A/N: This is an AU fic where Matthew and Tom are a duo of thrill-seeking monster photographers who also, more often than not, hunt said monsters. If that sounds like a Supernatural premise, I can assure that I have not seen a single episode of that show, although I would very much like to. I'm simply rolling with this weird idea that came to me suddenly. It's quite fun to imagine Tom and Matthew being complete goofs with each other like brothers (I suppose that's where the term 'bromance' comes from).
(Written for Yankee Countess's Tom x Matthew Bromance Day).
"Matthew, I swear on everything that is holy, if you're reading that map wrong, I will shove you into the boot, and it still smells like onions from last week," Tom griped, gritting his teeth.
Matthew chuckled, but he took a glance at the map across his lap, just in case. The boot did smell rather pungent (that is a story for another time, however). "I'm fairly certain we're on the last stretch of road until the parish church."
"'Fairly' certain? We've been going in circles since we left St. Ive, and I've been staring at the same damn asphalt for hours."
"Tom, if I were you, I would not be the one to complain," Matthew said. "Or was it not you who decided to answer that anonymous caller tipping us off about some supposed ghosts haunting an old parish church?"
Tom gave Matthew a malevolent glare out of the corner of his eye. "Where are we, if you wouldn't mind doing your job?"
"Styx road, Harthwaite, Cornwall," Matthew read off. "Look carefully, I think the left turn for the church is up ahead."
Tom briefly turned on the high beams, though he hadn't seen any other vehicles for at least half an hour, so he wasn't in danger of blinding another driver. Making the turn at the sign saying 'Harthwaite Church,' he had to slow down almost immediately to avoid the ditch on one side of the path. The road was in sore need of maintenance, going by how violently the car bumped and jolted. The car was forced to slow to a crawl, continuing on a dark path until Tom nearly drove it head-on into a stone wall.
"Bloody hell, Tom, don't say that the wall just jumped out in front of us," Matthew exclaimed.
"I can't see a damn thing, even with the headlamps," Tom reasoned.
It was darker than either of them had expected it to be. There was a full moon tonight, but the clouds levitated in front of it periodically, casting everything in shadow. Tom and Matthew had encountered nights such as this one many times before, but they had been driving through the most isolated parts of Cornwall, and neither of them could recall the last time they had seen an electric light.
Matthew pulled out a torch from the glovebox, rolled down the window, and waved the torch around. The ray of light bounced off various stone blocks, which, judging by the shape, were most likely headstones. The churchyard sat at the bottom of a slope, against which stood the church in its Neo-Gothic glory, flanked on one side by a smattering of trees.
"I suppose we've made it – Harthwaite Church," Matthew said. "The village is down the road we were just on. Think we should turn back and find someplace to sleep?"
"We're here, aren't we?" Tom noted. "Might as well scout the place out."
"Agreed, but we shouldn't stay long," Matthew said. "It's nearly midnight."
Both men climbed out of the car, and Tom immediately shuddered. For a night in early autumn, the cold was uncanny, but Tom reckoned that the chill had little to do with the weather. He had this innate sense whenever he came across a place where ghosts or other, more corporeal, creatures were likely lurking about. This age-worn church looked like a typical place for the supernatural to be hanging about. Tom only hoped that what they found, if they encountered anything at all, would not be unfriendly.
Matthew reached into the backseat for his knapsack. The camera, which had the ability to photograph "impossible things," jostled amongst other random articles, including two compact handguns used only in the most grim emergencies. Both men began the walk up the stone steps to the churchyard, the dark stone structure looked rather more like an imperious castle than a diminutive parish church.
"Lovely place," Matthew said cheerily. "Isn't that nice, there's even a full moon, see? There better not be any werewolves in those woods, I can't remember how many silver bullets we have left."
"Matthew — perhaps we should wait until tomorrow," Tom said, trying to keep down the nervousness that he was feeling. It was dangerously dark, even with the two of them waving torches about, and this was the type of murkiness that more aggressive monsters liked to hide in, waiting until the most opportune moment to seize the prey in their vicinity. When he had accepted the anonymous tip, he had only been warned of spectres worth photographing, not anything else – unless the unknown caller wanted them dead. It would not be the first time that had occurred.
Matthew grinned. "Tom, don't tell me you're getting scared now," he teased. "I doubt there are actually any werewolves in the woods."
"You said that about Leeds, and you nearly got bitten by one," Tom pointed out.
Matthew shrugged. "I nearly get bitten by a lot of things." He observed the exterior of the church, which was growing larger as they approached it. "I wonder if there's a crypt someplace; that'd be a good place to start."
"Oh God, Matthew," Tom said, recognizing this as one of the rare times when Matthew got more animated about ghosts than he did.
"What?" Matthew said, smiling at Tom's exasperation. "Do you think something nasty will be down there? A wraith? Couple of ghouls? Vampires?"
Tom gave Matthew a small shove. "Stop reminding me about Highgate – this place reminds me of that."
