Will the captain carry our lovely crewmates in R.E.P.O today?! [H4D3S: 99.99% chance of the opposite occuring] Day 8 of our Spookathon is here! Watch us live at twitch.tv/porvalis
My entry for the JQ Spookathon 2023, because the RPF world rarely gets to play in the spooky sandbox and I'm so grateful to the mods for throwing this together to give us the chance to play.
Summary: Your house was definitely not haunted. Nope. Absolutely not. But it can't hurt to have a friend come over and check out the basement, right?
Word count: 3.8k
Rating: M (mostly for language, implied sexiness)
Warnings: potential ghosts, haunted cellars, mentions of dead children
A/N: The story about Mother Margaret and Nicky New are both ghost stories my grandfathers invented to keep their grandchildren out of their respective workshops.
It had been a long time since you’d had a proper party. And as you looked around your kitchen—at the empty beer bottles and the plates smeared with cocktail sauce and mustard, the crumbs on the counters, the overflowing rubbish bin, and the sink full of dishes—you remembered why.
“Hey!” Ruby called your name from the living room. “That mess’ll keep ‘til later, love. Come sit!”
You gave the kitchen a final defeated look and grabbed another beer from the fridge. The housewarming party had been lovely, you couldn’t deny that. Friends had come from all over to help you make this house feel like your home. They’d brought wine and plants and little trinkets you were going to put on the built-in shelves that used to hold your grandmother’s antique porcelain plate collection.
(You would never be able to thank your mother enough for offering to find those a home when you were cleaning the place out.)
And now the guests had dwindled to just a few that had earned the right to linger and sprawl about your living room as comfortably as if it was their own.
Olivia, your best friend since you were five, and Ruby, who’d been folded into your and Liv’s friendship at uni. Ruby’s sister Molly who might as well be your sister too, Molly’s boyfriend Wes, and—as Molly always introduced him—Wes’ boyfriend, Joe.
Joe, who was on his way to being a legitimate movie star these days and who you kept expecting to stop showing up to these kinds of parties and family dinners. Joe, who you secretly hoped would never stop showing up to these kinds of parties and family dinners because he always brought the best wine and seemed to have a knack for knowing when to offer you a cigarette right when you were on the verge of feeling overwhelmed by too many people. Joe, who you’d known forever and who just never seemed to be single at the same time as you.
Until now, of course.
And Joe, who, in the strangest twist of fate, was now the person in your phone who lived closest to you in this new-old house.
“Just ten minutes from here,” he’d said when he’d arrived, sounding surprised.
Pleasantly surprised, if you were being honest.
But you pushed all that out of your mind as you dropped onto the couch and tossed a pillow onto Olivia’s lap before you curled up and lay your head down. “What’re we talking about?” you asked, not bothering to hide the drowsiness that was starting to creep into your voice.
“I was telling the boys about that awful carpet that used to be in this room,” Liv said, pointing to the hardwood floors your father had helped you to painstakingly refinish over the summer. “That horrible green.”
You stuck your tongue out. “It was gross,” you assured them. “I think it started out bottle green in the 50s. But by the time we ripped it up, it was all faded, and it looked more like sick than anything.”
Across the room, Wes frowned and looked from Olivia to you and back again. “That’s not what we were talking about.”
“Wes—” Molly warned with a glare.
“What?” He laughed. “It’s not!”
It was your turn to frown. “What were you talking about, then?”
“I was just saying that it’s nice that you don’t seem bothered by the fact that your gran left you a haunted house.”
This was met with a groan from the room and a backhanded swat to Wes’ knee from where Joe was sitting on the floor. “Fuck off,” he chastised.
“Don’t say that,” Ruby said and clucked her tongue. “What is wrong with you?”
“Look, I’m not trying to stir anything up,” he said with another laugh that let you know he was at least slightly drunker than he was letting on. “It’s not my fault that I know what happened here and you don’t.” He stopped and looked at you. “I mean, I assume you know.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” you asked, sitting up to reach for your beer. “The only thing that ‘happened here’ is that Gran and Grandad lived here, raised my mum here, ate a roast every Sunday for seventy years, and then moved into a care home and died a year apart.”
“Sounds like all the ingredients for a haunting to me,” Joe muttered before taking a sip from his own bottle.
