Beware the Manor House
Title: Beware the Manor House (10/?)
Rating: PG to R
Pairing: Dom/Billy, others implied
Warnings: AU, angst, horror, ghosts, implied murder, violence, scary imagery, etc. This is sort of, but not really, a death fic. Suffice it to say, major characters are no longer living and as such, are in fact dead. But in the spirit of whodunnit and AU, it really doesn’t matter much. M’kay? Just trust me.
Summary: Everybody has a hobby. Some people have an obsession.
Billy’s feet took him halfway back up the hill with the book McKellen had given him tucked under an arm before he stopped to catch his breath, and his curiosity about it won out.
It was quite plain, the leather flat and smooth except for some decorative tooling at the corners, soft bound and somewhat dried out, cracking slightly along the spine. The pages were quite yellow and brittle at the edges. This book was very old. He opened it carefully to a random page, seeing a fine handwritten script, the ink oxidized to brown, his eyes lighting on the words that jumped out: C Ward, Father, Vikings, Billy.
He quickly shut the book, an exhale leaving him as his eyes skittered around at the looming manor and the edge of the wood, feeling like a child sneaking peeks at things he ought not see. This was obviously a journal, probably Dom’s, and with his own name written on the pages in it. His thoughts flew back to just days ago, introducing himself-I’m Billy, by the way. It’s William, really, but Billy’s what I go by-and Dom’s spoken voice, just yesterday in his bedroom-Billy, don’t go!
It shouldn’t be so surprising. It’s not as if it was an uncommon name in this country in the last several centuries; why wouldn’t Dominic have known someone who was also named William? Maybe Dom’s voice wasn’t addressing him at all. Maybe it was addressing someone else entirely, a Billy he’d known from his own time. Maybe it was all residual, something that repeated over and over, just like the sound of his own mother’s voice, uselessly telling him the kettle was on. Maybe he was completely daft for assuming he’d forged some connection with this ghost at all.
At the edge of the woody outcrop, there was something that didn’t quite belong in the natural landscape, a straight edge. Tucking the book back under his arm, he strode over to come upon a low wall of brick, almost buried by vines and other vegetation. He followed it up part of the hill and around until he could see all of what was still visible, the foundation of some building, perhaps another, smaller house on the property. He looked up toward the manor and then back down to the village. He had followed McKellen down the hill along a more level, southerly course, clearly easier for an old man with a bum knee, so he’d not seen this before.
He knelt, looking closer at it. These bricks were the old Chatsworth type, just like those of the manor itself. But as he brushed away dead leaves, he saw that they were charred and crumbling apart with a mere touch. The foundation and the scattered remains of fireplaces and chimneys were all the remained, but this building must have burned to the ground, a fire that would have been quite hot to crack the very brick. He stood back up, skirting around it, noting the way the ground itself was swallowing up some parts with the natural erosion of the hill, how the ivy and bushes had grown up around and inside it. It must have burned years ago, even decades. Still, if it was built of the same sort of material, it ought to be of the same time period as the manor, not later, and possibly not even before.
A hiss sounded to his right from the wood, his head whipping toward it but seeing nothing. He glancing about, looking for a stray cat from the village, but in his heart he knew it was no animal that made that sound. He’d heard it before, inside the manor house.
“Is that so,” he muttered, “Maybe I’ll come back here, then, have a chat with just you.” He gestured to the ruins before him with the book in his hand, “Maybe you can tell me what happened here.”
The wind whipped up hard and fast, tearing the book right from his hand and tossing it to the ground, blowing the pages violently. Billy pounced, but he was too late, and a couple of the brittle pages had torn free, flying up into the air.
“Shite,” he growled, glancing around angrily and then back to the pages, now blowing far out of his reach across the valley. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? Whoever you are.” He clutched the book protectively to his chest, “I suppose I’m going to find out, eh? Whether you like it or not.”
He looked after the torn pages again, now mere specks tumbling in an overcast sky, and turned to climb the rest of the way back to the manor.
After wrestling the door open, Billy strode inside, finding the house quiet. His eyes fell to his cameras, set up the first night and forgotten, long out of time and batteries, along with his dead mobile. He breathed a laugh. How completely useless they’d been. Hesitant to set the book down, he gathered them up one by one, tucking them back into their cases in the parlor, along with the pile of research, and plugged in the phone to recharge.
Sitting in the parlor armchair, he held the book in his lap, thinking of what the old man had told him. It will tell you much of what you don’t know.
