Final Fantasy VI - The Haunting of Vector Hall [1/3]

[madness_infused]

Title: The Haunting of Vector Hall.
Author: Shaded Mazoku.
Email: shadedmazoku@gmail.com
Part: 1/3.
Disclaimer: The characters and large parts of the setting belong to Square Enix. I earn nothing from this except the satisfaction of getting to tell the story.
Warnings: Character death, some gore and violence.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: Retired soldier Leo Christophe rents the secluded Vector Hall for a year, trying to sort himself out after leaving the army. Before long, he comes to learn that a horrible murder once happened in the house, but even after hearing the same story over and over, he can't help but feel that there is something more to what happened. As he digs deeper into the grisly story, Leo discovers a web of lies and deception, a truth worse than the story he had been told, and a plot that might claim his life as well.

And then, there are the ghosts. The ghosts who laugh maniacally in the dead of night to keep him awake, who delight in finding just the right way to bring his worst memories to the surface, and who are his best bet in unravelling a mystery that goes much deeper than just the murder.

He came to Vector Hall to find peace and quiet. Instead, he has found a mystery that threatens to destroy him as it has destroyed so many others, and the best chance he has is a ghost who only wants to see everything torn apart.
Pairing(s): Kefka/Leo.
Fandom: Final Fantasy VI.
Words: 10,639.
Notes: It's done! This fic has eaten my soul. Or maybe that was just Kefka. Anyway, it's done now! I hoped to have it done for Hallowe'en, but that didn't happen. I've been wanting to write this fic for two years now, so thanks to Mega Flare for giving me a reason to just write it already.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3



Despite having seen pictures, Leo had to stop and stare as he got out of his car.

Situated alone on a small hill, silhouetted in the warm sunlight, Vector Hall looked oddly imposing for a house that was a pale imitation of a stately manor hall. It was an odd-looking building, with a tower and turrets, a dark-painted house that invoked images of a Gothic storybook. Around the house, the surroundings were red-gold with autumn colours, but the house itself seemed monochrome and dull.

Oddly enough, it didn't really seem out of place, just abandoned, an impression that was helped by the fact that the nearest neighbours lived an hour's walk away.

It was far more isolated than Leo was used to, but then, that had been the major selling point of agreeing to come live here for a year.

Otherwise, the whole deal seemed a little strange to him, but it wasn't illegal, and Leo needed to get away from everything for a bit. Still, he had yet to even talk to the man he was renting the house from. All their interactions had been through mail, both electronic and traditional, and he knew very little about the man apart from the fact that he wanted someone to live in his house for a year, taking care of the place.

Even the house keys had arrived by mail, and as Leo walked up to the door, they seemed strangely heavy in his pocket.

Of course they're heavy, he reminded himself. The keys were old, like the house, lever lock keys in what he guessed was brass, based on their weight and appearance. Even the ring they were fastened on was old, though not yet brittle.

The door was heavy, too, an old and solid wooden door with metal framing. It opened with an ominous creaking sound, but the hallway beyond was hardly worthy of such a sound. It was dusty, and in dire need of a good airing out, but not scary. Not unless you had an unreasonable fear of dust bunnies, at least.

Leo closed the door behind him as he stepped into the hall, removing his shoes and coat to put them aside. First order of business would be to open as many windows as he could while slowly exploring the house. Though in great shape, though house had a somewhat musty smell.

It took him hours to explore the house. It was a massive building, with a multitude of rooms. The top floor, which seemed like more of an attic from the slope of the roof, was locked, but even without that, there were more rooms than Leo knew what to do with. His own apartment would fit inside the master bedroom. With the windows opened, the curtains pulled, and the old sheets pulled off the furniture, the house already looked a lot nicer.
A lot more liveable.

Still, it seemed almost too empty. It was far too large for a single person. No normal person needed four bedrooms to themselves.

At least he'd have a lot to keep himself busy with. Three stories that all needed maintenance, a house that needed a new coat paint and a lot of dust to vanquish. As soon as he'd had a good night's sleep, he was finding a mop and a vacuum cleaner and getting started.

Most people would probably have chosen the master bedroom, but truthfully, it was just a little bit too large for Leo's tastes, too large and too opulent. The second bedroom on the first floor was also a bit large, but mostly it was simply too feminine. Leo didn't think he could have slept very well surrounded by drapery. Both ground floor bedrooms seemed to be guest rooms, far more impersonal than the other two, so he claimed the one that had a door to the garden porch as his own.

It wouldn't feel right to sleep in someone else's bedroom uninvited, even if they weren't there.

Sighing, Leo sat down on the bed and rubbed his neck. Maybe a year out here on his own would help him solve some of his issues. His life had been so much easier when he'd still had a black and white view of the world. All trying to see shades of grey had got him was a honourable discharge and a massive headache.

He rubbed his neck again. It was a little sore from the trip, the draft wrecking havoc on the muscles. Another point in favour of the room he'd claimed. The bed, unlike those in the upstairs bedrooms, was solid, and the mattress was firm. He slept better on a firm surface. The softer mattresses just didn't give the resistance he'd have preferred. A lifetime of sleeping on cots or on the ground had left its traces. At least the chances of finding scorpions or snakes in his bed here were pretty low.

The temptation to just lay back and fall asleep was pretty strong, but there was a few things he wanted to get done before he went to bed, so reluctantly stood up and went to retrieve his bags from the car.

He hadn't really brought that much, considering that he was spending a year there. Mostly clothing, as well as a box of instant coffee and his laptop. Anything else he needed, he'd just buy. According to the information he'd been given, there was a small town called Albrook not too far away, which would probably be his best bet for acquiring supplies.

Supplies would be needed, too. There was pretty much nothing edible in the house, apart from the few rolls he had left in his bag. He'd have to buy more cleaning supplies, too, to combat the dust and dirt of the last three years. Currently he had a mop, some rags and a sponge.

That was for later, though. Not only was he exhausted, but the stores wouldn't be open that late.

