Chapter Text
Jonathan Sims wasn’t stupid.
He wasn’t! No matter what Georgie would say about him with that annoyingly fond roll of her eyes. That’s why he was here, at an abandoned house, in the middle of the night. Right.
He exhaled slowly in the cold air, watching the fog come out of his mouth like smoke. He had quit a couple of years ago, but he was starting to regret that decision now, as he stood in front of the old house, looming far more menacingly than it had any right too. His hand twitched at his side, reaching instinctively for the lighter that wasn’t there. He could really use the distraction right now. He hesitantly reached out his hand towards the front door.
There wasn’t any reason for him to be nervous. There wasn’t, not really.
He just had a hunch. And he really didn’t want to deal with the teasing that would come with the admission that yes, Jonathan Sims, famed paranormal skepticist—despite working for the Magnus Institute—had an encounter someone might even call “spooky.” Someone like Tim, who Jon was most definitely not like.
This wasn’t an admission of anything: it was just an investigation, academic and professional.
He turned on his torch, grabbing the key out of his pocket with shivering hands. The key jiggled in the lock, not fitting quite right. It was almost like… like the door didn’t want to open.
He pushed the ridiculous thought aside in an instant. It was just an old, stubborn lock. The house was quite fallen apart, and maybe he’d need to resort to less… refined methods of getting in, like climbing through the window or using the lockpicking tools he often brought on for follow-ups. He pressed more forcefully against the ancient wooden thing, until—
Click
The door swung open, wind surging past, running through his loosely tied hair and pushing past him into the waiting dark. He swore he heard whispers of words on the breeze, and he shivered. From the cold. Just the cold, even as he cast a nervous glance back to the car.
He hadn’t told anyone what he was doing tonight. He stood on the front doorstep, his resolve faltering.
Jonathan Sims was many things, but a brave man was not one of them.
But he was far too stubborn to back out now.
So he stepped into the house. When the door began to drift shut gently behind him, he merely shot a foot out to restrain it from doing so any further. When adrenaline began to pound from the swift motion, he shook it off. When he finally took his foot out and watched it close, he left.
Not after checking that the door hadn’t locked behind him though.
It hadn’t.
Get a hold of yourself, Jon. Doors don’t lock from the inside. Especially not on their own.
Well. Maybe he had reason to be suspicious after last week. Despite what anyone else might say, Jon did believe in the supernatural. Just that true, genuine incidences of it were so few and far in between that most cases could be easily discounted. Last week, Jon had just been doing some follow-up, a statement giver supposedly disappearing at this very house, so he went for a quick investigation.
And nothing happened! Nothing worth mentioning to the others, at least. So he’d closed the case, sent it to the discredited section, and tried to put the whole thing out of his mind.
That was a harder task than he’d thought it would be. He thought the drifting figures, unusually cold fog, and whispers of words telling him to ‘leave’ warranted a second look. Most supposed encounters were easily disproved with a second look.
He lifted his torch, watching the beam of light piece the mist, reaching perhaps less than it ought to have, but certainly more than enough to navigate. Shifting back and forth nervously yielded creaking groans from the floorboards, a light dust covering every surface he could see. This was a fairly old house, after all, built in the 60s and abandoned in the 80s.
He flicked on the light switch, but the room stayed resolutely dark except for his illuminating beam of light, like a lighthouse bordering a drifting sea. The breaker must be off, he reasoned: he ought to remedy that first. Things often seemed much less terrifying in the light. Sasha had found an old floorplan, but he knew from his last visit there were quite a few discrepancies, so he didn’t bother taking it out of his car.
He’d just have to wander around and hope he could find it. It wasn’t too large of a house, while it was certainly much too big for one person, it was more than a reasonable enough size to explore in a single night. The basement would probably be a good start, he reasoned.
Another flurry of wind came by when he opened the door. From the basement. Right. Pushing past any lingering doubt and—urgh, cobwebs, he noticed with a scowl, quickly brushing them off—he headed down the stairs, the floorboards creaking loudly underneath him as he went. It would do well to be cautious, on such an unsteady foundation, and to make it worse, the railings were coated in a fine layer of dust and silt he was hesitant to touch. He took his time moving down, avoiding more webs as he went.