“Yeah,” Wes nodded, unbothered. “But I’m not talking about when they lived here. I’m talking about way before that. Do you know how old this house is?”
“I do,” you nodded. “1870s, or something? This whole area was all workers’ housing.” You waved a hand toward the stairs and your as-yet unpacked office with all the appraisal and assessment documents stuffed in a folder somewhere. “It’s all in the paperwork.”
“More importantly,” Joe piped up, turning around to look at Wes. “Why do you know how old this house is?”
“‘Cause I wanted to buy the one across the way,” he said with a shrug. “When it was up for sale last year. I looked into the neighborhood.”
Molly looked shocked. “You didn’t tell me that,” she admonished.
“Yeah, ‘cause nothing came of it. They wanted too much.”
“Still…” she frowned and sank further into the corner of the armchair. “You could have told me.”
“Anyway,” you raised your voice, hoping to stave off an argument between the two of them. “You looked into the neighborhood, and you found out that my gran’s house is haunted?”
“Your gran’s house isn’t haunted,” Ruby said firmly.
“Alright, not that I’m agreeing with Wesley,” Olivia spoke up after a moment’s silence had descended.
Across the room, Wes’ eyes sparkled. “Yeeeeessss?” he prompted.
Molly looked at the ceiling. “Oh, Liv, do not encourage him.”
“But I…” she bit her lip and looked doubtful. “I remember your mum saying something about the cellar.”
“Oh my God, really?” You stared at her. “You’re telling me you think Nicky New is real, now?”
“Who is Nicky New?” Joe asked, catching your eye with a grin.
You rolled your eyes. “Nicky New is the ghost Grandad made up to keep my mum from going down into the cellar and messing with his tools.”
“No, no,” Liv shook her head. “I know Nicky New is bullshit but your mum did say something about the cellar. I mean, she could have blamed it on Nicky New when she was a kid, but…” she rolled a shoulder. “What if it really did happen?”
“Wait, wait,” Joe held up his hands. “What ghost story are we trying to tell right now?”
“Nicky New,” you said, at the same time Wes said, “Mother Margaret.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Who the fuck is Mother Margaret?”
“Mother Margaret is the ghost of the woman who killed her children and buried them in the cellar to save them from starving to death at the turn of the century,” Wes said as if this was common knowledge.
“No,” Joe shook his head and looked back at his best friend. “Mother Margaret is definitely the ghost you just made up to convince her to sell you this house for half of what it’s worth.”
“Alright, alright,” Wes held up his hands. “If I’m so full of shit, then what is Liv talking about?” he asked with a lift of his brow. “What did your mum say about the cellar?”
You opened your mouth and then closed it again. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, come on, it matters a little bit,” Joe countered as he reached for his beer on the coffee table. He offered a half-smile when you looked at him. “I’m invested now.”
You set your jaw, trying not to react to that smile, and forced a shrug. “I don’t even remember.”
“I do,” Olivia piped up. “It was her go-to ghost story! How can you say you don’t remember?”
“Ugh fine, then,” you rolled your eyes. “Liv, go on.”
Liv sat up straighter and cleared her throat theatrically. “Alright, well, the way she told it was yes, Grandad did tell her that the cellar was haunted and that if she went down there when she wasn’t supposed to, then Nicky New would get her.”
“Obedience through terror,” you added dryly. “Well done, Greatest Generation.”
“Anyway,” Liv continued pointedly. “Gran and Grandad went to play cards or to the shops or something, and Sarah—”
“My mum,” you put in quickly. Wes shot you a thumbs up, his attention still firmly on what Olivia was saying.
“Sarah says she was reading in the living room—” It was not lost on you how Liv stopped and glanced around the room for dramatic effect. “And all of a sudden, the cellar door just…opened. By itself.” On the loveseat, Molly and Ruby exchanged a glance. “She got up to investigate, and when she got to the door she heard this sound from the bottom of the stairs.”
Ruby’s eyes widened slightly. “What did she hear?”
“She said sounded like someone was crying…” Liv tilted her head slowly to one side as if listening for it herself.
“Sobbing,” you corrected her against your better judgment. “She said it sounded like someone was sobbing, but like they were trying to be quiet about it.”
