Halloween Reverse Mini-Bang: Blackhall
TITLE: Blackhall
CHARACTERS: Benny Lafitte, OCs
GENRE: a little Humor/very mild Horror, Gen
RATING: PG
WARNINGS: Mentions of blood.
SPOILERS: Technically to Season 8, you know, for Benny.
WORDS: 1200
SUMMARY: When a small town he’s passing through has a vampire themed tourist trap, how can Benny possibly resist?
A/N: I completely made up the town in the story. If you happen to live somewhere called Blackhall that is at all similar to this, I shall simply take it as a sign that I have semi-dormant psychic powers. Lovely art by just_ruth.
When a person--or vampire--wandered with no particular goal, it was easy to notice things that might otherwise be overlooked. Benny didn’t really know what state he was in right now, had barely noticed the “Welcome to Blackhall” sign on his way into town, but his eyes seemed drawn to the billboard with dripping, red letters.
“Visit stately Blackhall Manor, Transylvania of the US,” it read. It also had stock photos of a screaming woman and a Bela Lugosi-esque vampire half-hidden behind a cloak.
Benny had a feeling most real vampires might be inclined to feel offended by the gimmicky establishment, but he was more amused. He had nothing better to do with his time anyway, so why not go have a look?
It was a stormy afternoon, and Benny had to admit it certainly helped with the atmosphere Blackhall Manor was so very desperately trying to convey. If it had been broad daylight, the stone towers flanking the house would have been too obviously modern additions, and the trees would have just been sad and bare, but against the dark thunderclouds, they managed a little bit of spookiness, and lightning as backlighting really made the stonework pop.
He was greeted at the door by a pale girl in a dark dress with approximately as much enthusiasm as the oak panelling on the walls.
“Welcome, to Blackhall Manor,” she recited in a monotone. “Free guided tours begin every half-hour. The next tour is in ten minutes. You may wait in the gift shop or the café.”
Since he was planning on enjoying the full experience, Benny moseyed on over to the gift shop and inspected their vampire-themed wares. The coffee-mugs that turned blood red when filled with hot liquid were fairly clever, and he was seriously debating buying a “bloodsucker sucker”--a lollipop shaped like a pair of plush, red lips with vampire fangs--for Dean.
There were only three other people in the shop besides Benny and the bored young man behind the till, an older couple who screamed tourist from their matching sun visors down to their well-stocked fanny-packs and a thin, serious man who was writing down copious notes on a flip pad. The latter was probably a travel writer or something. The female half of the couple photographed absolutely everything, and Benny obligingly took a picture of them in front of the gift shop sign that read “Blackhall Bootique” in an old-timey script.
As all the horror themed clocks in the shop chimed the half-hour, the girl in the dress returned to take them on their tour.
They followed a narrow path throughout the display rooms, the major portions of which were blocked off by black velvet ropes. Unlike other old homes Benny had visited in the past, instead of seeming like still life paintings or life-sized dollhouse rooms, Blackhall Manor almost felt like an active home. The furniture was old, yes, but it looked like it had been chosen for comfort and not simply design or expense.
Benny wasn’t sure where the whole vampire gimmick came into play. Yes, there were blackout curtains in every window, but that didn’t have to mean anything more than an allergy to sunlight or intense desire for privacy.
He hadn’t really been paying very much attention to the guide’s droning, historical explanations until they had completed a circuit of the first floor and she paused to unhook a section of rope blocking off the stairs to the second floor. She actually seemed to be showing a bit of interest in her work.
“It’s all been a normal old house so far, right?” she asked them rhetorically with a twinkle in her eye. “It seemed that way to most people in the town, too. No one would have suspected the dark horror hidden away on the second floor of one of the town’s founders’ own homes!”
As they trudged up the stairway single-file, the guide continued speaking. “Francis Blackhall’s first wife died in childbirth. His son, however, survived and was often away at various boarding schools. Blakhall himself liked to travel, and after one of his tours of Europe, he returned with a mysterious second wife.”
They paused on the landing at the top, in front of a large portrait of a woman, the lower half of her face hidden behind a large fan. “This is the only portrait of the second Mrs. Blackhall. She was said to avoid visitors, and she was never seen out in daylight. The rumors of her being a vampire did not begin until the mysterious death of Mr. Blackhall.”