He decided to flick on some of the lights as he went by. Hopefully it would make the way back a little easier. He found the breaker in short order, covered in the same layer of grime and cobwebs as everything else in this desolate place, and reached to turn it—SLAM!
Let it be known he was not proud of the scream that ripped from him when a door was flung shut from somewhere upstairs.
He was suddenly very glad no one else was here to witness… at least he had thought no one else was here, but… He turned around, almost expecting someone to be waiting menacingly behind him, but of course, the room was empty as the light from his torch flitted around in the dark.
A great temperature differential can cause doors to close very suddenly, he rationalized. Not to mention all the wind blowing through…another hesitant glance around. Never mind the fact there really shouldn’t be wind in an enclosed space. He turned the breaker on, watching as a few lights began to flicker on.
With one last steadying breath, he headed back up the stairs, and turned open the door at the top. It wasn’t locked. Of course not. The last step creaked under his foot as he pushed himself up and then he heard it.
A static sound, coming from the living room, it seemed.
He peeked in to see an ancient TV set, screen flickering and the garbled sound pouring out. He hesitantly put a hand on the dusty button and turned it off. It must have been on when the house lost power, he reasoned.
He wandered around towards the kitchen, finding nothing particularly notable there. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. Reassurance, he supposed, that nothing truly strange was going on here. Nothing had really happened yet.
He was heading back towards the entrance and the staircase that led to the upper floor when he heard it.
Static.
Again.
His steps redirected towards the living room again, he looked in and saw the screen flaring once more. A furrow in his brow, he reached to turn it off. Again.
Then, shrugging off the nervous energy once more, he strode off towards the stairway, and with a couple deep breaths, headed upstairs. There he was met with a hallway of rooms, a closed door at the very end.
Entering the first room, he found a fairly minimalist office space of some sort. A small sturdy desk, with a clunky laptop on top, a couple filing cabinets and a plain wave patterned carpet. Remarkably modern, for how old the house was, to be sure, but not super notable. A little less dusty, he supposed, but not unusually so.
He turned around and—a screech raced by his ear.
He did manage not to scream this time, gasping loudly as his hands clutched at the door handle, his heart set once again at a breakneck pace.
He supposed calling it a screech was rather generous. It was just a loud hiss of wind, right next to his ear. Wind, the thought numbly, releasing his white-knuckled grip carefully, straightening up again and heading out of the room to continue his search.
The next room was a bathroom, well kept other than the dust…except. His nose wrinkled at the stench of rot, and he peered into the bathtub to find lingering mold, and even a few little insects. Disgusting, silver little things, thankfully not wriggling in the rot. To be expected, from a house this old, he thought, though he still had to stop himself from wretching as he closed the door.
The next open door was a little closet. He bent down to examine the contents on the floor, a couple towels and a laundry basket, but found nothing else there, so he closed it rather quickly.
Making his way to the last door, he reached out for the handle.
Thump!
He jumped at the noise of something thudding loudly downstairs. Sweat was beginning to pool on his brow, trickling down his neck, and his heart was beating far too loud in his chest again. Had something fallen downstairs? That must be it… unless. Well.
The door handle awaited him, tempting. At the thought of an otherworldly and possibly malevolent presence lingering in this house, a smarter man might’ve turned back.
Jon did not.
Jon grabbed the handle with renewed determination, but his palm was sweating quite heavily and it slipped in his grip. The door was refusing to give even as he pressed against it with his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, pushing harder against the rusty handle: if he had to break this damn door down to get in, he would.
The handle finally gave, and he stumbled into the room, breathless, eyes darting around to find…
Nothing. Nothing unusual at least. A remarkably normal looking bedroom, sheets still made.
He let out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. Honestly, what had he even been expecting? A corpse? He shook his head with a huff, and sat down on the plush mattress beside him.