“Now, she thought maybe someone really was down there—one of her friends or the neighbor kids messing with her—so she decided she had to go at least tell whoever it was off for trying to scare her in her own house. She said she went downstairs, and the sound stopped—or it got quieter or farther away…” Olivia shot her eyes over to you. “Right?”
You sighed and picked up the baton she was offering because of course, you remembered this story. And she knew perfectly well that as much as you didn’t want to tell it, it would annoy you more to hear it told incorrectly by someone else. “Mum said she could still hear it by the time she was at the bottom of the stairs, but sounded like it was coming from the far corner of the room. So she went to that corner, and she said it was cold—much colder than the rest of the cellar—and she could still hear the sound, but it was much quieter then. And as she stood there listening, she said she looked at the wall and she saw a shadow sort of…appear next to hers. As if someone was coming up behind her. But when she turned around—”
Outside, a car door slammed the moment before the neighbor’s basset hound began to bay loudly. “Holy shit!” Wes exclaimed and clapped a hand to his chest. Molly screamed. Joe and Olivia both jumped a few inches.
“Oh my God!” Ruby cried, shaking her head.
You looked around, a smile playing on your lips. “Guys,” you laughed quietly. “Get a grip. It’s not even that scary of a story.”
“The fuck it isn’t!” Molly insisted. “Your mum told you that story when you were a little girl?” she demanded. “About a house you had to visit?”
“Wait,” Joe spoke up, still looking a little pale. “You didn’t finish it. What happened after she saw the shadow?”
“Nothing,” you shook your head. “She ran upstairs and slammed and locked the door and never went into the cellar again.”
“Ever,” Liv clarified. “Like. Never again.”
“Really?” Wes asked. “Never?”
You rolled your eyes again. “She has bad knees now,” you reminded Olivia. “That’s why she wouldn’t go down there after Gran died. Not because of Nicky New or Mother bloody Margaret or whatever horrible thing Wes is going to tell me to try and scare me.”
Across the living room, Wes held up his hands in defeat. “Fine, fine,” he sighed. “Don’t believe me. But you can look it up—Margaret Ames, turn of the century.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” you muttered, taking another sip of your beer. Secretly, you decided to slip Sherlock Bones a rawhide the next time you saw him to express your gratitude for breaking the spell and forcing a subject change.
***
It was almost two weeks later that curiosity got the better of you. You blamed it on a slow day at work, the fact that you’d just finished your most recent audiobook and the next on your list was still checked out by someone else, and the encroaching chill of autumn making everything feel just a little spookier each day.
Margaret Ames, you typed into the records search from your post at the reference desk. Predictably, the results returned a flood of mentions of either name in fiction and non-fiction, magazines, and newspapers. You blew out a breath, making your hair flutter against your face.
That could have been it. That probably should have been it. You should have abandoned the search and gotten back to work and forgotten all about it.
But instead, you cleared out the search and tried again. This time, you tried “Margaret Ames” and added the name of your neighborhood.
Six results returned. All from The Southeastern Dispatch. A chill slithered slowly down your back.
All obituaries.
Thomas Ames. Margaret Ames. Eleanor, Cora, Daniel, and Tobias.
Thomas Ames died in an accident at the textile mill. His death was listed with sixteen others in a small block of text printed in September of 1899 which only listed their names, ages, and surviving spouses.
Margaret had her own obituary in October of 1899.
As did each of her children.
All of whom died on the same day as their mother.
“Excuse me—”
“Fuck!” you exclaimed, jumping a mile out of your chair at the sound of another voice.
“Jesus!” The student who’d approached held up his hands and bounced backward about a foot.
“Sorry!” you exclaimed with a wince. “I’m so sorry. What do you need?”
“To not be screamed at when I’m trying to find a book, for one thing,” the young man said with a scoff. “You always do that?”
“No.” You let out a sigh and touched the tips of your fingers to your forehead. “I’m really sorry. I’m just…” you glared at the desktop screen and reached out to print the results before you closed the window. “I’m just scaring myself.” You cleared your throat. “How can I help you?”
You helped him with his search. And the next person who needed you. And the one after that. And by the end of your shift, you’d nearly pushed Margaret Ames and her children out of your mind completely.
Nearly.