Leo finished putting his things away and stretched. Maybe with time, he'd actually manage to get rid of the knots in his muscles. He'd been tense constantly for what seemed like decades. Hopefully a year here would let him relax and do something productive with himself.

Right now, the plan was to do something not at all productive, however.

He stripped out of his clothing and pulled on a pair of cotton pyjama pants, before getting bedding out and making the bed. The bedding was pretty dusty, too, though far less so than the rest of the house, but it'd be all right for a night. He could do laundry later.

Only moments after he'd crawled under the covers, Leo was fast asleep.

*

He woke to an ice cold room.

The room was still dark, too dark for Leo to see anything, but it was still obvious something was wrong. The temperature seemed to have dropped drastically since the night before and there was a draft filling the room.

Slowly, and somewhat reluctantly, Leo got out of bed and turned on the light.

The windows were open. The bedroom had three windows, and he was certain they’d been closed when he’d gone to bed, but they were all wide open now, the curtains fluttering lazily in the cold breeze. Ignoring the cold as much as he could, Leo closed the windows, one at a time, before putting on a sweater in an attempt to combat the chill.

He was no stranger to cold. Most his service in the military had been spent in deserts, blistering hot at day and hopelessly cold at night. That didn’t mean he liked being cold, though, and he liked it even less when he was certain those windows had all been closed the night before.

It was doubtful it was an attempted burglary. The last time a person had come unexpectedly into his room as he slept, Leo had broken his arm in two places before he realised what was going on. He had always been a light sleeper, and he was becoming increasingly more so for each day that passed. That someone had entered the room as he slept without him noticing was next to impossible.

Upon inspection, the windows were old, probably original to the house, and the latches weren’t exactly secure. A good tug opened the window even when the latch was on, so he supposed that a particularly strong gust of wind had blown them open.

It didn’t seem all that likely, especially not given how lightly he slept, but it was at least plausible, unlike any other reasoning he could come up with on how all three windows had ended up open. Even if it had been a burglary, they’d usually just open one window, not three.

Still, he took the time to look briefly through all the rooms he could imagine someone being interested in stealing something from, but nothing seemed to be missing.

Sighing, Leo shook his head, though he wasn’t quite certain if it was at the situation or at himself, or at both.

He turned on the shower and left it to get warm as he undressed, folding his clothing neatly before stepping under the spray. The water was almost unbearably hot against his skin, but the shower had magnificent water pressure, soothing his tense muscles and letting his mind be clear for a while.

The shower also helped chase the cold from his body, and once he was dry and dressed, he felt a lot better than he had when he woke up.

His stomach chose that moment to remind him that breakfast would be a good idea, so he found his way to the kitchen and put a kettle on while he prepared his last rolls, so he’d have coffee to go with the meal. The coffee was brought along as he walked the halls and decided what he’d have to do with each room to get them liveable. Thankfully, all furniture had been draped in white sheets, limiting the dust on the furniture itself, but the amount of dust on the sheets and floor was quite daunting. He’d need to see what cleaning supplies were actually in the house before making a strike plan.

A search of the storage closet revealed an old vacuum cleaner and another mop, a bucket, and a few boxes of household soap. Not exactly a wide selection, but he’d make do. He wrote the name and model of the vacuum cleaner down on a piece of paper, as well as a list of other supplies he thought would come in handy. He had no idea if there’d be somewhere in Albrook he could get the things he needed, but if there wasn’t, he could always drive to one of the larger towns. It’d take a while, but he’d need to do so eventually, anyway.

He also needed to buy food, but that, at least, he was certain he could find in Albrook.

However, that all had to wait until a little later. It was barely past six in the morning yet, and no stores would be open for hours yet. Grabbing the mop and the bucket, he decided to start cleaning out the bedroom first, and maybe take a look at those latches if there was anything he could do to improve their fit. He’d rather not wake up with all three windows open again.

By the time the clock turned nine, Leo had managed to get the bedroom as clean as he’d get it without cleaning agents and had decided that he’d have to look for some woodcutter’s tools to deepen the grooves in the windows, to give the latches more resistance.

He took a break from cleaning and put on outer wear, preparing to head into town. Usually, he’d walk. It was probably half an hour’s walk each way, nothing that wasn’t entirely welcome, but he decided to take the car this time. Since he was stocking up, he’d have a lot to bring back, and though he could certainly carry heavy weight for much more than half an hour, he didn’t have enough arms to carry everything he needed.

Outside, the grass was tinted white with rime as he walked to the car, his breath coming in puffs of condensation. It was already getting terribly cold. Winter was approaching fast, and he'd need to be prepared when it came. Up here, winter could be cold enough to kill. Vector Hall was remarkably well kept, dust aside, but it was a large and draughty old manor, and heating it would take some effort.

*

Albrook turned out to be much like Leo had imagined it, a rather small town nestled comfortably in between a large forest and the river, and looking more like a setting from something like The Legend of Sleepy Hollow or similar than anything else. A fairytale town to go with the fairytale house on the hill. It seemed almost a little too perfect, but Vector Hall was a genuine turn of the century Queen Anne manor, and the architect and builders had probably never paused to dwell on how it would look to people living a hundred years later.

The local grocery store was easy enough to find. Apart from the church and gas station, it was one of few buildings with a proper parking lot outside. It was small, but far from the smallest store Leo had ever seen. He remembered one store from a small village near one of the bases he'd been posted to, which had been literally a hole in the wall and a tiny room inside, with a man who took orders and delivered them later, no room in the building to store anything. Compared to that, the Albrook grocery store was downright roomy, even for someone Leo's size.

Most of the people inside turned to follow Leo with their eyes as he began gathering the supplies he needed, loading it into the carts the store thankfully offered despite its size.

Leo ignored them as best he could. He was a newcomer there, in an established community where everyone presumably knew everyone. That they stared was to be expected under such circumstances. Any community tended to be weary of newcomers, and Leo was clearly an outsider; a tall, large and intimidating outsider at that. In his experience, the worst suspicion would fade with time, once it was clear he meant no harm. It might never fade entirely, but Leo didn't plan on becoming part of their community. As long as he was left to his own devices, they could think whatever they wanted about him.