The room was surprisingly homey for not having been lived in for 40 years. There was a meager dresser on the side, complete with a still-open journal and pencil, a glasses case, and a little lamp, which he reached to turn on. An orange glow illuminated the otherwise gloomy room and oppressive darkness that loomed outside the window.
On the other side of the room, next to the window was a comfy armchair set beside a small bookcase. Gaze quickly darting towards the books, he noticed they looked rather nice, but also well loved. Many of them had embellished gold lettering on the side, overdramatic poetry volumes—he wrinkled his nose at the sight of several works of Keats, which looked particularly worn—but there were also a variety of others. A few larger academic books, encyclopedias and dictionaries and even a couple lighter novels, romances and such.
Almost all of them, he noticed, both looked taken care of and like they had been read many times. The bindings were loose, he noticed, stepping towards them, but those patches seemed to have been repaired: a certain homemade quality to them.
That made him smile just a bit.
It was then that he noticed something behind the bookcase. Peeking out just over the top, was a door. The sight of it threw him off for a second, and he felt himself stiffen, that sense of looming dread returning swiftly.
His hand came out to touch where the seam of the shelf met the edge of the door, and a breeze of cold rolled past, fog building. He took his hand back, rubbing them together for warmth. The room had felt cold before, but now it felt almost freezing.
He began to tug at the shelf, before quickly realizing he wouldn’t be able to move it easily like this. He started to move books back and forth, to lighten the load and get into the door when—
“Wow, you are stubborn. You know most people run away from houses with ghosts in them?”
Jon screamed, falling to the ground as he whirled around to find himself face to face with…
A ghost, he supposed, taking in the sight numbly.
All things considered, the man in front of him was rather normal looking, he thought, in between wondering whether he was going to die now. He was quite tall, his towering figure not helped by the fact Jon was currently on the floor, but his large frame was… soft looking. Hunched over slightly, he noticed, as though trying to appear smaller. Unsuccessfully, he thought. Faded auburn curls with frost blond tips edged his rounded face and pale blue eyes.
Jon was distracted from his observations by said man coming up to him, but Jon realized that he wasn’t going for him at all, instead stooping down to collect the book Jon had dropped in his shock.
“Do try and be careful with these,” the ghost cautioned, wiping dust off the front, “they can be quite fragile.”
Jon just nodded mutely, still staring shell-shocked at the man. He was quite a bit closer now, and Jon could see a sort of… haze to him. The edges of his form were faded, a smoky fog drifting off, blurring the lines between the ghost and the mist lingering in the room. He frowned at Jon.
“You do know how to use your words, right? D-Do you not speak English?”
The indignity of it all was what broke Jon out of his trance, “Well, yes I know how to use my words!” he spat out, “Forgive me for having some trouble after seeing a literal ghost.”
“Ah good. I don’t suppose you’ll mind me asking what you’re doing here again?” he asked in far too casual a manner in Jon’s opinion, “I rather hoped I had scared you off the first time.”
“Wait, you were trying to scare me off?”
“Well, yes,” the ghost admitted with an easy shrug.
“Why??”
The ghost watched him for a moment, and Jon thought he looked almost… sad. His expression was far more serious, his brow furrowed, “It’s not safe for you to be here,” he said with an ominous tone, and Jon stiffened.
Something in his eyes looked… distant, vague… cold. Jon shivered, “Why not?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, “Are, are y-you…” he trailed off.
He couldn’t manage to finish that thought, pressing back into the shelves almost subconsciously, though he knew it wouldn’t do much. The ghost’s features softened at the motion, and Jon let out a breath as he took a careful step back, turning away to set the book on the bed.
“No, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly, before straightening again, “But unfortunately, I’m not the only thing here.”
“Are there other ghosts here, right now?” Jon questioned, struggling to keep his tone quiet, eyes darting around the room wildly. He was fine, he was fine, he was huddled in the corner with a literal ghost blocking the exit and apparently there were more of them.