"Oh? Is wittle Branson still fwightened of the vampire bats?" Matthew said in a ridiculous, mock-baby voice. "Afraid that they'll suck you dry in the middle of the night?"
"Considering that, again, you were this close," Tom began, spreading his thumb and index finger a millimetre apart, "to being bitten, yes, I am still afraid. So, can the both of us avoid getting close to anything with sharp teeth for once?"
Matthew smirked; he poked fun at Tom constantly, usually making their most treacherous adventures the subject of his joking. Tom knew that Matthew meant well, but that did not stop him from worrying for the both of them.
They arrived at the steps below the church doors. Tom jumped up a bit to see through the high windows as Matthew raised the thick iron knocker and let it clang against the wood.
"I don't think there's anyone inside," Tom said.
Matthew pressed one ear against the door and let the knocker fall again. "It does sound like there's some reverberation. What day is it, anyway?"
"Not Sunday morning, for sure," Tom said. "If there's no one inside to let us come in, what do we do?"
This was a purely rhetorical questions. Both men knew the answer, and said it in perfect syncopation. "Break in!"
It was not the first time they had forced their way into a church, and they plodded around the perimeter in search of a back door. It was, not surprisingly, locked tight, but that wouldn't stall either of them – they had multiple methods for breaking-and-entering. That might sound rather criminal of them, but they never cared about stealing anything, except for the images of particular spectres. Within a few minutes, they were inside the dim, gelid church.
It was not a spectacular interior, merely charming in the muted decorations, but what bothered Tom was how astonishingly frigid it was. It must have been several degrees colder than outside; his breath could only just be seen in a cloud in front of him. Not to mention the fact that it was as dark as a tomb, and the shadows the torchlight was casting resembled some of the creatures that he and Matthew had previously encountered. Churches were alright in the daytime, but at night – in the dark they were foreboding places, and the one he in now was sending a wretched chill down his spine. Perhaps he was sensing the danger that was waiting for them around the corner or beneath the stone floor.
"Tom, over here," Matthew said, pointing his torch on another door. The brass plaque was inscribed with, "Crypts: Underground level."
Tom groaned. "Matthew, I'm not sure that's even remotely a good idea."
"What's wrong? You practically pushed me out the door after that phone call, and now you want to turn back?" Matthew nudged the door handle, and it gave a little. "If there's something down there that may be corporeal, we'll make a run for it, but so far there's nothing up here. Frankly, I'm starting to wonder if that caller wasn't setting us up for trouble."
The door creaked open, and Matthew flashed his light across the precarious stone steps. The descent was slow-going, as both men were wary of tripping and subsequently breaking a neck or a few ribs. These stairs were likely used infrequently, as dust was gathering in the corners and there was an acid odour emanating from the bottom. Even Matthew couldn't repress a shudder.
"If there isn't actually a ghost down here, I'm going to put in a note to whoever the caretaker of this place is, and kindly request that they get that smell sorted out," Matthew groused. "That is, if there is even a caretaker."
Tom shivered, but not on the part of the cold, which was intensifying the further down they went. He began to think of the possible fates of the church – did the people of Harthwaite still pray here, or was it merely a stony husk, inhabited by ghosts of the figurative and literary sense? Even if there were no actually spirits, what had occurred here that made the church so foreboding? Once they got into the village, Tom was bent on asking anyone the secrets of the place, even if there was some unspeakable misfortune or a blood-curdling tale to go alone with it.
"End of the line," Matthew announced. "Is the camera ready?"
"Locked and loaded," Tom said, holding it up.
"Excellent," Matthew said. "Let's start the search."
The two rays of torchlight hit dark walls that surrounded the crypts. The area was almost as wide as the church above, and it maybe extended further. As Matthew and Tom treaded down the corridor, their steps echoing eerily throughout, they began to come across oblong slabs of stone, some newer than others, regal lettering spelling out an incomprehensible language. Most likely Latin, Tom thought, though he did not know more than a half a dozen words in that tongue. He did, however, recognize the words mortem – death – and umbra – shadow or darkness. Even though the inscriptions were nothing paranormal, Tom snapped some photos of the words, intending to translate them as soon as he found an internet connection.
"Find anything good yet?" Tom called out to Matthew.
No answer.
"Matthew?" Tom stiffened, waving the torch around frenetically. He listened for a sound, but apart from his own breathing, there was little to be heard.
"Shit! Matthew, if this is some joke – if you're going to jump out behind me – you're going to regret it!" He ran in his mind all of the punishments he could put Matthew through, starting with stuffing him into the onion-smelling boot.
Tom tried to think back to when he was examining the words on the large slabs. Was it possible that he had ignored a critical sound? It wasn't likely – the silence down here was pervasive. If something had made a noise, it would be difficult to turn a deaf ear to the echo. Tom reconsidered the notion that Matthew was trying to scare him. It wouldn't be the first time, or even the hundredth time, but they had a task at hand, so why would —
Tom felt the low growl in his ear before he heard it, and the hair on the back of his neck bristled. His lower back arched and his muscles tensed as the soft growl escalated into an aggressive hiss not unlike that of an irate vampire. A split-second of terror-induced paralysis, then Tom spun around, his backfist attack nearly coming into contact with Matthew's head. The latter man doubled up in maniacal laughter, while Tom glared furiously at his partner.