He carefully piled his purchases on the counter, making sure nothing fell off or knocked anything over as the motherly woman behind the cash register rang him up and bagged the groceries with the kind of deft skill that came from years of practice.

"Stocking up, dear?" She asked, all warm smiles and genuine curiosity.

"Yes, ma'am," Leo confirmed automatically, snapping up straight as best he could while still using both hands to keep a grocery avalanche from happening. Years of military service had left deep marks on him, and despite everything that had happened since, those instincts still drove him.

She kept smiling as she bagged up more groceries. "You're new in town, then?"

Nodding, Leo caught an onion that tried escaping and put it back on the counter. "Yes," he agreed. "I just recently returned from Iraq, and I thought a year somewhere nice and quiet seemed like a great idea."

It wasn't exactly the truth, but it wasn't a lie, either, and as such, it made a good explanation as to what it was he was doing. Most people, he'd learned, didn't dig too much once they knew you'd been in Iraq, which suited him fine, because the ones who did ask wanted stories of the heroic efforts to battle terror, and all the stories Leo had were of young men dying alone and frightened on the desert sands, little more than children dying horribly on both sides.

"Well," the woman said, as she finished with the last of the groceries, "You'd have to look for a long time to find somewhere more quiet than Albrook. I think it's a lovely town, as do most of the people who live here, but the young people are leaving. It's a bit too quiet for them."

Taking the bag from her, Leo smiled back at her and placed the bag in the cart next to the others. "I think it looks like a very peaceful place," he offered.

The woman nodded. "It is. Most of the drama we get up here is someone's dog getting loose and chasing someone else's cat up a tree and that sort of things. Arguments over apple trees hanging over fences, and over whether apple pie or ginger pear pie is more traditional for the town."

"Sounds nice," Leo agreed, and handed over payment for the wares.

"It's not the right kind of life if you're a thrill seeker, but for someone seeking peace and quiet, this is a great place to start." An elderly man made his way up to the counter, a newspaper and a packet of butter under his arm. "I didn't know anyone was renting out anything," he said, placing the items on the counter.

Accepting his change from the woman, Leo put it in his pocket. "I'm renting the old manor outside town," he said.

The man and woman both blinked at him.

"They're renting out Vector Hall?" The woman asked, sounding decidedly surprised. "Hard to imagine anyone wanting to rent that place, what with the history that house has." She held up her hands disarmingly. "No offence meant, of course."

Leo frowned a little. "I wasn't really told much about the history of the house, honestly. It was mentioned that it was built at the end of the nineteenth century, and that it's been in the Vector family since, but that was pretty much it." That, and a lot of stuff about how the house was a genuine architectural treasure and that the exterior and most of the interior was the original from when the house was built, but that hadn't really mattered nearly as much to Leo as the remote location had.

The man snorted. "That's the Vectors for you," he said. "Didn't even think to tell you about the murder. Probably afraid you'd balk."

"Murder?" Leo definitely hadn't been told about any murders.

The woman finished ringing up the man's items and leaned over the counter. "It's a horrible story, really," she said, sounding saddened. "There used to be people living up there. Not just Mr. Vector, but several others, too. I guess Dr. Marguez and his granddaughter moved out before everything went pear-shaped, because they weren't around when it happened."

The old man nodded. "Dr. Marguez packed up and left two months before. He'd been arguing with Mr. Vector a lot, he said, and had decided he'd be better off elsewhere. He didn't really live at the manor, either. Spent a few months there a year, doing who knows what, but he didn't live there permanently."

"They were strange up there," the woman picked up and continued. "Very strange, but they never caused any trouble, so they were left alone. Mr. Vector didn't really come into town often, so we didn't know what to make of him, but the Vectors have always been an odd lot. Rumour have it that his father, the previous owner of Vector Hall, was into black magic."

"Pure superstition, of course," the man said, "But damn if it wouldn't have explained a few things." He chuckled a little, then sighed.

Looking up at Leo, the woman nodded, then began speaking again. "Apart from Mr. Vector, there were two other people living up there. One was a teenager, Terra Branford. She was one of the sweetest girls I've ever met, though she always seemed a little unreal, like she should have been a fairytale princess. Lived a little in a world of her own, but she was a sweetheart. Used to come into town every Saturday to buy candy and juice, with this large tomcat she had following her around like a dog."

"I think most the young men in town at the time were sweet on her," the man said. "She was a very pretty little thing. Of course, nobody ever said anything to her. They were far too afraid of Palazzo to do that."

Leo tried piecing together as much of the story as he could from that, but it was obvious he was missing a few very important pieces. "Palazzo?" He asked, curious. The name wasn't familiar to him.

"Kefka Palazzo," the woman confirmed. "He was Terra's legal guardian, though I have no idea how he got to be, because there was something severely wrong with him even before everything happened. He was the strangest of the lot, he was, this pale and intense man who nobody knew much about. He was almost pretty, if you like the angular and kind of reptilian type, but when he looked at you with those ice-blue eyes, you got this feeling he was looking at your soul and found it very amusing."

"Never did like him much," the man agreed. "He had very good manners and all; my wife read somewhere he was from an old Italian noble family, but he had this feel to him as though he could snap at any moment. Didn't help that he ran around looking like a peacock most of the time, either, all bright colours and make-up." He grimaced. "On anyone else, that'd just seem a bit, well, flaming," he said, "But on Palazzo? It seemed more like warning colours on a poisonous animal."

The woman sighed again, and folded her hands in front of her. "He didn't come into town often, either. Which we were all quite relieved about, really." She frowned. "He never did anything to hurt anyone, or anything like that, but he was just terribly unsettling."

"Like a rabid animal," the old man finished.

