[Fic] Hand of Glory
Title: Hand of Glory
Pairing: Pete/Carl
Genre: Ghost story, inspired by the legend of the hand of glory
Rating: E
Summary: Written for the Tumblr prompt, "a supernatural fic where the boys get locked down in a haunted house".
Notes: Over on Tumblr/AO3 we're having a ficathon to write some stories to keep us going during quarantine lockdown! Feel free to join in by sending prompts or writing some fic! You can read what we've written so far here.
They come to places like this all the time. Empty, abandoned places, old churches, boarded up factories, disused warehouses down at the docks, waiting for demolition or gentrification. But this place feels different. They don’t usually enter empty dwelling places, unless they’re moving into a new squat, but this place is far beyond that. It probably hasn’t been occupied since the war or even earlier, and Peter doesn’t think he could sleep a wink between its crumbling walls. As they move carefully across fragile floorboards, Peter feels the constant need to look over his shoulder, like there should be someone there - there could be, and he wouldn’t be able to see them in the gloom, but he’d hear the creaks of their footsteps. It’s impossible to be quiet in a place like this - every sound is amplified in the stillness, every rustle of clothing, every skitter of what Peter hopes is just a mouse. It all makes him jump, and with every step they take deeper into the heart of the house, Peter feels more and more like they shouldn’t be there. He never usually feels any guilt or trepidation about trespassing in places they shouldn’t be - far from it, he takes a certain glee in going into forbidden places, they both do - but this place… It feels like it - or someone in it - doesn’t want them there.
“Carl,” he whispers eventually, unable to keep his unease to himself any longer. “Don’t you think this place is a bit weird?”
Carl turns to him, and even that makes Peter startle a little. Carl doesn’t look afraid, but he certainly doesn’t look relaxed - his expression is intense, hard to read. “Do you think something happened here?” he asks softly, and it makes Peter shiver.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he murmurs. “It feels like there’s… somebody here.”
Carl takes a step closer to him, and the floor squeaks under his shoes, and Peter twitches with nerves.
“Who knows,” says Carl. “This place must be at least two hundred and fifty years old. That’s enough time for a lot of people to come through the doors. For all sorts of purposes.”
“Who do you think must’ve lived here?” Peter says, still afraid to raise his voice above a whisper. He doesn’t know who might be listening, though he supposes they’ll hear him anyway.
“Well, it’s a big house, very grand. Must’ve been someone pretty affluent in their day. Maybe a doctor or a merchant or a factory owner. The place would probably have been decorated pretty opulently,” Carl muses. “All kinds of covetable possessions.”
Peter listens, drawn into the image Carl is conjuring of a wealthy eighteenth century home, full of rich dinner parties and obsequious servants and ostentatious ornamentation, ruled over by a lofty family of the Middling Sort. He looks around and tries to picture it. Wonders about all the things that must’ve happened in this place between then and now.
“Have you heard of the Hand of Glory, Peter?” Carl asks suddenly, and Peter jumps again.
“I… don’t know,” he confesses. He feels like he’s heard the phrase before, but he can’t quite recall.
Carl steps closer again, and the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stand up, like they always do when Carl gets close enough to touch.
“They would take the right hand of a hanged man - the hand that did the deed. Cut it off in the dead of night, as he was still hanging from the gallows,” Carl begins. Peter’s never heard him talk like this before, dark and low, and he’s drawn immediately in, he wants to hear, even though it’s gruesome. “Drain the blood from it, and pickle it in saltpetre for a fortnight. Say a spell over it, and dip the fingers in tallow made from the hanged man’s fat, and then it’s ready to use.”
As he speaks, Carl is taking a box of matches from his pocket, and he takes out three. He makes a fist with his left hand, and slips the matches in the gaps between his fingers, near the knuckles. Peter watches, captivated, as he strikes a fourth match, holding it between their faces. Carl watches the flame; Peter watches Carl’s face, sombre and intent as he starts to speak again.
“A villain would take the hand, in the commission of his crime,” Carl says. “A burglar, intent on robbing a well-off house like this - take their silver candlesticks, their gold watches, the lady’s jewels, the doctor’s laudanum. And the hand of glory would light his way, and only his way. No-one else can see by its light, except the felon himself.” The match burns out, and Carl strikes another. Peter hardly dares breathe.
“He’d light the tips of the fingers, so,” Carl says, putting the lit match tip to the first match held between his knuckles, and then the second. “By its light, he could open any lock that barred his way. The flames would render everyone sleeping in the building immobile while he committed his misdeeds, and it couldn’t be extinguished, except by blood or milk. And if one finger should fail to catch alight -” Carl puts the last of the flame to the third match, then blows them all out, and his face is gone from Peter’s vision in the sudden darkness, making his heart lurch. He felt Carl’s breath on his face, and then he might as well have disappeared completely.