Because just as you were grabbing your scarf and bag to head home, Natalie grabbed a handful of papers from the printer and stopped, her full lips pouting in confusion as she flipped through to find what she needed. “These yours?” she asked, holding up the obituaries.
You let out a sound of disgust at yourself and nodded, stuffing them into your bag. “Sorry,” you muttered. “Just doing some extra-curricular research.”
Natalie shrugged, unbothered. “Let me know if I can help.”
You shouldn’t have taken them home. You didn’t want to read them.
But you found yourself pulling them from your bag while you slowly made your way through your curry takeaway at the coffee table. Your finger trailed over their names and ages. Eleanor: eleven. Cora: nine. Daniel: five.
Tobias: only ten months old.
The listings were brief, as those for children usually were. They had all been baptized and were buried in the local cemetery. No cause of death. No other personal details.
You pushed the papers away and shook your head. “What am I doing?” you asked yourself, grabbing the white cardboard box of rice and vegetables and sitting back further on the couch. There was nothing in the obituaries about where they had lived. And when you’d done another ill-advised search from your laptop, you had found no news story reporting some horrible tragedy or anything to hint that the bodies of four children might have been buried in the dirt floor of your foundation. There was nothing to indicate that they’d lived in your house. Or even on your street. This neighborhood was large enough that it could have happened anywhere.
There was absolutely nothing to link this sad story to you or your cellar. You were just letting your imagination and compassionate nature get the best of you. To prove your point, you gathered up the empty takeaway containers once you’d finished and the junk mail you’d brought in and took them to the bin in the kitchen. You stood at the top of the cellar stairs and looked down into the dark room.
“Nothing down there,” you said out loud. “No one here but me.”
And just to be sure—but of course, you were sure, because of course there was nothing and no one down there—you closed the door firmly.
You flipped on the television and found a marathon of Bake Off to take your mind off the Ames family and their tragic ending.
You didn’t remember falling asleep.
But it was the cold that woke you. A creeping chill that settled over the living room and pulled you awake with the goosebumps that appeared on your arm. Confused by the unfamiliar show on the TV and the bright light of your end table, you sat up slowly, rubbing the imprint of the throw pillow out of your cheek.
And then you stopped short as fear splashed over you like a bucket of freezing water.
The goosebumps that had started on your arms crawled all the way up your spine and lifted the hair on the back of your neck. You felt rooted to the couch, stuck in place, staring into the kitchen.
The cellar door was wide open.
You took a deep breath in—pretending you didn’t hear the way it stuttered in your chest—and cleared your throat. “Okay,” you said, raising your voice slightly. “I don’t know how you got in here, Wes, but it’s not funny.” You waited a moment and swallowed hard. “Seriously,” you went on, speaking just a bit louder. “Get the fuck out of my house or I’m going to call the police and tell them I’ve never seen you before.”
Your eyes flicked to the front door. Locked. All the windows were closed and locked. No one else had a key. Heart still pounding steadily in your throat, you forced yourself up and to the edge of the living room where you could see the door to the garden. Locked as well.
You were closer to the cellar door now. Close enough to feel the chill emanating from the darkness beneath the stairs.
Close enough to hear a low, mournful sound from somewhere below the house.
Your mother was right—it sounded like a sob.
You stayed where you were, unable to take your eyes off the open door while you reached for the phone still stuffed in your back pocket. Your thumb found your latest text from Molly, and you typed as quickly as possible.
Tell your stupid boyfriend he’s not funny and I’m going to kill him.
Her response popped up a minute later. This stupid boyfriend? She asked and sent a photo of Wes, fast asleep on their couch, mouth hanging open like an old man’s. What’s he done now?
You glanced from the phone to the door and back again as quickly as you could before you wrote her back. Has he been there all night?
Of course, she replied. What’s going on? Are you okay?
You took another deep breath and gulped again. Wes might be a dick sometimes, but he wouldn’t break in just to scare you. And even if he would, Molly wouldn’t lie for him about it.
You were being stupid. You were being absolutely ridiculous. Sorry, you wrote back. I’m fine. Ignore me. And don’t mention this to Wes.
You stuffed your phone back into your pocket and took another deep breath. Screwing up your courage, you bolted across the kitchen and slammed the door shut again. You turned the lock and grabbed one of the chairs from your table and wedged it under the doorknob.