The ghost must have seen some of that in his face, grimacing, “N-No, no,” he assured, motioning frantically with his hands, “It’s just me for now. But you need to leave.”
He reached out a hand to help him up, but Jon just stared at it numbly for a moment, and he took it back a moment later, muttering to himself, “Right, that probably wouldn’t help anyway…”
That phrase piqued Jon’s curiosity, but he tried to hold his tongue as he finally stood up shakily.
He managed about half a second of self control, “Can you not interact with people?” he blurted out. The ghost watched him confused, but Jon’s mouth was open now, and he just kept rambling, “Is it different from objects somehow? Because you can stand on the floor and you picked up the book? Why? Wait, does that mean other people have been here before?”
At the silence that followed, Jon began to question every choice he’d ever made that led to this moment. Maybe he should’ve taken the retail job instead of The Institute, maybe he should’ve let Sasha handle this case. He was going to die now because he couldn’t shut his mouth.
But then, the ghost just snorted, covering his mouth with his hand.
He was ever so slightly translucent, Jon’s brain pointed out, so he could just barely see the dimples underneath his hand from the smile he was apparently trying to hide. Huh.
After a moment, he removed his hand and the ghost actually began to respond to his questions, “The answer is no, I can’t interact with people. I don’t know why it’s different. People have been to this house before, but not many,” he ticked the questions off on his hands. He gave a small smile, “That answer everything you wanted to know?”
Jon spluttered for a moment, but quickly found his words, "Certainly not!” His mind was thrumming with questions under the surface, “H-How, er, how did you even get here?” He asked eagerly.
“You mean, how did I get to this house or…” the ghost watched him for a long moment while Jon waited, practically vibrating with excitement. He went still again when the ghost’s eyes became cold, “Are you asking how I died?”
It was then that Jon realized that might not have been the wisest thing to ask. Ignoring the internal voice of Melanie telling him not to be a nosy brat, he quickly backtracked, “W-Well, that, y-you, er, don’t have t-to answer, obviously, I-I, uh…”
He trailed off as the ghost just looked at him.
Maybe it would be better to just keep his mouth shut entirely. Jon wasn’t very good at that, but he should probably make an effort when in the presence of something that could very easily kill him.
The ghost watched him for a long moment and Jon tried to ignore the fact he was still backed into a corner.
“I was murdered,” he answered with a slow and deliberate voice. Then he turned around, and beckoned for Jon to follow, which he did on unsteady legs.
Coming out into the hallway, the ghost continued without turning to him again, “That’s what’s in the closet, by the way. My body. So you don’t need to come back and explore it.”
That startled him for a moment, “A-Ah, I see…” he paused as they went down the stairs, steps creaking loudly, “so, heh, uh, it’s… a literal, er, skeleton in the closet?” he tried.
That made the ghost snort again, but Jon didn’t get to see the dimples this time. “Pretty much,” he returned, before muttering to himself, “Peter probably thinks he’s being really clever with that one.”
At the mention of another name, Jon could practically feel the question waiting on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to still it with the memory of the ice in his gaze. Barely. It took a more than significant amount of effort, but he stayed silent till they made it back to the front door.
It swung open in front of them as they arrived, a breeze flowing through his hair, and he shivered. Jon watched in awe, losing his control again and turning to the ghost again, “Wait, you can control things in the house without touching them? Without touching them?” he asked breathlessly. That was slightly terrifying, but also extremely fascinating.
“Er, yes?” he answered, looking awfully confused for the person with most of the information in this situation, “It takes a lot more focus, but…” he gestured towards the door as Jon stood there brimming with curiosity, “but you should probably go now.”
Jon hesitated, and the ghost just shot him that dark look, “Don’t come back.”
“Wait, wait… I can’t come back… at all?” his brows furrowed quickly, “But I have so many questions…” he grumbled.
“Then I guess you’ll have to deal with it,” the ghost retorted, “Because I mean it when I say it’s not safe here.”
“Why?”
“Because the person who killed me comes to visit sometimes.”
…
Oh.