“-If that last finger fails to burn, it means someone in the house is still awake,” Carl whispers, and now he’s right by Peter’s ear, and he shivers at the feeling of the words on his skin. “Someone awake and able to catch the crook. And when he’s caught, well. His will be the next hand of glory.”
Peter exhales. He’s still afraid, but he feels exhilarated by Carl’s telling of the story, like it really could have taken place right here, in the space they’re treading right now, that was once someone’s cherished home.
“I can understand why they might not want us here then,” Peter murmurs. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness and he can see Carl more clearly again in the murk. “If they assume we’re here to steal from them.”
“Exactly,” says Carl with conviction. “Invading their home, their space. They don’t know our intentions. They don't know we mean no harm."
"There's nothing here to steal even if we wanted to," Peter mutters. He shudders. If Carl's statement was intended to calm whatever is lurking here by reassuring them their intent is benign, it doesn't feel like it's worked. It's still eerie, that feeling hasn't left him, even if Carl's story has given him pause for thought. If anything, the story was too effective, because Peter feels his skin prickle anew, like someone is standing too close. Keeping a close eye on such a suspicious character. But Carl has moved away from him again - and Peter never feels so uneasy when it's Carl who's standing beside him.
Peter shivers and steps away, trying to distract his body from the strangeness it's feeling. He follows where Carl has gone, towards the stairs leading up to the first floor, but Peter can't quell the dread that's growing inside until suddenly he can't control it.
"Carl," he blurts out, hearing the shrill edge of panic in his own voice. "I don't like it. Can we leave?" 'Aren't you afraid?' he wants to yell. 'Why aren't you afraid? Don't you feel it too?' He reaches out desperately to grab Carl's hand before he starts up the stairs, and when he touches it it feels cold and dry and like it's dead in his own, and he drops it again with a cry of shock he can't restrain.
Carl turns to him with an unmistakable look of concern. At least he isn't laughing, Peter thinks miserably, but he must think Peter is of an uncommonly nervous disposition, to be so spooked by something so silly. Just a folk tale, in a dingy old house - the kind of thing even a child wouldn't take so much fright at. Carl certainly doesn't seem frightened in the slightest. And his hand - well, it's the middle of the night, it's dank and chilly, of course his skin must be cold.
"If you're really not enjoying it, of course, we can go," Carl says gently. Peter feels incredibly embarrassed, but so relieved that he doesn't even care if Carl is pitying him.
As Carl starts to lead Peter back the way they came, he reaches out his hand to take Peter's again, keeping them together. His fingers are warm and strong and familiar around Peter's.
Pairing: Pete/Carl
Genre: Ghost story, inspired by the legend of the hand of glory
Rating: E
Summary: Written for the Tumblr prompt, "a supernatural fic where the boys get locked down in a haunted house".
Notes: Over on Tumblr/AO3 we're having a ficathon to write some stories to keep us going during quarantine lockdown! Feel free to join in by sending prompts or writing some fic! You can read what we've written so far here.
They come to places like this all the time. Empty, abandoned places, old churches, boarded up factories, disused warehouses down at the docks, waiting for demolition or gentrification. But this place feels different. They don’t usually enter empty dwelling places, unless they’re moving into a new squat, but this place is far beyond that. It probably hasn’t been occupied since the war or even earlier, and Peter doesn’t think he could sleep a wink between its crumbling walls. As they move carefully across fragile floorboards, Peter feels the constant need to look over his shoulder, like there should be someone there - there could be, and he wouldn’t be able to see them in the gloom, but he’d hear the creaks of their footsteps. It’s impossible to be quiet in a place like this - every sound is amplified in the stillness, every rustle of clothing, every skitter of what Peter hopes is just a mouse. It all makes him jump, and with every step they take deeper into the heart of the house, Peter feels more and more like they shouldn’t be there. He never usually feels any guilt or trepidation about trespassing in places they shouldn’t be - far from it, he takes a certain glee in going into forbidden places, they both do - but this place… It feels like it - or someone in it - doesn’t want them there.
“Carl,” he whispers eventually, unable to keep his unease to himself any longer. “Don’t you think this place is a bit weird?”
Carl turns to him, and even that makes Peter startle a little. Carl doesn’t look afraid, but he certainly doesn’t look relaxed - his expression is intense, hard to read. “Do you think something happened here?” he asks softly, and it makes Peter shiver.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he murmurs. “It feels like there’s… somebody here.”
Carl takes a step closer to him, and the floor squeaks under his shoes, and Peter twitches with nerves.
“Who knows,” says Carl. “This place must be at least two hundred and fifty years old. That’s enough time for a lot of people to come through the doors. For all sorts of purposes.”
“Who do you think must’ve lived here?” Peter says, still afraid to raise his voice above a whisper. He doesn’t know who might be listening, though he supposes they’ll hear him anyway.
“Well, it’s a big house, very grand. Must’ve been someone pretty affluent in their day. Maybe a doctor or a merchant or a factory owner. The place would probably have been decorated pretty opulently,” Carl muses. “All kinds of covetable possessions.”