Nodding, the woman continued. "And then, one day, three years ago, he just snapped, I guess. Mr. Vector had been away on a business trip, and when he came home, he found Terra dead in the living room. She'd been poisoned. Fearing the worst, he went to look for Palazzo, and found him in his room." She swallowed. "This was all gotten from the police officer who was first of the scene, you see," she explained. "Apparently, Palazzo had lost what little grip he had on his sanity. When Mr. Vector found him, he was dying from self-inflicted injuries."

She paused, then continued, in hushed tones. "They say he'd been trying to paint with his own blood when they found him, strange symbols that didn't mean anything to anyone but him.

The silence in the store as she finished speaking was almost tangible.

"His death wasn't a big loss to humanity," the old man finally said, shaking his head. "I knew from the beginning that he was rotten on the inside. But that he was allowed to drag poor Terra down with him was a tragedy. She deserved so much better than that."

He picked up his purchases and tucked them back under his arm. "Ever since, Vector Hall has been seen as a pretty unlucky place to live. I hope you'll have more luck than that, young man." Nodding his head in farewell, he walked out of the store.

The woman behind the counter looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry," she said, after a moment. "I shouldn't have told you that. It's history now, and it's not like it's going to happen again, or anything like that."

Leo gave her a small smile, hoping to reassure her. "I'd rather know about it than to discover it accidentally later, actually," he told her. "As you said, it was years ago, and it's probably not going to cost me any sleep, but it's nice to know what happened."

"I have to wonder why Mr. Vector didn't mention it," she said, then shrugged. "I guess he's been having trouble finding anyone who'd rent a place with a story like that hanging over it, and decided to just omit it. Still, he should have said something."

She shook her head, as though she didn't quite know what to make of it. Leo couldn't blame her. He felt much the same way himself.

Apparently, they'd both run out of words, and nothing much was said after that.

*

Leo returned to Vector Hall feeling a great deal less comfortable about his temporary home than he had. He had long since come to term with his own mortality, and didn't fear death, but he'd never be comfortable with other people's deaths. It had been one of his biggest problems as a soldier, and knowing two people had died in the house was currently living in was not something he enjoyed knowing.

Still, at least he knew that the killer wasn't still out there, escaped from justice. Too many civilians had died in so-called accidents in the war, nobody ever seeing justice for the lives they'd taken.

Terra Branford's killer might have escaped justice, but he would never hurt another human again.

That, at least, made things more liveable.

Carrying all the groceries inside, Leo began sorting through them all, making a system to easily find what he needed when he needed it. One section went in the refrigerator, another in the cupboards, and a third was carried into the pantry. Cleaning supplies went in the cupboard, firewood went in the basement, socks went in the drawer. Everything had its place, and sorting through them was calming. Leo would be the first to admit he could be a bit of a control freak, but it was mainly because his mind blanked out when he worked, and as such, he was nearly always working on something.

He walked around the corner and nearly knocked over a large vase, perched precariously on a tall pedestal.

Leo blinked a little. It seemed a very strange place to place a decoration, in a corner and out of conventional sight, but as he had learned in town, the people living here had apparently not always been exactly sane.

He moved the vase into a corner, settling it safely on the floor so he wouldn't knock it over while he was cleaning, and went downstairs to fetch the vacuum cleaner.

It wasn't hard to tell that Vector Hall was, indeed, a genuine period house. Finding power outlets was nearly impossible. He did finally find one, in the study on the other end of the hallway, so he decided to start his cleaning there. Waging war on the dust, armed with duster, a cloth and a vacuum cleaner, Leo felt a lot more alive than he had in years.

As he cleaned, he slowly became aware that another window must have come open, a chilly breeze flowing into the room. Putting down his duster, he went looking for the window in question, but found none. All the windows on that floor were closed tightly, the latches in place.

He must have imagined it, he supposed, but he almost as soon as he'd returned to the study, the breeze flowed around him again, whirling up dust. Leo coughed as he inhaled some of it and tried opening a window to see if that helped. The windows refused to open.

Not about to give up so soon, Leo went downstairs to his room and fetched a scarf, tying it around his face so he wouldn't inhale what had to be half his weight in dust.

The dust kept swirling around him, but the scarf kept it out of his mouth and nose, so Leo ignored it for now and went on cleaning.

The door slammed shut.

Vector Hall had old doors, too; old, oaken and very heavy, and the force of the slam whirled up even more dust as the sound of it echoed in the halls.

Leo frowned. Clearly, there had to be some sort of draft issue. Maybe if there was an open window downstairs, it left draft come through to the fireplace in the study. There were still a few pieces of firewood in the holder next to the fireplace, and Leo used one of those logs to prop open the door before bringing the duster over to the fireplace. It was a large, cast iron affair with a decorative screen, a stylized symbol on a background of lattice work. Iron scroll-work lined the edges and entwined above it to form a mantel shelf. It was beautiful in a foreboding way, and it was covered in dust and cobwebs.

As he dusted off of it, he realised there were actually pictures on the mantel piece, hidden under all the dust and grime. Just another thing that suggested that the house had been abandoned in haste, probably shortly after the murder. Using the cleaning cloth he'd hung off his belt, he wiped off the pictures and put them aside until he'd cleaned the shelf properly, then started putting them back up, one at a time.

Something behind him rattled, but when he turned, there was nothing there.

Shaking his head at how jumpy he was, Leo turned his attention to the pictures. There were five of them, all recent enough to be from the era of digital photography.

The first one was of what Leo guessed was Gestahl Vector, judging by a low resolution picture he'd found on the internet when he'd looked the man up. A man in his fifties, with grey hair and a grey beard, and looking sternly at the camera, as if it was taken in the days where having your picture taken was a very serious event.

The second picture was of two teenage girls, both blondes, one tall and serious-looking in jeans, a shirt and a vest, the other smiling cheerfully in a long summer dress, a massive cat in her arms. Remembering what the woman in the store had said, he realised that the curly-haired blonde with her cat friend was probably Terra Branford. The other, he supposed, could be the granddaughter mentioned.