It was ten after midnight when you opened your front door to find Joe on your doorstep looking partway between amused and nervous. “Uh, Ghostbusters?” he said, that half-smile tugging at his lips again. “At your service?”
You shut your eyes, red-faced, and pulled the door open all the way to welcome him inside. “God, I’m so sorry. This is so stupid.” You hadn’t wanted to call Joe—at least, not for this—but you had to do something. You couldn’t sleep with every last nerve standing on end. You couldn’t just sit there all night, staring a hole into your cellar door waiting for something horrible to happen.
And, to be honest, you were too scared to go down and investigate on your own.
And Joe lived the closest.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, twisting the lock before you had to ask. “It’s alright,” he said good-naturedly. “Everything okay?”
“No,” you admitted, starting for the kitchen while he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the loveseat. “I need you to tell me I’m being ridiculous.”
“Okay…” he said slowly, stopping at the sight of the chair wedged underneath the door. “Why are you being ridiculous?”
You sighed again and ran your hands over your face. “Alright, first of all, you can’t tell anyone about this.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he said, shaking his head.
“Second, I…I did some research at work today. About that story Wes told us the other night. And it wasn’t exactly what he said, but it was still pretty grim and then I was sitting here, and I fell asleep, and when I woke up the door was open, and—” You stopped and frowned at the look on Joe’s face. A wash of confusion that gave way to a dawning of realization. “What?”
“Oh, fuck,” he said with a little line of concern furrowing his brow. “You’re really afraid of something, aren’t you?”
You blinked. “Of course, I’m afraid of something,” you said immediately. “Why else would I—” you gasped unintentionally and felt your eyes widen. “You thought this was a booty call, didn’t you?”
Joe didn’t look remotely apologetic. “You texted me at 11:30 at night and said your house might be haunted,” he recapped, pulling his phone from his pocket as if to show you what you’d said. “Please tell me what else I was supposed to think!”
“Oh my God,” you dropped your hands and rolled your eyes. “Okay, sorry for getting your hopes up, but you can go—”
“No, no,” he laughed. “I’m already here,” he reminded you. “Hopes effectively dashed,” he added, still grinning. “If you’re really scared, I can go down and see what the problem is.”
Your face scrunched in embarrassment—two-fold now—and you shook your head. “You don’t have to…”
“I know,” he said with a shrug. “But I’m going to anyway. Because I’m a really nice guy. And really nice guys offer no-strings-attached paranormal investigations.”
You rolled your eyes. “God, I’m never going to live this down.”
“Oh, no,” he shook his head. “I mean, I won’t tell anyone. But no, I’m not letting you forget this.” He took a few steps toward the door before he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Well?”
You frowned again. “Well, what?”
“I’m not scared of your cellar,” he said. “Me going down there alone and telling you it’s fine isn’t going to help you.” He held out his hand, beckoning like you were a little kid. “Come, come darling.”
You let out a little whine and shuffled your feet to take his hand. “Fine,” you sighed. “But if we get eaten or disemboweled, I’m putting the blame squarely on you.”
“Eaten or disemboweled?” he repeated as he grabbed the chair from under the doorknob and slid it to the side. “Have you ever even heard of ghosts?”
“Just shut up and open the door,” you snapped, trying to ignore the way the nerves were twisting your belly.
He did, not letting go of your hand as the door swung backward with a heavy squeak. He studied the inside of the door for a moment before he looked over again. “Light switch is…”
“No light switch,” you shook your head once. “There’s a bulb with a chain at the bottom of the steps.”
“No, of course, should have guessed. Right out of the horror movies, that.” He reached for his phone again and swiped it open. “Give me a torch,” he requested, tapping the flashlight button.
You held it above your head with your free hand as you followed him down the stairs and into the freezing cold cellar. In the dark, the shadows were longer and more menacing, even with Joe walking in front of you. You all but held your breath until he reached the bottom step and pulled the chain, bringing the old yellow bulb to life.
You handed him his phone back and bit your lip, looking around timidly. “Okay, yeah,” you said quickly. “Nothing down here. I was being silly. No need to—”
Joe planted his feet and held tight to your hand, yanking you back into place when you tried to leave. “Where did you hear the sound?”