Peter listens, drawn into the image Carl is conjuring of a wealthy eighteenth century home, full of rich dinner parties and obsequious servants and ostentatious ornamentation, ruled over by a lofty family of the Middling Sort. He looks around and tries to picture it. Wonders about all the things that must’ve happened in this place between then and now.
“Have you heard of the Hand of Glory, Peter?” Carl asks suddenly, and Peter jumps again.
“I… don’t know,” he confesses. He feels like he’s heard the phrase before, but he can’t quite recall.
Carl steps closer again, and the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stand up, like they always do when Carl gets close enough to touch.
“They would take the right hand of a hanged man - the hand that did the deed. Cut it off in the dead of night, as he was still hanging from the gallows,” Carl begins. Peter’s never heard him talk like this before, dark and low, and he’s drawn immediately in, he wants to hear, even though it’s gruesome. “Drain the blood from it, and pickle it in saltpetre for a fortnight. Say a spell over it, and dip the fingers in tallow made from the hanged man’s fat, and then it’s ready to use.”
As he speaks, Carl is taking a box of matches from his pocket, and he takes out three. He makes a fist with his left hand, and slips the matches in the gaps between his fingers, near the knuckles. Peter watches, captivated, as he strikes a fourth match, holding it between their faces. Carl watches the flame; Peter watches Carl’s face, sombre and intent as he starts to speak again.
“A villain would take the hand, in the commission of his crime,” Carl says. “A burglar, intent on robbing a well-off house like this - take their silver candlesticks, their gold watches, the lady’s jewels, the doctor’s laudanum. And the hand of glory would light his way, and only his way. No-one else can see by its light, except the felon himself.” The match burns out, and Carl strikes another. Peter hardly dares breathe.
“He’d light the tips of the fingers, so,” Carl says, putting the lit match tip to the first match held between his knuckles, and then the second. “By its light, he could open any lock that barred his way. The flames would render everyone sleeping in the building immobile while he committed his misdeeds, and it couldn’t be extinguished, except by blood or milk. And if one finger should fail to catch alight -” Carl puts the last of the flame to the third match, then blows them all out, and his face is gone from Peter’s vision in the sudden darkness, making his heart lurch. He felt Carl’s breath on his face, and then he might as well have disappeared completely.
“-If that last finger fails to burn, it means someone in the house is still awake,” Carl whispers, and now he’s right by Peter’s ear, and he shivers at the feeling of the words on his skin. “Someone awake and able to catch the crook. And when he’s caught, well. His will be the next hand of glory.”
Peter exhales. He’s still afraid, but he feels exhilarated by Carl’s telling of the story, like it really could have taken place right here, in the space they’re treading right now, that was once someone’s cherished home.
“I can understand why they might not want us here then,” Peter murmurs. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness and he can see Carl more clearly again in the murk. “If they assume we’re here to steal from them.”
“Exactly,” says Carl with conviction. “Invading their home, their space. They don’t know our intentions. They don't know we mean no harm."
"There's nothing here to steal even if we wanted to," Peter mutters. He shudders. If Carl's statement was intended to calm whatever is lurking here by reassuring them their intent is benign, it doesn't feel like it's worked. It's still eerie, that feeling hasn't left him, even if Carl's story has given him pause for thought. If anything, the story was too effective, because Peter feels his skin prickle anew, like someone is standing too close. Keeping a close eye on such a suspicious character. But Carl has moved away from him again - and Peter never feels so uneasy when it's Carl who's standing beside him.
Peter shivers and steps away, trying to distract his body from the strangeness it's feeling. He follows where Carl has gone, towards the stairs leading up to the first floor, but Peter can't quell the dread that's growing inside until suddenly he can't control it.
"Carl," he blurts out, hearing the shrill edge of panic in his own voice. "I don't like it. Can we leave?" 'Aren't you afraid?' he wants to yell. 'Why aren't you afraid? Don't you feel it too?' He reaches out desperately to grab Carl's hand before he starts up the stairs, and when he touches it it feels cold and dry and like it's dead in his own, and he drops it again with a cry of shock he can't restrain.
Carl turns to him with an unmistakable look of concern. At least he isn't laughing, Peter thinks miserably, but he must think Peter is of an uncommonly nervous disposition, to be so spooked by something so silly. Just a folk tale, in a dingy old house - the kind of thing even a child wouldn't take so much fright at. Carl certainly doesn't seem frightened in the slightest. And his hand - well, it's the middle of the night, it's dank and chilly, of course his skin must be cold.
"If you're really not enjoying it, of course, we can go," Carl says gently. Peter feels incredibly embarrassed, but so relieved that he doesn't even care if Carl is pitying him.
As Carl starts to lead Peter back the way they came, he reaches out his hand to take Peter's again, keeping them together. His fingers are warm and strong and familiar around Peter's.