The third picture was a group picture, taken in the gardens at the onset of autumn, leaves just changing colours. Terra was in the middle of the picture, her cat at her feet. On her right was the other girl, looking like she'd rather be somewhere else. To her right again was a man Leo didn't recognize, a bit younger than Vector. He supposed it would be the Dr. Marguez he'd heard mentioned, but he didn't really look old enough to be anyone's grandfather. Still, that was the least part of the puzzle that was the former inhabitants of Vector Hall. Vector was on the left end, still looking stern and serious. The man in between Vector and Terra was surprisingly short, slightly shorter than Terra, and was wearing an extremely bright red coat that only emphasized his pale skin, and didn't seem to be looking as much at the camera as he was looking through the camera.

By the process of elimination, that would have to be Kefka Palazzo. He didn't look like a homicidal maniac, but then, homicidal maniacs didn't usually look the part, either.

The fourth picture was also of Palazzo, a portrait taken somewhere with an open fire, the orange light reflecting off of his eyes and in his hair. Leo could see what the lady at the store had meant about his appearance. Palazzo wasn't exactly pretty, but only because his features were a little too angular and sharp for such a description, and because those eerily pale eyes ruined a lot of what would otherwise have been an attractive appearance. They were a little too intense, bright as though they were glowing with some sort of inner fire, and it was hard to say what colour they were, though Leo supposed they were a very pale blue. In the portrait, his hair was loose and there were small braids in it, and it could almost have looked like a portrait of some elven creature if it wasn't for the wicked smile on his lips.

He still didn't look like a murderer, but he did look like trouble. Something told Leo that anyone who thought him an easy target because of his looks and small size would quickly come to regret it.

The final picture was of Vector and Palazzo, posing side by side for the photographer. It seemed like a pretty normal picture, but Leo had gotten used to reading body language a long time ago, and to him, the tension in the picture was obvious, as though the two men were about to turn on each other at any moment. Clearly, there had been some unresolved issues between the two of them.

In the corner of Leo's eye, what had to be the curtain fluttered briefly, far too bright a red in the warm sunlight, and there was a loud noise as the vase in the hallway exploded in a shower of ceramic shrapnel.

Leo froze, the picture dropping from his hands and shattering on the floor, another sound too loud and too harsh in a house as quiet as a mausoleum. He stood rooted to the ground as his mind was taken back to times long past, times that haunted him much more than the ghostly qualities of the manor. The professionals called them flashbacks, but it wasn't a case of reliving his past. It was being forced to watch it all play out in front of him like an elusive echo he could never change, forcing him to see it all over and over again, until the past and the present became impossible to separate.

And then it faded, as quickly as it had started, and he was left with pottery shards and memories of red-stained sand as far as the eye could see, the sound of gunfire and grenades echoing through the empty hallways.

Shivering, Leo bent down to pick up the ruins of the picture, not even noticing it when he cut his fingers open on the glass. Blood dripped onto the photo, drowning out Vector's face and staining parts of Palazzo's skin and hair a horrifying red.

The breeze rattled past him mockingly, as though it was laughing.

Still a bit shaken, Leo fetched the dustbin and began cleaning up the bits of the vase. Hopefully, it wasn't a too expensive piece of decoration. It seemed strange, though. Looking at the pieces, the vase was thick, solid clay and shouldn't have shattered that easily. He picked up one of the pieces and turned it over in his hands. The outside was smooth and glazed, no marks except those painted on. The inside, on the other hand, was covered in tiny cuts. When he ran his fingers across it, it felt almost scarred, and his fingers came away stained with the rusty red clay.

At least he hadn't cut his fingers again.

Once he'd swept up the last bits, Leo went and fetched some gauze and adhesive tape. Finger injuries tended to bleed a lot when they actually bled, and getting blood all over the things he was trying to clean would be counter-productive.

He picked up the ruined picture and carefully removed it from the frame. The frame itself was broken, but there might be a chance of saving the actual photograph. He wiped it clean with the remainder of the gauze, thankful for the glossy surface. It didn't look like the picture was damaged.

The light on the day the picture had been taken must have been just right, the "magic hour" photographers sometimes talked about, because it almost looked like Palazzo's eyes were glowing on their own accord. It gave his already defiant expression an almost vicious slant. He really didn't look too happy about having his picture taken with Vector.

Throwing away the remnants of the frame, Leo carefully placed the picture on the mantel and went back to his cleaning.

The breeze kept flickering past him, but Leo was determined to ignore it for now. A house as old as Vector Hall was bound to have some draft. He still had no idea how such a faint breeze could knock over a heavy ceramic vase, but since it had happened, it had to be possible. The draft had stopped whipping up dust, though, and without that to inconvenience him, Leo could clean much faster.

Without the dust in his face, bringing back memories he tried forgetting, cleaning was a simple routine, letting him move on auto-pilot. Hours later, he'd gotten the entire ground and second floor vacuumed, and was airing out downstairs while sorting through the upstairs in needed to be taken downstairs and washed to be properly clean, and what just needed to be rubbed down.

The bathrooms needed a thorough cleaning, so those would be left for the next day. The kitchen, too, needed a proper round with some cleaning supplies and a cloth, and he scheduled that for after he'd made dinner. He could air out the second floor as he cleaned the kitchen. Once he'd gotten the two floors he'd actually be living on presentable, he'd see about getting the attic and basement straightened out. So far, he'd been unable to open the attic door, but there was probably a key in the house somewhere. The basement was open, but it was little more than a series of dark, dank rooms, fit only for storing objects that weren't prone to moisture damage.

Having formulated a strike plan, Leo was feeling a lot better about how he was going to handle things. Despite the somewhat unpredictable nature of the house, he had always been a meticulous man, and having some sort of routine made everything easier. Strategy was what he did best, a habit ingrained into him by years of military service. If years of warfare couldn't stop him, he wasn't about to let a quirky old house get the better of him.