It might do, at least about Dominic’s life here a century ago, but what about all the questions Ian didn’t have answers to? Why couldn’t Billy access the rest of the second floor? Why had Ian been able to live here for years without being attacked by this other ghost, yet one of his friends had been completely tormented? Why was Billy its latest target?
Despite how quiet the house was, the feeling had definitely changed from the despondent ignorance he’d gotten all night. He was being closely watched, and if what had happened at the burned ruins was any indication, there were things within this book that someone did not want him to know. Plus he had his own morality to contend with. As a boy, he’d once been caught reading Maggie’s diary and caught hell for that, both from her and from his parents. Rather than finding out his sister’s deepest secrets and being able to blackmail her with them as an annoying little brother, he’d received a lesson about privacy and respect from his father that had taught him the meaning of shame.
Instead of setting to it, he left the parlor and heading to the stairs, as much as he knew he was tempting fate.
At Dom’s door the oppressive air rushed in, but he ignored it, clutching fast to the book in his hand. He doubted that Dom would respond to him, as he'd been all night long, but he had to try. Lifting his free hand, he hesitated and then knocked softly at the door.
“Dominic? Dom,” He started, “Your mate Ian, who was here this morning… I had tea with him. He told me he knew you.”
He paused, listening hopefully, but there was nothing, no humming of the lights, no sounds, only that heavy, thick, anxious air. “I… I know you’re angry with me. I wouldn’t have left your room, then, if I’d known… You tried to tell me, and I didn’t understand you. But I do now. I know what you meant.”
He waited, still getting no response. He lifted the book in his hand. “Your mate Ian gave me this. I think it’s yours, your journal. I haven’t read it. If it’s private, I understand.”
It was building in the air, the same foreboding rage he now knew came before the other bastard did something violent. “Dominic, he doesn’t want me to.” He called, more urgently, “He ripped out pages and I tried to get them but I couldn’t, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Suddenly there was a click from the doorknob, the door opening, and even as it nearly slammed back in his face, Billy shoved his arm with the book inside, the heavy door hitting him hard as he squeezed through. He fell to the floor as it slammed, turning over to his back to look as the other pounded and kicked at it from the other side, and the loud scream that seemed to be inside his head howling. The lights switched on, building to fiery bright and humming so loudly that the sharp bite of frying electricity singing his nostrils. The pounding died down and eventually stopped altogether, leaving the house quiet once again.
Billy got to his feet, dusting himself off, feeling triumphant and pleased as he looked around the familiarity of Dominic’s bedroom as the light eased back down to normal, its cool blues and dark hardwood having none of that oppressive feeling as did the rest of the house. Being in here once again gave Billy a sense of security, even with clear image he still had of Dominic lying where the rug did now, covering up the stain of his blood draining away. Yes, Dom had responded to him in here. It couldn’t just be residual.
“Ian called you a gentle soul, you know?” Billy spoke, his voice quiet. “Kind. And cheeky. I think he's very fond of you.”
He glanced around, seeing nothing but knowing Dom was there. He held up the book. “He gave me this. He said he and his mates found it in here.” He turned, studying the walls with the floorplan in mind and went toward the walnut panel in one corner. He set the book on the floor and slid his finger along the seams, finding it loose. Pushing it up and then prying it back gave him access to the bathroom plumbing and a cobweb filled space where this book could easily have been hidden. “It’s a good hiding place, yeah? Wouldn't have been found at all if they hadn't put that toilet in.”
He picked up the book again, looking at it. “Ian asked me to bring it back to you. I’m sure he only took it because it gave him a sort of… connection, you know? He considered you a friend. Like I do.”
Billy came around to the desk, brushing over its well worn surface, blotted with brown spots of dripped ink. Dom must have written much of this journal sitting right here at this desk. It's very wood seemed to radiate the past.
“Thank you for letting me in here again, Dom,” He turned, cradling the book in his hands. “Listen, if you don’t want me to read this, I’ll put it back behind that panel where it belongs. But that’s no guarantee someone else won’t come along later on and find it.
“I’d like to read it though,” He confessed, “I want to know you better and I think this book can help me to help you. Would that be alright, Dom? Can I read your journal?”
He watched the wall sconces hopefully as the moment stretched in the quiet. Then they brightened, and flickered, Yes.
Billy exhaled the shaky breath he’d been holding, surprised by how emotionally invested he felt. “Thank you, Dominic.”