That was sound logic, he supposed. He didn’t really want to be in a house with a murderer. Then again, he was currently in a house with a ghost—and he wasn’t dead, his brain pointed out—and he was hesitating to leave. His survival instincts could probably use some work.
Still. A frown pulled at his lips. Here was real, genuine evidence of the paranormal and he had to leave and never come back? Surely not.
“…How often do they come back?”
The ghost stared at him.
“What?”
“How often do they come back?” he repeated louder, straightening up.
He still looked rather shocked, but Jon just raised his eyebrows at him and the ghost began to stammer out a response, “Well, only every couple of months or so but… I-I, I mean it’s not like I, h-have a… a schedule. He could show up at any minute while you’re here.”
“But…” he reasoned out loud, “if I came back almost directly after a visit, he probably wouldn’t be here, right?’
“Please don’t tell me you’re actually considering this.”
“It would work though, wouldn’t it?”
“Oh my god you’re planning on coming back.”
“Wouldn’t it?” he practically demanded. The ghost still hesitated, and Jon had an idea, “Or… Can you leave the house?”
He let out a sigh, and slowly shook his head, “No, No, I can’t,” he murmured.
Jon frowned at the motion, before shaking himself and continuing his barrage of questions, “When did he last come?”
“…Uh, a couple weeks ago, I think? It’s rather hard to tell sometimes…”
“So I could probably come back tomorrow night?” Jon asked with a grin.
“M-Maybe? I guess, b-but—”
“Great!” he crowed, perking up at the thought of questions answered, and extending his hand, “I’ll see you tomorrow then…”
The ghost stared at his hand stretched out, before finally answering, “…Martin. My name is Martin.”
“Jon,” he answered in return, still holding out his hand for a handshake. It wasn’t until a second later he realized it wouldn’t work and took it back, “Right, I forgot.”
The ghost—no, Martin—huffed another laugh, “No, no, we can pretend for a moment.” He reached his own hand out, ethereal and faded, but also ruddy and freckled.
Taking it in hand… No, that wasn’t the right word. There wasn’t anything there to hold, despite how real it looked. It was cold, he noticed, a slight chill biting his skin as he ran his fingers through… something. A mist of almost-substance, like running your hand through a running river. There was a slight weight to it, a resistance—quite the strange sensation.
“Huh,” Martin murmured as he drew his hand back, “That’s strange.”
Before Jon could open his mouth to ask about that though, there was a sound from upstairs, and Martin swore under his breath, a puff of fog coming out in the cold. “You have to go, now,” he told Jon, fog curling around his ankles as he gestured towards the door.
For once, he didn’t hesitate, just nodded, and popped out the door, though he threw a wave back as he went.
Martin returned it weakly, before his face grew cold and the door closed to block his view.
Jon ran back to the car, panting in the dead of night. Something almost like a smile on his face, he drove back to his flat, and tried—unsuccessfully—to fall asleep.
Martin slammed the door behind Jon, scowling as he heard Peter rummaging around upstairs. Normally, he couldn’t be bothered to be upset, it was Peter’s house after all. Something in him still twitched as he swore he could feel Peter riffling through his stuff, probably upset he wasn’t in his office.
As though killing him wasn’t enough, he also needed to do paperwork in the meantime.
Still, the paperwork was better than nothing, which is what he would be doing otherwise, other than wandering the same old house, rereading the same old poems, or staring wistfully out the window. He couldn’t do the same things forever, he might go mad.
Well. Maybe he could. Forever sounds like a long time, but it’s all the same to Martin at this point: days, weeks, months, years, they all bleed together in a haze of nothingness. Boredom was a familiar companion of his, the paperwork providing his only entertainment, the only sense of novelty.
It was no longer the most entertaining thing on his mind now, not even close. But Jon was gone, and that was good, with Peter here, so he schooled his face into one of careful neutrality and headed up the stairs.
It didn’t used to be a struggle to act bored, but he was practiced enough in the motion he could easily fake it.
“Ah, Martin, lovely so see you,” came that falsely cheerful voice as the ghost came into the room.