With renewed determination, he returned downstairs and began preparing dinner. He was no chef, but he could cook enough to keep himself well fed. Since he'd known he'd spend days cleaning, he'd bought food that was easy and quick to make for now, and the day's menu consisted of a quick pasta dish. He didn't have the time or the energy to stand around cooking for ages, and a quick pasta dish was hard to mess up. Twenty minutes later, he had dinner done, and cleaned the pot as the food cooled a little.

Vector Hall actually had a dining room, so Leo took his laptop in there and ate his dinner while reading the newspapers.

As he did, he found himself wondering if Albrook had a local newspaper. A quick search in Google brought up the website of a paper for the region newspaper, which was surprisingly organized considering how small a circulation the paper had to have. He looked at the archive search and, on an impulse, typed in Terra Branford's name.

A lot of pages came up. Surprisingly, not all of them had to do with the murder. The first page he opened was from a summer feast the town had held five years ago, and among the pictured residents, there was a picture of Terra together with the other girl from the picture on the mantel. The blurb underneath identified her as Celes Chere, of age with Terra and fellow resident of Vector Hall.

Most of the hits were pages about the murder, though. That much, he had expected. Albrook was a small town, and a murder-suicide had to he the talk of the town for years afterwards. Putting his bowl aside, Leo spend a good hour just reading up on the murder and the events surrounding it. By the time he'd gotten though the archive, he'd learned most of the public opinions on Terra, Palazzo and Vector, speculations as to where Marguez and his granddaughter had gone, and speculations as to what would be the final fate of Vector Hall. He'd learned that Terra had been at the top of her class in school and that she'd been planning to become a paediatrician, that, Palazzo had been a skilled artist who'd won prizes for his work, and that most people believed he'd been on drugs when the murder had happened.

He'd also learned that the newspaper's discussion forum was a great source of local gossip. There was even a post about his presence in Vector Hall. They were quick about getting the news spread around.

Sighing, he closed his laptop and carried the bowl back into the kitchen to clean, both the bowl and the kitchen itself.

Hours later, he decided that was enough. The kitchen was as clean as it was going to get without dismantling it entirely and shoving every bit in an autoclave. It was a bit run down, being a pretty old kitchen, but it was solid and well-built, and it would probably take a severe earthquake to damage it entirely. After a good round with mop and dish-rags, the kitchen was more than clean enough for his use, at least. It probably wouldn't pass a health inspection, but then, Leo was hardly a restaurant, and considering that he'd lived on army rations for a long while, he was less than picky.

Satisfied, Leo put away his cleaning supplies and put on a pot of coffee. He wasn't quite ready to go to bed just yet, but he wasn't going to clean any more, either. Deciding to relax for the rest of the evening, he brought his laptop upstairs to the study where the best desk was. It was an old, oaken affair, heavy and intricate, and large enough to be the ideal height for Leo to use it comfortably. It looked like it might be original to the house, which was impressive, considering that few people in the late nineteenth century were his height. Possibly, the owner had been unusually tall, or maybe just liked large furniture. Whatever it was, Leo appreciated not being stuck using a desk intended for someone half a foot shorter.

Leo quite enjoyed reading. He'd taken to filling flash drives with electronic books, to avoid over-filling his already small apartment, and he'd amassed quite a collection. As a result, he was never without something to read. He should probably invest in a Kindle or something, so he could bring his books anywhere, but as it was, he hadn't really needed one so far.

Leaned back on a chair, a good book open on his screen and soft music streaming from his speakers, and with the warm satisfaction of having gotten a lot of things done in his stomach, Leo was feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time. The house might be draughty and dusty, with some strange quirks, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. If you know both yourself and your enemy, you can win a hundred battles without a single loss, one of the more famous quotes from the book he was reading stated. It was a statement Leo could agree with.

Eventually, he decided to call it a night and go to bed. He was getting too tired to do anything else, having spent the entire day working hard, and since he intended working just as much the next day, he might as well get a good night's sleep. There were few things that weren't better dealt with when you had a rested body and a clear mind. Closing the lid of the laptop, he got up and stretched before going downstairs.

He finished getting ready for bed rather quickly, and crawled into the bed, shifting a bit for the best possible position. It didn't take him long to fall asleep once he'd turned off the night light and settled in.

*

When he woke again, he woke with a start, his skin clammy from sweat in the cold air. His head still swam with the visions of his dream; blood and fire everywhere, blood, fire and the sound of people screaming as the flames consumed them. Almost automatically, his hand came up to his chest, pressing against the large scar there. It felt different from the rest of his skin, slightly raised and oddly smooth, and it held memory of pain and loss. The bomb that had caused the explosion had been one of their own, and nearly everyone who'd died as a result of the impact had been his troops or civilians. The small town that had been kind enough to take in a group of foreign soldiers so very far from home had burned for days afterwards, the flames consuming everything in their path.

Leo dreamt of those events often, but this time, there was something more. Even over the screams and the sound of fire, there was a cruel, high-pitched laughter, oddly cold in contrast to the inferno that the town had become.

With the peace and satisfaction he had felt the evening before chased away by the memories his nightmares dredged up, Leo stiffly got out of bed, feeling the tension of his bad dream coiling inside his muscles. He grimaced, rubbing ineffectually at his sore shoulder, and stretched as much as his body would allow.

Getting dressed automatically, in a bit of a daze, he went into the kitchen and put on coffee, making breakfast as he waited for it to finish. He ate in the kitchen, not seeing the point in using the dining room for a quick meal. The coffee was a bit too strong, and far too hot, but it did help him clear his head, which was what he'd hoped for. Though the taste had grown on him, he wasn't drinking coffee for the flavour. If it wasn't for the effect, he might as well have been drinking tea or juice. It was a habit he'd picked up in the army. He'd never seen the need for caffeine until he'd found himself a commissioned officer in charge of an entire company. After that, he'd needed it, suddenly understanding why some people joked about getting a caffeine IV.

Once he was fed and caffeinated, he began cleaning the bathrooms. They took less time than he'd expected, and he found himself carrying boxes of stuff that could handle it down into the basement, stacking them carefully.

