. “I missed you too. Sorry it took me so long to get back. Tell me everything you've been up to lately. You own a bar which is kind of crazy but what about your love life?” August: My snort was a bit louder and more sarcastic than it probably should have been. Charley’s question was a loaded one though, I'm sure she didn't know it. What had I been up to? Buying a bar I visited daily because it seemed like a good idea. Growing more attached every day to a woman and her unborn child that didn’t technically belong to me. Going as far as offering her half ownership of my bar simply because she had captured my heart. Or running from the same woman like a coward because my ex had shown up, reminding me exactly what heartbreak felt like. I had been up to a lot, and not very much it was good. I shrugged my shoulder and glanced over at Charley as she watched me with bright eyes, patiently waiting for a response. I forced a smile then tightened my hold on her arm, choosing the most obvious subject to approach first. “I bought the bar, yes. It seems like a good investment since I'd been spending most of my time there anyway. I got a good deal from an old hag who ended up trying to corral me into her circus of spiritual freaks.” I watched as Charley's eyes widened. She paused in the middle of the street and turned to face me as her eyebrows knitted with concern. I smiled and waved my hand like it was no big deal. Which it wasn’t. Now. “Don't you worry, little sister. Everything worked itself out.” Charley: I couldn't believe what I was hearing. August told me the quick version of what sounded a lot like a kidnapping. He brushed it off like it was no big deal, assuring me that he was safer now than he had ever been before. I knew people in this town tried to get our family to work for them as pawns. August and I fought them off alongside our mother and father until it reached a tragic end I hardly ever thought of. I hadn't realized August was still having the same issues we always had.

My heart ached, realizing I had left him alone to deal with it all himself. He pulled me along the street and I went hesitantly, listening as he went on about some girl Phy and how she had saved his life. August: The more I spoke, the more Charley relaxed. She was upset I hadn't called her after I’d been kidnapped but there wasn't exactly much to say. Her and I hadn’t spoken in years and I wasn't about to make a phone call telling her that I was in danger. Past tense. She could be pissed all she wanted to be if that was what she chose but what happened was in the past. I preferred keeping it that way.

We rounded the corner of Bourbon Street and stepped onto one of the quieter streets just outside the city. Charley asked about Phynix but I had no idea what to say. My relationship with my new roommate slash business partner was confusing to say the least. To define what we had to somebody on the outside looking in seemed impossible, especially when Phy and I were barely speaking at all. So this Phynix is your employee"?" Charley asked. I shook my head quickly as we stepped into one of the town's oldest cemeteries. It was one of our favorite places to visit when Charley and I were kids. Though a bit strange, it was one of the most beautiful places in the city. “No, she's more than my employee. She owns half the business now. She's just kind of showed up and now I don’t know what I’d do without her.” Charlie: I didn't understand who Phynix was to August but as he went on, the more it seemed like she was someone special. I saw the warmth in his eyes as he said her name though his jaw clenched every time he paused. I knew my brother well enough to see there was something going on behind the vast wall he always kept around his heart. It had been built the day Delilah walked out on him. I wasn’t at all surprised it was still there, stronger than ever.

I nudged my hip against his, a small smirk lifting to my lips as I eyed him closely. “So she’s just your business partner but you would be lost without her. Uh huh. Keep on going with that story and I’ll try to believe you.”

August: I rolled my eyes at Charley’s teasing, knowing she’d catch on to what I wasn’t saying the second the words left my mouth. She was my flesh and blood. We knew each other better than we knew ourselves. That wasn’t going to change just because we had spent a few years apart. The problem was, I didn’t feel like talking about it. Since Delilah had come and gone I’d been so in my own fucking head, I was practically lost there. I couldn’t process it in my own head, never mind trying to talk it out with someone else. Things would work themselves out in time, just like they always did. All I had to do was be patient.

In order to get Charley to drop her interrogation of Phynix, I picked the one subject I knew would distract her. “Delilah showed back up not too long ago.”

Charley: My heart skipped a beat the second August mentioned his former flame. I hadn’t seen my best friend since they day she walked out on my brother and I had zero interest in talking to her ever again. She had broken his heart. I had never seen such a strong man crumble. It was awful and it changed all of our lives forever. Just the thought of her anywhere near August had me seeing red.

I paused mid-step, grabbing August by the arm. “Now it makes sense. So I get why you’re so shut down right now. What could she possibly want?” I could only imagine what would bring Delilah back to this city. She probably saw the error in her ways but unfortunately it was too little too late. I hoped.

August shrugged but didn’t respond. I didn’t blame him but the hurt in his eyes made my heart bleed. Memories of the past flashed in my mind as I tightened my grip on his arm. His continued vulnerability toward his ex made me wonder what would happen to his heart now that there was possibly someone else in the picture.

August: Bringing up Delilah probably wasn’t the best idea in hind sight. Just like the kidnapping was in my past, so was Delilah’s visit and everything about her. I was moving on; slowly as fuck and probably not in the easiest way but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t complicate things.

I shrugged. “She wanted to talk. Possibly have another go around at ripping my heart out. I declined and she went on her way.”