You squirmed. “I heard it at the top of the stairs,” you said with a glance toward the safe light of the kitchen. “But Mum always said it was…” you motioned toward the back corner. “Over there.” He nodded and started toward the corner where the shadows fell deeper and heavier than the rest of the room. “Just—be careful,” you said haltingly. “There could be…” you trailed off when he looked back over his shoulder at you, expectantly. “Poisonous gas or something. That’s…making…me. Hallucinate.”
He studied you for a moment before he laughed quietly. “There’s no poisonous gas,” he said, managing to sound patient without being patronizing.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually,” he countered. “You’ve been living here for two months—you haven’t gotten headaches or nosebleeds or been feeling sick all that time, have you?”
“…No.”
“Then there’s probably no poisonous gas.” He gave your hand another tug. “Come on, nearly there.” You let go of his hand and crossed your arms over your chest as he approached the dark corner. He let out a quiet, low whistle. “It is colder over here though.”
You fought the urge to let out an Ah-ha! of unearned vindication as he stepped closer to the wall. You might have, but the words got stuck in your throat around another sharp inhale when the room hummed with the low, mournful sound you’d heard before. “Fuck!” you exclaimed. “That’s it. That’s the sound.” Joe held up his hand and stepped right up beside the wall. Your stomach twisted. “Can we please just—”
“Hang on,” he said quietly and pressed his ear to the cold stone, his face scrunched in concentration. After another moment, his expression dropped, and his eyes widened slowly. “Oh my God…”
“What?” you demanded with your heart living in your throat. “What is it?”
“It’s…” Joe straightened up, away from the wall. “The Tube.”
You blinked. “What.”
His face split into a wide grin. “It’s just the sound of the trains goin’ past,” he said. “We’re close enough to the station that the sound travels.” He reached out and took your hand again, pulling you over. “It’s faint now,” he said, stepping out of the way to position you against the wall. “But you can still hear it.”
Unconvinced, you held your breath and pressed your ear to the cold wall. And yes, there was that sound again, much quieter—just as your mother had remembered, you had to admit with an internal smack to your forehead—but still there. Low and rumbling and groaning. The sound the cars made when they took a turn. You’d heard it a million times. You just hadn't recognized it coming out of your cellar where it didn't belong.
Your shoulders dropped with a heavy sigh as you straightened up. “Alright,” you relented. “But what about the cold?” You pointed back toward the stairs again. “And the door opening on its own?”
Joe’s brown eyes shifted to look at the ceiling. He pointed to the top corner of the cellar where the installers had drilled in to wire up your wifi. “Draft that needs fixing?”
You followed his gaze and shut your eyes, shaking your head. “Oh my God, I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“No,” he laughed. “No, you’re not. I probably would have thought the same thing if I’d heard all those scary stories at the same time.” He was still laughing as he pulled your hands away from your face and started walking back toward the stairs. “Come on,” he cajoled. “All ghosts are busted; we can go back upstairs.”
Once upstairs, Joe watched as you closed the cellar door and turned the lock again. He pointed to the chair. “You gonna risk not—”
“Okay,” you snapped, pushing it back under the table. “You don’t have to be a smartass.”
He laughed again. “I’m sorry,” he said, only just barely managing to sound genuine. “I swear I won’t tell anyone.”
“Not even Wes,” you demanded, pointing at him before you leaned against the counter as far away from the door as you could get.
“No,” he shook his head. “Not even Wes.” He put his hand over his heart in a promise and then grinned again. “Although, you know…you could be a little nicer to me about all this.”
Despite your still roiling embarrassment and irritation at yourself, you felt your mouth struggling to stay in a firm line. “Oh yeah?”
“I did come over here,” he reminded you, taking his time to cross the kitchen to where you were standing. “In the middle of the night. Prepared to do battle with the occult.”
You snorted and shook your head. “That is not what you were prepared to do when you came over here.”
“Which, honestly,” he countered smoothly, “makes me even more of a catch—this ability to pivot.”
He was standing right in front of you now and let his hands tentatively rest on your hips. You looked down, still laughing quietly. “Well, when you put it like that,” you reasoned, your stomach now flipping for an entirely different reason. You glanced up with a smile and widened your eyes innocently. “Joseph Quinn, you’re my hero.”