The basement was a treacherous place, filled with dark, narrow hallways, low ceiling beams and almost no light. At some point, it had probably been a few bigger rooms, but someone had put in a series of walls, making a minor labyrinth of storage rooms and corridors. The staircase was steep enough that a fall down it could probably cause some serious damage, or even be lethal if someone landed wrong. It was almost as though the basement had been designed by different person than rest of the the house. Above ground, it was a beautiful, if overly dramatic house, all pseudo-Victorian charm with lace-like detail work and a small tower. Below ground, it was a logistic nightmare.

Like all nightmares, it wasn't content to leave well enough alone, either. As Leo was heading back upstairs, the staircase creaked ominously under his feet. He frowned, pausing for a moment, but when nothing else happened, he decided he might as well risk it. The moment he put his feet on the next step, it snapped under his weight, sending him tumbling back down the stairs.

Thankfully, a pile of old boxes cushioned his fall.

Groaning, he groped around for his torch. The hallway was too dark for him to see how severe the damage was without it. Instead, his fingers encountered something else; something hard, yet covered with a soft layer. When he did find his torch, he looked at what he'd found. It was a book, with a cloth-covered binding, and it looked hand-made. He picked it up, only to catch a flash of metal as something fell out from the book's cover, where the fabric had ripped when he fell into it. A small brass key lay on the dark floor, glinting dully in the light. It was another lever lock key, like the ones to the house, but this one had apparently been attempted hidden. Picking it up, he examined it briefly before slipping it into his pocket, deciding he could play guess the lock later.

Flickering his torch over the rest of the breakage to make sure he hadn't ruined anything valuable, his mind was set at ease by the fact that most of it seemed to be old books and paper. In between all of the waterlogged paper, though, there was a small statue, finely made but not very pleasant to look at. It was of a demonic figure, wings swept out behind it. Leo carefully reached down and lifted it upright, putting it somewhere out of harm's way.

He did manage to climb back up, but he was going to have to buy some boards the next time he was in town so he could fix the staircase. He might not be planning on using the basement often, but being able to get down there when he needed to was still a good idea.

Feeling a bit grimy, he went to take a shower, then made himself a few slices of bread with cheese and brought them with him upstairs to the study, to check his mail and to further his strike plan as to handling the house. Most of the house was cleaned, and the dust vanquished for now, which left him with only a few things left on his agenda. He needed to get hold of a chimney sweep to make sure the chimney wasn't stuffed before he began using the fireplace, and now he also needed to fix the basement staircase. Neither of those were something he could do that day, though. It was a Sunday, so nothing would be open. The last place he wanted to look over was the attic, but since it was locked, he wasn't entirely certain as to how he'd do that.

Surprisingly, he'd never had to learn how to pick a lock. He knew how to break a door down, yes, but not how to open a lock without causing damage, and he didn't really want to explain to Vector why the door was missing, nor did he feel like replacing a perfectly fine door just because he didn't have a key.

As he sipped his coffee, something occurred to him. He did have a key he didn't know where belonged. He might as well try it on the attic door. If it didn't work, it wouldn't get him anywhere, and if it did, he'd have another entire floor to clean. Chuckling to himself, he finished his lunch and carefully made his way up the attic stairs. They certainly looked far better kept than the basement stairs, but he didn't want to risk anything. He was quickly learning that this house was a lot more treacherous than it seemed.

He fished the key out of his pocket and looked at it, trying to measure it against the lock. That left him none the wiser, so he put the key in the lock and tried to turn it.

The door unlocked with an audible click.

Leo opened the door slowly. Presumably, it had been locked for a long time, maybe even for the last three years, so it was better to be careful. It would have been a little too typical if the door fell off its hinges when he'd been careful and used a key.

The attic floor was smaller than the lower ones, more like half a floor than anything. There were only two rooms up there, at least that he could see.

One was a bathroom, lined directly above the bathrooms on the other floors. It was a fairly large bathroom, dominated by the mosaic covering the walls. It was a very well made mosaic, with what looked like bramble vines winding their way across the wall, framing what looked like a red-coloured peacock. It was probably intended to be a phoenix, and it certainly looked majestic, but it wasn't done. The feathers on the tail and wings were stunted, and the wall behind showed where the mosaic had been left uncompleted. Leo touched it carefully, almost surprised at how cold it felt to the touch. It was incredibly detailed, the flames and feathers spread out in a picture of grace. It was a shame it had never been completed. Had it just been normal tiles, he could have finished the job, but the phoenix had clearly been designed with a specific image in mind, and Leo wasn't a good enough artist to finish it.

It had probably been Palazzo's last project before he'd killed himself. Trying to finish it up would be disrespectful.

The other room seemed to be a combined bedroom, living room and workspace. It was very large, but the space had been split into many little sections using a multitude of room dividers. Some were heavy, carved wood affairs, some were cloth, and others again were paper. One had been coated in blackboard paint and had things scribbled all over it. Unlike the rest of the house, which had been mostly emptied of personal effects, this room looked like the owner had just taken an unexpected vacation. There was things all over the room, and if it wasn't for the thick layer of dust, it would look lived in. Leo supposed that if they key had gotten mixed up in other things, the door had probably been locked since the day of the murder, and nobody had come up there to move things or clean up.

Standing in the middle of the room, Leo was definitely getting the impression that the person who'd lived there had been a very strange person, but there were some things that drew his attention more than others. There was clothing hung out on one of the wooden screens, as if to wear later. The blackboard screen had what appeared to be a to-do list on it, though it was hard to discern anything from the handwriting. On the desk, another of the strange figurines, like the one he'd found in the basement, was being used as a paperweight of sorts. This one was hard to define as anything but monstrous. And there was the unfinished phoenix in the bathroom. Assuming that it was in fact Palazzo's room, it seemed somewhat odd for someone who clearly had plans for the future to just suddenly kill himself. He supposed there was always the fact that the man had apparently been insane, but the room didn't give an impression of a person who was a danger to the safety of himself and others.