Charley: My hands clenched into fists at my sides as August spoke. There was sarcasm in his words but the tone of his voice was sad. How dare she? Delilah left us both when things were bleak and now she suddenly had the gall to come back for another round? I couldn’t imagine being my brother. She wouldn’t have left this city intact if I had been here.

“I’m sorry, August. She should have known better.”

August: I shrugged again, letting my eyes roam over Charley’s face as we stood in the middle of the cemetery. She was defensive of me and I appreciated that but it wasn’t necessary. I deserved to be walked out on all those years ago. I was a fucking mess and Delilah needed better. I couldn’t blame her for that now, or ever. It hurt and angered me but at the same time, I had to understand. It wasn’t the past that had my mind so fucked lately. It was my future, and the very real fear that I would get dark again. No one deserved to be around me when I was like that. Admittedly, I was already halfway there again. I had been shutting Phynix out since Delilah had showed her face and that wasn’t fair. She was in my life because I wanted her there. What was I doing, pushing her away after letting her in? I wasn’t the best with emotions or letting people close to me but if I wanted to keep Phynix around I needed to change. Otherwise, she would end up leaving just like Delilah.

I took a step and led us out of the cemetery, to a part of town that I didn’t often visit. The walk was helping clear my mind and talking to Charley after so long without her felt good. Just having her by my side, letting me think things out for myself helped me feel less panicked. I felt the stress ease from my shoulders with every step we took. Though, the further we got away from the city, the stronger the urge grew to turn and track Phynix down.

Charley: I let the silence take over our conversation, enjoying the rush of being back in this place and with my brother. He was clearly working through some things but I kept a tight reign on my curiosity and just let him think it out. I would figure out more about this Phynix person when we got back into town. Right after I made sure that Delilah was actually gone.

August never let go of me as we wandered through the streets. It felt good having the hot sun on my face and his protective hold on my arm. I missed my brother. Part of me was angry I left in the first place but everything had gotten so heavy here. I needed space and air.

My lips lifted into a soft smile as I thought back to the coven of witches I had left back in Massachusetts. I wondered what they were doing right now. The summer solstice was coming up and surely they were all excited for the celebration. My heart ached a little, thinking of them. I missed my friends and the safety of their group. Maybe I could try to establish with one of the covens here. It was a difficult process but I wouldn’t know until I tried. Some of them had to already know of me. Or at least of my family.

I stopped short as I realized where our walk had taken us. Of all the places for us to wander toward when my mind was full of magic, of course it would be here. This area had always made the hairs at the back of my neck rise and since spending some time with the witches in Salem, I now knew why. In the back of my mind I heard August say my name but I was too distracted by the stories I had heard about this place to answer.

He stepped closer to the grand building in front of us, half crumbled into ashes. I grabbed his hand and tugged him back, shaking my head as I frowned. “Let’s go back. I don’t like this place.”

August: My brows furrowed as I glanced back at Charley. Her face had gone pale as she stood in the middle of the street and stared up the road. Her change in demeanor was alarming. I glanced around to make sure there was no danger looming that I hadn’t yet seen. There was nothing except her and I, though. I took her hand in mine, giving it a gentle squeeze until her eyes focused on me.

“What’s wrong with this place?”

Charley: I shook my head, glancing at August quickly before staring back at the burned building. The empath side of my gift screamed and pleaded for me to get far away from this place but my feet felt like they were cemented to the ground. “Bad things happened here. I didn’t know anything about it until I heard it mentioned back in Salem. An entire coven died because they were locked in that building when it was set on fire. Dozens of people burned and no one ever knew.”

August: I looked past Charley to the remnants of the building, my stomach dropping when I pictured it consumed with flames. I couldn’t imagine dying that way, trapped with no means of escape. It was a death I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I shook my head and pulled Charley in the opposite direction, back toward the city. We needed to get back and I was growing impatient with the urge to talk to Phynix.

“Let’s go. No need to darken our walk with scary stories of people burning to death.” I chuckled, brushing off the feeling of unease that crept into my chest.

Charley took one last look at the building then followed me back in the direction we came. “I just can’t imagine that happening, August,” she said, shaking her head. “One girl with an affinity for fire murdering an entire coven. It’s scary.”

I practically stumbled over my own feet as Charley spoke, my heart skipping several beats as I looked over at her. My mind instantly wandered to the pregnant girl probably curled up on my couch this very minute. Was she speaking of Phynix? How many women in New Orleans could manipulate fire they way Phy could? But burning a building full of people to the ground? I wasn’t sure about that.

My mind searched back over the times I had seen Phy’s eyes brighten in anger or the flicker of flames appearing suddenly on her hands. Maybe it was possible. The idea of her being responsible for that kind of mass murder made me wonder if I even knew the girl who was now sleeping under my roof. It made me nervous but more than that, it made me angry. Phynix had captured my heart but I barely knew her. I realized that now more than ever. Her and I needed to have a long fucking talk, starting with whatever involvement she possibly had with that fire. First I needed to find her.

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