The were then led down to hall to an opulent master suite.
“Mr. Blackhall fell ill one winter with a wasting sickness, and a specialist was summoned to treat him. The doctor arrived to find the doors bolted from the inside and no one answering. He managed to slip in through a window and found Mr. Blackhall dead in his bed, drained completely of blood. Mrs. Blackhall was nowhere to be found, and it is rumored she still haunts the shadows of the second floor.”
“Oh my!” the older woman gasped.
“Sounds like a stretch to get to vampire from there,” her husband grumbled.
“Excuse me,” the note-taker asked, “but isn’t the vampire on your billboard a man?”
“This establishment is run completely off of donations and proceeds from the gift shop and café, with some of the funds going to Blackhall’s surviving relatives, so we minimize our expenses for advertising by using stock images. You try finding a high quality female vampire image that’s suitable for public display,” the guide challenged.
Soon enough, they were all filing back down the stairs, encouraged to try the homemade baked goods in the café.
The café operated out of the old kitchen and dining room of the residence and was run by a woman who appeared to be in her early thirties, though it was apparent to Benny right away that she’d been that age for quite some time.
The hair had been changed, but he recognized the piercing eyes from the portrait at the top of the stairs.
“Why, Mrs. Blackhall,” he remarked quietly when the others were out of hearing range, letting his fangs drop a bit as he spoke, “don’t you find this to be a risky business for someone like yourself?”
She grinned back at Benny. “Not at all, sir. I find the ostentatiousness generally keeps away our kind and is perfect camouflage from the rest. It’s so obvious, I’m practically invisible.”
“Anything to that story about you?” he asked casually. It seemed unlikely that she would have hung around if she were responsible for her husband’s death.
“Parts are true,” she admitted. “His wasting sickness had nothing to do with me--that was tuberculosis. He did indeed bleed out, too, but that was a result of his ‘treatment’ from the good doctor. I may have let my fangs drop while accusing him of taking the treatment too far. It gave him a very good scapegoat.”
“Don’t you worry about me, chère,” Benny assured her. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
CHARACTERS: Benny Lafitte, OCs
GENRE: a little Humor/very mild Horror, Gen
RATING: PG
WARNINGS: Mentions of blood.
SPOILERS: Technically to Season 8, you know, for Benny.
WORDS: 1200
SUMMARY: When a small town he’s passing through has a vampire themed tourist trap, how can Benny possibly resist?
A/N: I completely made up the town in the story. If you happen to live somewhere called Blackhall that is at all similar to this, I shall simply take it as a sign that I have semi-dormant psychic powers. Lovely art by just_ruth.
When a person--or vampire--wandered with no particular goal, it was easy to notice things that might otherwise be overlooked. Benny didn’t really know what state he was in right now, had barely noticed the “Welcome to Blackhall” sign on his way into town, but his eyes seemed drawn to the billboard with dripping, red letters.
“Visit stately Blackhall Manor, Transylvania of the US,” it read. It also had stock photos of a screaming woman and a Bela Lugosi-esque vampire half-hidden behind a cloak.
Benny had a feeling most real vampires might be inclined to feel offended by the gimmicky establishment, but he was more amused. He had nothing better to do with his time anyway, so why not go have a look?
It was a stormy afternoon, and Benny had to admit it certainly helped with the atmosphere Blackhall Manor was so very desperately trying to convey. If it had been broad daylight, the stone towers flanking the house would have been too obviously modern additions, and the trees would have just been sad and bare, but against the dark thunderclouds, they managed a little bit of spookiness, and lightning as backlighting really made the stonework pop.
He was greeted at the door by a pale girl in a dark dress with approximately as much enthusiasm as the oak panelling on the walls.
“Welcome, to Blackhall Manor,” she recited in a monotone. “Free guided tours begin every half-hour. The next tour is in ten minutes. You may wait in the gift shop or the café.”
Since he was planning on enjoying the full experience, Benny moseyed on over to the gift shop and inspected their vampire-themed wares. The coffee-mugs that turned blood red when filled with hot liquid were fairly clever, and he was seriously debating buying a “bloodsucker sucker”--a lollipop shaped like a pair of plush, red lips with vampire fangs--for Dean.