As he moved around the room, he felt even more like he was missing a large piece of a puzzle he hadn't even been aware he was solving. One of the dividers near the desk was covered in drawings. There were still lives, architecture and landscape art, but mostly, they were of living things. One seemed to be a sketch for the phoenix, all sweeping feathers fading into fire, another was of a fluffy cat napping in a window sill. Art of mythological creatures were mixed with art of insects and animals anyone could find in their garden. A lot of the art, though, was of people. All the inhabitants of the house were represented, even a few of Palazzo himself, but most of the drawings were sketches and portraits of Terra. The amount of attention to detail in the art spoke volumes of affection, and again, Leo found it hard to console the person who'd drawn those pictures with the person who had killed a teenage girl and then himself.

There was a book on the desk, a large book bound in terracotta leather and with gilded details, the same bramble and phoenix motif from the bathroom. Usually, he'd have stayed far away from anything that clearly looked like someone's private notebook, but something about the story of the house drove him to seek answers. Dusting off the cover carefully, Leo opened the book and began reading the first page.

The book was a journal of sorts, but it was more than just that. There were photographs and sketches in between the accounts of Palazzo's daily life, as well as the occasional pressed flower or scrap of fabric, taped to the pages. Palazzo had an eye for details and a talent for sarcasm that was all too obvious in his writing, which leaned towards acidic at times, especially towards Vector or Marguez. He spoke only well of Terra, though, the closest thing to criticism towards her an accusation of being too lenient with her "fluff ball menace". A sketch of the fluff ball menace in question showed the cat from the earlier art, presumably Terra's loyal cat friend.

Reading briefly through the text, Leo could easily see why people said Palazzo wasn't quite right in his head, but there was no sign of the kind of incoherent insanity the townspeople had painted a picture of in their story. What he could see was that over the about two years the journal covered, Palazzo was growing steadily more frustrated with Vector, and occasionally Marguez. He didn't seem to have any problems at all with Terra, though, and he seemed to mostly ignore Celes' presence entirely.

A bookmark had been placed at the last entry, a seven-strand braid of fabric, ribbons and long, blonde hair. Unlike the rest of the entries, there was only a little text, written with bright red ink in large letters across the page.

I know what he is up to!

There was no sketches or clues as to what the text meant, just vivid red writing against the white of the paper.

The more he learned about the story behind the house, the more he felt like he was missing an integral part of the puzzle. Whatever else had happened, he was convinced there was more to the murder than just Palazzo losing his mind and killing Terra in a fit of rage. There was something else, in the background, and he couldn't help but feeling like it needed to be discovered.

He closed the journal and picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy in his hands, far more so than he'd have expected. As clues went, it was a fairly cryptic one, but it was all he had access to at the moment, and it was better than nothing. He held the book against his chest and made his way back down into the study, putting it next to the laptop. There was research that needed doing.

Nobody had seen Vector since the murder. He hadn't attended either of the funerals, and had retreated to somewhere unknown, only communicating with the world through letters, emails and the occasional phone call. Similarly, after Dr. Marguez and his granddaughter had left Vector Hall, they'd vanished without a trace. Unlike Vector, who at least communicated still, they'd never been heard from again. Vector had been the one to find Terra's body and the dying Palazzo, and he'd given a statement, but after that, he had only been heard, not seen. It was entirely possible someone else had been the one to murder Terra and fatally wound Palazzo, and that the murderer had already disposed of Marguez and Celes before that. It was even possible that they'd gone on to kill Vector and take his place. Nobody would know, considering his self-imposed solitude.

Leo had never much liked crime stories, and now he felt like he was living one. At least the murderer, whoever it was, was either dead or presumably far away from here. That, at least, was a small blessing. Still, Leo would have felt a lot better if he'd actually been certain that it was Palazzo who had killed Terra. It was still a horrible tragedy, of course, but at least it meant that the murderer wasn't still out there, killing other people.

The only real lead he had on anything was Vector. The man was probably the only one who had even the faintest idea about what had happened, but he wasn't an easy man to get in touch with. All correspondence Leo had with the man had been through mail, both email and snail mail. A letter would take too long, so Leo wrote an email to Vector, trying to get as much information out of him as he could without revealing too much. He tried his best to formulate a question as to why he hadn't been informed about the murder without sounding like he was accusing Vector of anything, hoping he could mask what he knew was a beginning obsession as a case of mild curiosity. He wasn't really expecting much of an answer apart from a general comment about not wanting to cause worry or something, but he needed to get it off his chest, anyway.

Once the email was done and sent, Leo decided to take the rest of the day off. He wasn't going to do much about the attic. It didn't feel right to walk around up there, getting mixed up in someone else's life, even if that someone had been dead for three years. He'd go into town again the following day, to buy boards and supplies to fix the basement staircase, but until then, he really wasn't sure what he should be doing.

Digging through his music folder, he found himself sorting through stuff to make a play-list suited for his mood, and let the music play in the background as he opened his book again.

Occasionally, his eyes would flicker to the leather-bound journal on the desk, as though it called to him, but every time, he forced himself to go back to the book he was supposed to be reading. Eventually, he picked the book up and placed it in one of the drawers, one of the ones with a lock on, and turned the key. The click was entirely too satisfying.

After a few hours, he made dinner, then read some more until he felt sleepy enough to go to bed. It was a lazy way to spend all day, and not at all productive, but he alleviated his guilt by promising himself that he'd go for a long walk the next day, while the sun was still up, so he'd at least get something out of the day. It was no wonder he was getting so caught up in the story of the murder. He was used to being active all day, not to having hours and hours of free time. There was a reason he didn't have that many hobbies. He'd never had time for any before his retirement from the army. The sooner he managed to sort himself out so he could trust himself to work properly without getting distracted by memories of people he'd watched die, the better. He was starting to suspect that there was a certain truth to the old saying about idle hands and the devil. If he'd had something useful to do with himself, he wouldn't sit around obsessing over a murder that was several years old and had nothing to do with him what so ever.