“Peter,” he returned dully, “You seem a little early for your usual visit.”
“Am I? Time is rather hard to keep track of here.”
“I suppose so,” he conceded, slipping into his chair, “So that’s why you’re here?”
“Yes,” he said, with that fake grin still plastered to his face, “Though I must admit I was surprised to see you out of the office…”
“Was wandering the house a bit,” he said with an easy shrug.
“Bored of the work?” Peter asked brightly, “I mean I could always just leave your mother well enough alone…”
“Of course not, Peter,” he returned calmly, hiding that snarl underneath that carefully crafted tone. He was good at that, after so many years, “I’m doing just fine. And the work is getting done, isn’t it?”
“Ah, of course, it’s always wonderful,” Peter assured him, “You don’t mind if I take a little look around the house?”
“Of course not,” he repeated again, taking his pen in hand with a practice motion of careful efficiency while Peter wandered off to explore. That was rather unusual, he supposed vaguely, but neither that nor the papers were the most interesting thing he could think about, and his mind wandered.
It was probably a good thing he could do most of this in his sleep by now: half his mind hazily running calculations and typing up reports, the other half was fully consumed by thoughts of the man who’d so recently invaded his house.
Jon.
He ran the name through his mind over and over, the concept so new he wasn’t really sure what to do with it. He’d seen him once before already, the first time he appeared at his house. He’d scared him off, and been rather satisfied when that had worked. There was such a raw newness to the sensation of Jon in his house: it almost hurt, to be in the presence of another human being after such a long time of being alone.
His beating heart and warm blood felt wrong in this, a place of dead stillness and icy cold.
But then, the man came back.
Who comes back to a clearly haunted house? Who doesn’t immediately run away screaming when he sees a ghost? Who keeps asking said ghost questions, as though he doesn’t fear death?
Jon, apparently.
Martin hadn’t been human for a long time, but he was pretty sure most normal people didn’t have a death wish. Jon certainly had been scared at least. He had seen that much on his face. But he hadn’t run. That was strange.
Maybe. In all fairness, Martin still remembered the feeling when he felt the knife pierce through his chest: he wasn’t even shocked. It just made sense that Peter would use him like that. He didn’t run, didn’t try to get away, he didn’t even scream.
But for Martin, in the end, it was all just trading one lonely heartache for another. It made sense, and so he lay there, accepting his fate.
Jon screamed.
Jon had clearly been afraid of him, though he got better at hiding it towards the end. Jon wanted to come back because he had questions, and for some reason, was willing to bear with Martin’s presence until he got answers. So, once that was done, Martin reasoned, Jon would leave again.
That was usually how things worked for him, people sticking around as long as he was useful and leaving the moment he wasn’t anymore.
Still, he found himself looking forward to these next couple visits, a break from the monotony. He wondered if he’d even get to hold Jon’s hand again. That wasn’t usually how it worked, shaking hands twice, but maybe Jon would be inquisitive enough to try again.
Jon’s hand had been warm.
He had mostly fazed through it, but it would have been hard to miss that burning sensation: it tickled his fingers, it set his nerve endings alight with feeling, it raced up his arms to melt his ice. The cold fog used to be a comfort to him, warmth and feeling an unpleasant intruder.
It hadn’t faded after he drew his hand back, either. Something in his chest, thrumming and humming inside his still heart when he looked at the man’s face, shimmering silver strands and bright eyes lighting a fire deep in the pit of his stomach.
He liked how it felt to hold Jon’s hand.
How long had it been since he’d liked something? Everything now was numbness and fog and winter cold, just existing. But now Martin felt something he would’ve almost called happiness if he hadn’t forgotten the name of it entirely.
Feeling the cold whisk of wind that meant Peter was now gone, Martin even began to hum to himself: a happy, soft melody of random notes and vague recollections of his childhood, long, long ago, from before his father had left.
He held on to that distinct warm feeling growing in his chest, and found himself watching the sun rise in the sky, waiting almost impatiently for the next night.