Crossing to the bed, He climbed up on it, at once remembering its comfort and warmth. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment as he settled back into the pillows, and opened the book to the first page.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rating: PG to R
Pairing: Dom/Billy, others implied
Warnings: AU, angst, horror, ghosts, implied murder, violence, scary imagery, etc. This is sort of, but not really, a death fic. Suffice it to say, major characters are no longer living and as such, are in fact dead. But in the spirit of whodunnit and AU, it really doesn’t matter much. M’kay? Just trust me.
Summary: Everybody has a hobby. Some people have an obsession.
Billy’s feet took him halfway back up the hill with the book McKellen had given him tucked under an arm before he stopped to catch his breath, and his curiosity about it won out.
It was quite plain, the leather flat and smooth except for some decorative tooling at the corners, soft bound and somewhat dried out, cracking slightly along the spine. The pages were quite yellow and brittle at the edges. This book was very old. He opened it carefully to a random page, seeing a fine handwritten script, the ink oxidized to brown, his eyes lighting on the words that jumped out: C Ward, Father, Vikings, Billy.
He quickly shut the book, an exhale leaving him as his eyes skittered around at the looming manor and the edge of the wood, feeling like a child sneaking peeks at things he ought not see. This was obviously a journal, probably Dom’s, and with his own name written on the pages in it. His thoughts flew back to just days ago, introducing himself-I’m Billy, by the way. It’s William, really, but Billy’s what I go by-and Dom’s spoken voice, just yesterday in his bedroom-Billy, don’t go!
It shouldn’t be so surprising. It’s not as if it was an uncommon name in this country in the last several centuries; why wouldn’t Dominic have known someone who was also named William? Maybe Dom’s voice wasn’t addressing him at all. Maybe it was addressing someone else entirely, a Billy he’d known from his own time. Maybe it was all residual, something that repeated over and over, just like the sound of his own mother’s voice, uselessly telling him the kettle was on. Maybe he was completely daft for assuming he’d forged some connection with this ghost at all.
At the edge of the woody outcrop, there was something that didn’t quite belong in the natural landscape, a straight edge. Tucking the book back under his arm, he strode over to come upon a low wall of brick, almost buried by vines and other vegetation. He followed it up part of the hill and around until he could see all of what was still visible, the foundation of some building, perhaps another, smaller house on the property. He looked up toward the manor and then back down to the village. He had followed McKellen down the hill along a more level, southerly course, clearly easier for an old man with a bum knee, so he’d not seen this before.
He knelt, looking closer at it. These bricks were the old Chatsworth type, just like those of the manor itself. But as he brushed away dead leaves, he saw that they were charred and crumbling apart with a mere touch. The foundation and the scattered remains of fireplaces and chimneys were all the remained, but this building must have burned to the ground, a fire that would have been quite hot to crack the very brick. He stood back up, skirting around it, noting the way the ground itself was swallowing up some parts with the natural erosion of the hill, how the ivy and bushes had grown up around and inside it. It must have burned years ago, even decades. Still, if it was built of the same sort of material, it ought to be of the same time period as the manor, not later, and possibly not even before.
A hiss sounded to his right from the wood, his head whipping toward it but seeing nothing. He glancing about, looking for a stray cat from the village, but in his heart he knew it was no animal that made that sound. He’d heard it before, inside the manor house.
“Is that so,” he muttered, “Maybe I’ll come back here, then, have a chat with just you.” He gestured to the ruins before him with the book in his hand, “Maybe you can tell me what happened here.”
The wind whipped up hard and fast, tearing the book right from his hand and tossing it to the ground, blowing the pages violently. Billy pounced, but he was too late, and a couple of the brittle pages had torn free, flying up into the air.
“Shite,” he growled, glancing around angrily and then back to the pages, now blowing far out of his reach across the valley. “You’re a piece of work, you know that? Whoever you are.” He clutched the book protectively to his chest, “I suppose I’m going to find out, eh? Whether you like it or not.”
He looked after the torn pages again, now mere specks tumbling in an overcast sky, and turned to climb the rest of the way back to the manor.
After wrestling the door open, Billy strode inside, finding the house quiet. His eyes fell to his cameras, set up the first night and forgotten, long out of time and batteries, along with his dead mobile. He breathed a laugh. How completely useless they’d been. Hesitant to set the book down, he gathered them up one by one, tucking them back into their cases in the parlor, along with the pile of research, and plugged in the phone to recharge.
Sitting in the parlor armchair, he held the book in his lap, thinking of what the old man had told him. It will tell you much of what you don’t know.