Joe brought one of his hands up to gently lift your chin as he leaned down to cover your mouth with his. A warm, soft kiss that made your eyes close and all the noise and anxiety in your mind go quiet until he pulled away. “Should I, uh, do the heroic thing and go home now?” he asked quietly, not pulling back more than an inch from your lips. “Monster’s slain and all that.”
“No,” you shook your head, brushing your nose against his. “You should stick around. There could be all kinds of scary things lurking about.”
You felt more than saw him smile as he leaned in and brushed another kiss over your lips. “That right?”
“Mmhmm,” you nodded and pulled back again to meet his eyes. “In fact, I’m pretty sure there’s a monster in my bedroom somewhere.”
He glanced toward the stairs and back to your face, managing to look serious as he nodded. “We should probably go investigate.”
In the morning, you called around to find someone to repair the foundation and stop the draft from climbing the stairs again. You threw out the papers you’d printed off about the Ames family and pushed the whole sad story firmly out of your mind.
But you still called and asked Joe to come over and keep you safe again the next night.
An entry for the JQ Spookathon 2023 happening over in my other, RPF Tumblr life. But this little ficlet isn't particularly damning either way, so my lucky OG followers get a glimpse into what I've been doing for the last few months over in this new fandom.
Please be nice!
---
Summary: The locket was tarnished, almost black with age and nearly rusted shut. You couldn't explain why you'd even noticed it. And you certainly can't explain why it feels like it already belongs to you.
Rating: G
Word count: 1500
Locked.
There isn’t anything special about the shop. It’s one of a dozen similar storefronts crammed together on one of Killin’s narrow streets and if it hadn’t started to rain, you might have missed it altogether. But it does start to rain just as Joe is holding the door for you to follow him outside, your bellies pleasantly full of fish and chips, and neither of you feel like getting caught in it or spending another hour in the pub waiting for the storm to pass.
He spots the ‘Open’ sign and pulls by the hand across the street. You can’t help but grin at the name painted on the door Wee Olde Shoppe. “Sure you don’t mind?” you ask, already pulling on the handle.
Joe laughs. “Wouldn’t be a holiday if you weren’t pawing through some dusty old shop at least one afternoon, would it?” His arm is around your shoulders and his lips are against your temple before you can protest—even though there’s nothing to protest; he’s absolutely right. “Let me buy you a present,” he says when you step inside.
It smells like dust, paper, old glue, and just the faintest hint of mildew. There’s a narrow, unreliable staircase immediately to your right, suggesting at least two floors. On every surface you can see are trinkets. Glass bottles, board games with boxes taped at the corners, heavy iron keys, metal boxes full of thimbles, and dusty lamps that might be for sale or might just be part of the lighting scheme. There are bookshelves full of cracked and faded spines and you nearly trip on the foot of a cabinet Victrola as you start to make your way inside.
You’re drawn as always to the large box of postcards near a long, low glass case. Your fingers dance over them, pulling out a few to squint at the loopy, intricate writing and the big, flourishing signatures. Joe glances over from the records and snorts quietly. “Reading through people’s mail, are you?”
“Shush,” you wave a hand over your shoulder, not looking up from Agatha’s updates about Peter and Helen’s apparent breakup. “I think it’s romantic.”
You feel his hands on your hips as he reads over your shoulder. “I think it’s a bit voyeuristic,” he says. “How’d you feel if someone read our conversations a hundred years from now?”
It’s your turn to laugh. “I hope they do,” you say, reaching for another card. “I hope someone clutches their chest and swoons reading all the romantic things you’ve texted me over the years. Just got home, you still up?”
You don’t have to look at him to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Yeah, alright.”
“Or my personal favorite—the ones I reread on lonely nights—You want Italian or Indian for dinner?”
“Alright,” he’s laughing as he steps back and returns to the boxes of 45s. “I’m done with you, cheeky.”
You’re grinning while you select a few more postcards and start to wander again. You don’t usually waste your time with the jewelry in places like these—too many fingers turned green and angry red splotches on your neck from cheap metals—but something pulls you around the corner to the coat rack decorated with more than two dozen necklaces.