There were only three other people in the shop besides Benny and the bored young man behind the till, an older couple who screamed tourist from their matching sun visors down to their well-stocked fanny-packs and a thin, serious man who was writing down copious notes on a flip pad. The latter was probably a travel writer or something. The female half of the couple photographed absolutely everything, and Benny obligingly took a picture of them in front of the gift shop sign that read “Blackhall Bootique” in an old-timey script.
As all the horror themed clocks in the shop chimed the half-hour, the girl in the dress returned to take them on their tour.
They followed a narrow path throughout the display rooms, the major portions of which were blocked off by black velvet ropes. Unlike other old homes Benny had visited in the past, instead of seeming like still life paintings or life-sized dollhouse rooms, Blackhall Manor almost felt like an active home. The furniture was old, yes, but it looked like it had been chosen for comfort and not simply design or expense.
Benny wasn’t sure where the whole vampire gimmick came into play. Yes, there were blackout curtains in every window, but that didn’t have to mean anything more than an allergy to sunlight or intense desire for privacy.
He hadn’t really been paying very much attention to the guide’s droning, historical explanations until they had completed a circuit of the first floor and she paused to unhook a section of rope blocking off the stairs to the second floor. She actually seemed to be showing a bit of interest in her work.
“It’s all been a normal old house so far, right?” she asked them rhetorically with a twinkle in her eye. “It seemed that way to most people in the town, too. No one would have suspected the dark horror hidden away on the second floor of one of the town’s founders’ own homes!”
As they trudged up the stairway single-file, the guide continued speaking. “Francis Blackhall’s first wife died in childbirth. His son, however, survived and was often away at various boarding schools. Blakhall himself liked to travel, and after one of his tours of Europe, he returned with a mysterious second wife.”
They paused on the landing at the top, in front of a large portrait of a woman, the lower half of her face hidden behind a large fan. “This is the only portrait of the second Mrs. Blackhall. She was said to avoid visitors, and she was never seen out in daylight. The rumors of her being a vampire did not begin until the mysterious death of Mr. Blackhall.”
The were then led down to hall to an opulent master suite.
“Mr. Blackhall fell ill one winter with a wasting sickness, and a specialist was summoned to treat him. The doctor arrived to find the doors bolted from the inside and no one answering. He managed to slip in through a window and found Mr. Blackhall dead in his bed, drained completely of blood. Mrs. Blackhall was nowhere to be found, and it is rumored she still haunts the shadows of the second floor.”
“Oh my!” the older woman gasped.
“Sounds like a stretch to get to vampire from there,” her husband grumbled.
“Excuse me,” the note-taker asked, “but isn’t the vampire on your billboard a man?”
“This establishment is run completely off of donations and proceeds from the gift shop and café, with some of the funds going to Blackhall’s surviving relatives, so we minimize our expenses for advertising by using stock images. You try finding a high quality female vampire image that’s suitable for public display,” the guide challenged.
Soon enough, they were all filing back down the stairs, encouraged to try the homemade baked goods in the café.
The café operated out of the old kitchen and dining room of the residence and was run by a woman who appeared to be in her early thirties, though it was apparent to Benny right away that she’d been that age for quite some time.
The hair had been changed, but he recognized the piercing eyes from the portrait at the top of the stairs.
“Why, Mrs. Blackhall,” he remarked quietly when the others were out of hearing range, letting his fangs drop a bit as he spoke, “don’t you find this to be a risky business for someone like yourself?”
She grinned back at Benny. “Not at all, sir. I find the ostentatiousness generally keeps away our kind and is perfect camouflage from the rest. It’s so obvious, I’m practically invisible.”
“Anything to that story about you?” he asked casually. It seemed unlikely that she would have hung around if she were responsible for her husband’s death.
“Parts are true,” she admitted. “His wasting sickness had nothing to do with me--that was tuberculosis. He did indeed bleed out, too, but that was a result of his ‘treatment’ from the good doctor. I may have let my fangs drop while accusing him of taking the treatment too far. It gave him a very good scapegoat.”
“Don’t you worry about me, chère,” Benny assured her. “Your secret’s safe with me.”