It might do, at least about Dominic’s life here a century ago, but what about all the questions Ian didn’t have answers to? Why couldn’t Billy access the rest of the second floor? Why had Ian been able to live here for years without being attacked by this other ghost, yet one of his friends had been completely tormented? Why was Billy its latest target?
Despite how quiet the house was, the feeling had definitely changed from the despondent ignorance he’d gotten all night. He was being closely watched, and if what had happened at the burned ruins was any indication, there were things within this book that someone did not want him to know. Plus he had his own morality to contend with. As a boy, he’d once been caught reading Maggie’s diary and caught hell for that, both from her and from his parents. Rather than finding out his sister’s deepest secrets and being able to blackmail her with them as an annoying little brother, he’d received a lesson about privacy and respect from his father that had taught him the meaning of shame.
Instead of setting to it, he left the parlor and heading to the stairs, as much as he knew he was tempting fate.
At Dom’s door the oppressive air rushed in, but he ignored it, clutching fast to the book in his hand. He doubted that Dom would respond to him, as he'd been all night long, but he had to try. Lifting his free hand, he hesitated and then knocked softly at the door.
“Dominic? Dom,” He started, “Your mate Ian, who was here this morning… I had tea with him. He told me he knew you.”
He paused, listening hopefully, but there was nothing, no humming of the lights, no sounds, only that heavy, thick, anxious air. “I… I know you’re angry with me. I wouldn’t have left your room, then, if I’d known… You tried to tell me, and I didn’t understand you. But I do now. I know what you meant.”
He waited, still getting no response. He lifted the book in his hand. “Your mate Ian gave me this. I think it’s yours, your journal. I haven’t read it. If it’s private, I understand.”
It was building in the air, the same foreboding rage he now knew came before the other bastard did something violent. “Dominic, he doesn’t want me to.” He called, more urgently, “He ripped out pages and I tried to get them but I couldn’t, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Suddenly there was a click from the doorknob, the door opening, and even as it nearly slammed back in his face, Billy shoved his arm with the book inside, the heavy door hitting him hard as he squeezed through. He fell to the floor as it slammed, turning over to his back to look as the other pounded and kicked at it from the other side, and the loud scream that seemed to be inside his head howling. The lights switched on, building to fiery bright and humming so loudly that the sharp bite of frying electricity singing his nostrils. The pounding died down and eventually stopped altogether, leaving the house quiet once again.
Billy got to his feet, dusting himself off, feeling triumphant and pleased as he looked around the familiarity of Dominic’s bedroom as the light eased back down to normal, its cool blues and dark hardwood having none of that oppressive feeling as did the rest of the house. Being in here once again gave Billy a sense of security, even with clear image he still had of Dominic lying where the rug did now, covering up the stain of his blood draining away. Yes, Dom had responded to him in here. It couldn’t just be residual.
“Ian called you a gentle soul, you know?” Billy spoke, his voice quiet. “Kind. And cheeky. I think he's very fond of you.”
He glanced around, seeing nothing but knowing Dom was there. He held up the book. “He gave me this. He said he and his mates found it in here.” He turned, studying the walls with the floorplan in mind and went toward the walnut panel in one corner. He set the book on the floor and slid his finger along the seams, finding it loose. Pushing it up and then prying it back gave him access to the bathroom plumbing and a cobweb filled space where this book could easily have been hidden. “It’s a good hiding place, yeah? Wouldn't have been found at all if they hadn't put that toilet in.”
He picked up the book again, looking at it. “Ian asked me to bring it back to you. I’m sure he only took it because it gave him a sort of… connection, you know? He considered you a friend. Like I do.”
Billy came around to the desk, brushing over its well worn surface, blotted with brown spots of dripped ink. Dom must have written much of this journal sitting right here at this desk. It's very wood seemed to radiate the past.
“Thank you for letting me in here again, Dom,” He turned, cradling the book in his hands. “Listen, if you don’t want me to read this, I’ll put it back behind that panel where it belongs. But that’s no guarantee someone else won’t come along later on and find it.
“I’d like to read it though,” He confessed, “I want to know you better and I think this book can help me to help you. Would that be alright, Dom? Can I read your journal?”
He watched the wall sconces hopefully as the moment stretched in the quiet. Then they brightened, and flickered, Yes.
Billy exhaled the shaky breath he’d been holding, surprised by how emotionally invested he felt. “Thank you, Dominic.”
Crossing to the bed, He climbed up on it, at once remembering its comfort and warmth. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment as he settled back into the pillows, and opened the book to the first page.
CHAPTER ELEVEN