You see it right away, spying it through the mess of chains and charms. A circle about the size of a silver dollar. Tarnished gold, dark with age. It’s hanging toward the back of the rack and there’s really no reason you should be able to untangle it from the rest as easily as you do. But it comes free without a fight and lays heavy in your palm.
Around the left edge, there’s a raised crescent of gold filigree, only slightly less tarnished than the rest. It takes you a moment to realize it’s a locket, but the tiny hinge is just as blackened and trying to work your thumb between the two plates to pop it open does nothing. The chain is thin, gold and unimpressive, but when you hold it up to examine it against your chest in the closest mirror, something sparks inside you. A shock of recognition that has no place igniting your mind.
This isn’t yours, the rational side of your brain reminds you. You’ve never seen it before.
Only…
“What’s that?” Joe’s voice from right behind you makes you jump as you spin, and he laughs. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “Thought you saw me,” he nods back to the mirror where you’d just been looking. You should have seen him, you realize. You should have been looking right at him the way you are now when you turn back around.
“Um, I just…” you feel flustered, like you’ve been caught playing with something you shouldn’t. “I just got distracted,” you lie. Because you hadn’t been distracted. You’d been wholly focused staring at yourself. No, not at yourself. At the dark disc of the locket against the hollow of your throat. “I think I want this,” you say slowly, not giving in to the lure of holding it up again. You keep it in your open palm to show him.
“This?” he repeats dubiously. “It looks rusted shut.”
“No, it’s alright,” you shake your head. “I can clean it up, get it to open.”
Joe is chuckling quietly while he wraps his arms around your waist and kisses the top of your shoulder. “Darling, it’s a gift from me,” he reminds you with an adorable little whine. “Can’t you pick something that doesn’t require a chore?”
“No,” you shake your head firmly. “I like this. It…” It feels like it’s already mine, you nearly say, but catch yourself. Because that sounds insane. “It’ll be a nice little project,” you say instead.
He raises his head and kisses your cheek. “Alright,” he relents. “If that’s what you want.”
Something like relief swells in your chest when you turn to give him a real kiss. “Thank you,” you say, careful not to sound too grateful. It is just a little trinket locket, after all.
You’re happy to keep your fingers tangled with his while he wanders the rest of the store and finds a collection of plays he’s never read before. Everything is fine until you place your purchases on the back counter and the shopkeeper begins to ring you up.
His thick, calloused fingers punch the keys on a classic register from the forties and he mutters under his breath as he counts the items. “Five postcards,” he says, plunking in the numbers before sliding them aside. “That’s a quid.” He moves them to the side and flips open the front cover of the book and squints at the price penciled in. “Fourteen-fifty,” he mutters and tucks the postcards inside before he slides it right.
And then he stops and stares at the locket. You feel something cold slither in your belly. He doesn’t touch it, just motions to his with his stubbly chin. “What’s that?”
You swallow and share a glance with Joe. “The…locket?” He nods, not taking his eyes from it. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Where’d you find it?” he asks, still not looking up.
Joe clears his throat. “Just there,” he points over his shoulder toward the corner where you’d been and then waits a moment. “S’there a problem, mate?” he asks. “Is it not for sale or something?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.”
You wait another moment. “There was no tag on it,” you remind the man. “How much do we owe you?”
“Nothing,” he says abruptly. “Nothing for that. Just have it.”
You feel your brow furrow. “That’s not necessary—”
“Just take it,” he snaps and then looks at Joe. “It’s fifteen-fifty for the rest.”
Still confused, Joe pays and accepts the bag that’s handed over. It contains his book and your postcards, but the locket remains on the counter until you pick it up. You cough quietly as you put it in your pocket. “Um, thank you.”
The shopkeeper says nothing, and Joe takes your hand again to leave the shop. You’re back on the sidewalk for only a minute before you see a shadow at the door and hear the turn of a heavy lock. Before you can say anything, the shadow moves, and the sign in the window is turned to Closed.
“That was weird,” Joe mutters, shaking his head.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Really weird.”
Weirder still, and what you don’t say out loud, is that the locket feels like it’s burning a hole in your pocket. It doesn’t stop until you take it out when you get back to the inn and finally clasp it around your neck.
Then there’s a calm you hadn’t expected. A sense that something that had been out of place had at last been snapped back where it belongs.
That feeling lasts for three days, until you’re home in London again.