"You – you scared the living daylights out of me!" he exclaimed. "What the hell was that for?"
Matthew was still cackling, acknowledging Tom's annoyance with a boyish smile. "Sorry, mate – I couldn't resist."
Tom had to wait for his adrenaline levels to go down before he could say or do anything else. Bloody hell, this place was really getting to him; he thought he was going to have a heart attack when Matthew hissed in his ear, all because he was convinced that there was something malicious skulking about.
"Matthew, I really do think we ought to go," Tom said, gulping. "I'm not bailing because I'm being a coward. There's something here, at this church – I can feel it."
"Feel it? How?" Matthew, sensing the panic in Tom's voice, was starting to get a little uneasy himself.
"It's in the air. There's no bloody way it can be this cold in the middle of September. Besides that, the church feels abandoned, but these stones — er, Matthew?" Tom stopped in the middle of his sentence, observing as the other man proceeded to push against one of the stone slabs.
"What are you doing, and why?" Tom inquired.
"Argh – if there's something supernatural down here, then it has to do with these sarcophagi – ow, that's rough," Matthew grunted, pushing away what Tom now realized was the thin lid to what was obviously a tomb. Placing the camera he was still holding on the ground, he aided Matthew in forcing the lid off the larger stone. It crashed to the floor with a bang that made all eardrums vibrate.
"That was easier than I thought it would be," Matthew remarked. "I don't think anything evil would be buried here with so little security."
Tom bent over the side of the stone sarcophagus, which was carved deep inside. A bundle of off-white sheets were crumbled at the bottom. There did not seem to be anything beneath them, however, which was an inauspicious discovery – it meant that whatever had been wrapped in the shroud and entombed inside was not where it was supposed to be.
"I wonder how it got out," Matthew said. "The lid was hard to displace."
Tom reached for the shroud, but all that had been concealed within its folds were handfuls of powdery rock. It was soaked in the stench of death, and Tom grimaced.
"What the heck do you think this was? A mummy, maybe?" he asked Matthew, shaking the shroud.
Matthew shook his head. "They aren't partial to leaving their burial dressings behind, unless it was rather raunchy in life."
"I'm not inclined to believe that some mummies stalk about naked," Tom said.
"Didn't you hear about what happened in the British Museum three years ago?"
"No, and don't tell the story right now. We need to figure out what this is – wait!" Tom interrupted himself. "The writing on the sides, see? Maybe that's a clue."
"Good thinking, Tom," Matthew said. "Do either of us happen to have a Latin-English dictionary in our pockets?"
"Sorry, but I think I left it in the car," Tom said with equal amounts of sarcasm. "But between us, maybe we can figure some of the words out. There's two that I know on this one: death and darkness."
"Cheery," Matthew commented. "I'm not sure how much good it'll do, but right now, it's all we can do. Look at the ones on that end, and I'll inspect the ones over there."
The pair spent a good ten minutes scrutinizing each word carved into the stone. As they continued down the line, closer to the newer inscriptions, Tom began to feel his severe misgivings escalate as the translations became increasingly macabre. He decoded the words "skeleton," "spectre," "immortal," and the phrase memento mori, which Tom recalled as meaning something along the lines of "a reminder of death."
"I'm starting to really not like this," Matthew murmured. "This line I'm reading – or trying to – it's like some sort of incantation, or curse."
"What does it say?"
"Er … should I really say it out loud? I might accidentally summon some demon from hell," Matthew said.
Tom scoffed, but he left the weathered tomb he was inspecting and went to Matthew's side. As he read the unintelligible words, his eyes followed the moving torchlight. But when the last word was illuminated, Tom's breath froze in his throat.
"This is not a crypt for humans," he declared. "It's a prison for monsters."
Matthew looked at Tom with startled eyes. "I figured the same, but it can't be – why would the people of Harthwaite make a prison for monsters? Usually, we're focused on killing the damn things, not trapping them."
"That's something only the village can explain," Tom said. "The real problem is that one beast has gone missing, and we don't know what it is, how long it's been free, or that it was the only one that escaped."
"What was written the empty tomb?" Matthew asked.
Tom shook his head. "I couldn't understand it, except for the two words for death and darkness."
"That could refer to a plethora of evil creatures," Matthew said, "or something else entirely."
"I'm guessing that this incantation something or other was written here to keep in the demons," Tom deduced. "It's written on most of the other tombs. Clearly there was a fault in the spelling."
He stepped backwards from the tomb. "I think it's best to head down to the village now," he said. "These sarcophagi – I hope you realize that there are demons still inside those things."
Matthew took a long stride back as well. "That sounds like a brilliant idea, as long as the actual village isn't overtaken by monsters as well."
"Just as well that we're prepared," Tom said, gathering up his belongings, including the camera.
And with that, both men bounded out of the cellar catacomb faster than bats out of hell.