Author's Note: This is a crossover.
Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT or Labyrinth (1986).
"Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten."
― Neil Gaiman, Coraline
Chapter I: The House At the End of the Street
At the end of the road, beyond the white picket fences and humble abodes, stood a wretched house. The mandatory two level house of splintered wood and chipped bricks was by far the ugliest house in all of Storybrooke, Maine, and it must have known, for when anyone passed the safety hazard, the house seemed to lean in on itself as though it could make itself any less unpleasant. It was always unpleasant, the townspeople could tell you. Ever since they could recall, the ugly little house on the outskirts of town, concealed by thick, swaying pines and knee high, unkempt grass, sat there alone. If it had a driveway once, it was long uprooted to make room for wild weeds. If there'd been a doorbell, it was rusted without a finger to lay upon. Yet none could deny that the bright red door seated between peeling columns was not like the rest of the house.
It remained vibrant and untouched by time.
Someone, the townspeople fathomed, must be using it, else it wouldn't be a fine as it was. This perplexed the townspeople further. No one had ever seen anyone, man or woman, enter or exit the house. Mr. Ridley, a stocky man with a penchant for other people's business, had tasked himself one week to observe the house. He had done so at odd hours as no one seemed to come out during normal, ordinary hours. With a stubbornness for knowing and a curiosity to sate, he puffed his chest out, drew up the living room chair and positioned it West to get the best view of the strange house. Mrs. Ridley, whose own curiosity ate her respect for privacy, stood by the floral curtains. Just out of sight, she held a set of binoculars to her small, almond eyes.
And they watched.
They watched the twinkling lights of their neighbors dwindle one by one until the only light left was their own. No light came from the West.
Mr. Ridley thought his wife genius―if there was any a time he praised his wife, it was most during their less than respectable endeavors―as she'd thought ahead and prepared snacks. As they watched with hooded eyes and stifling yawns, they nibbled absently at crackers and fine cheese. By the time they finished, the grandfather clock Mrs. Ridley's father had given them as their wedding gift some decades ago chimed. The slow, deep strokes startled the couple awake. Mr. Ridley counted the strokes as he always did and frowned.
He turned to his wife. "How many did you count?"
"How many?" Mrs. Ridley asked.
"Yes," he pressed, annoyed. "How many strokes did you count?"
She sighed as though he'd asked her to count the hairs on his head (not that it would have been difficult as Mr. Ridley was almost bald but that was a different matter entirely) and said slowly, "twelve, darling. It's midnight after all."
Twirling his wrist over, he double checked the time on his watch. It was indeed midnight.
Strange, he thought. I swear I heard it chime thirteen times.
He made a note to have Dr. Whale check his hearing at his next appointment. Mrs. Ridley was always complaining about how he didn't hear her like he used to anyway. Two birds with one stone and all that nonsense, decided Mr. Ridley.
"Oh, darling, look! On the second floor," rattled his wife, shaking a pudgy finger at the window. Broken from his reminiscences, Mr. Ridley followed her quivering finger to the second floor of their neighbor's house. At first, Mr. Ridley didn't see a darn thing. The night and pines were a protective lover, guarding it from unwanted eyes. But the soft yellow of an overhanging chandelier slithered through arching branches to lay coyly upon the Ridley's shrubbery. "Do you think someone broke in, darling?"
It was a possibility. The recent years spiked in violence, it seemed. First, a strange blonde woman came crashing into their town welcome sign. Then, a fire had nearly killed the mayor and a heart attack had whisked their sheriff away. Even worse than that, the poor wife of that deviant David Nolan disappeared. Poor lass was probably dead. The woods here stretched far and wide and if Mary-Margaret had indeed killed the poor Mrs. Nolan―well, they'd never find the body.
His wife's suggestion peaked an anger. Hooligans were not to be tolerated. Rising, he went to go look for his bat to show the troublemakers what was what when a fat hand upon his narrow wrist halted his progress. Mrs. Ridley motioned to the house again.
This time, she smiled. It was a comely thing.
"Oh, darling, look," she repeated. Wispy blond strands surrounded sparkling eyes. In her excitement, her perfect bun had become less so as she danced by the curtains. She held upon the binoculars jittery. "Is that―? I believe it might be. No, it can't be. I thought she was in New York."
"I can't say it's her, darling, if you don't tell me who," grumbled Mr. Ridley.
Mrs. Ridley shoved the binoculars into Mr. Ridley's hands.
Lifting them eye-level, Mr. Ridley peered through the trees to the top level where the light streamed through. Sure enough, his wife's words were true. Clad in nothing but a dress shirt too large for such a tiny frame, a disheveled woman stood facing the wall to her right. A thick curtain of dark hair obscured her face, but miles of well sculptured legs coyly shifted as she addressed the wall. One even went as far as breaking free of her bathrobe to perch upon a chair Mr. Ridley hadn't noticed.
The pale flesh gleamed innocently.
Well, Mr. Ridley wetted his lips, this was much better than dealing with hooligans.
"That girl―the Warren's girl that worked for the Daily Mirror. It sure looks like her, but I thought she ran off to New York."
The more Mrs. Ridley spoke, the more she seemed to remember. Earnestly, she shared with her husband what she could recall about the Warren's eldest daughter.
"You remember the scandals, right, darling? The one where Mr. Warren, lovely man, caught his daughter doing cocaine at the back of Granny's? Oh, I've never seen Mrs. Warren so angry! She wouldn't come to any of the book meetings and that poor boy of hers! Thomas, I think his name is, such a sweet boy. What a shame his sister was an addict. It devastated the poor boy."
If Mrs. Ridley knew that Mr. Ridley's sudden burst of sweat upon his sunken brow was caused by the mysterious woman across the way, he very well doubted he would live past morning. It would be a rather unpleasant death as well. Let it not be said that Mrs. Ridley was not a force to ignore. It came with the business of being Mr. Ridley's wife.
Yet, the poor Mr. Ridley could not tear his eyes from the scantily garbed woman any more than he could control the weather. His voyeurism consumed what little left a soul Mr. Ridley might have clenched onto, and he wished desperately for the woman to turn around. Any face was better than that of his wife's.
But the woman did not and Mrs. Ridley continued, ardently rambling off useless gossip. Mr. Ridley questioned the size of his wife's lungs. How did she have that much air to gossip when she struggled to walk up a single flight of stairs?
It baffled the old man.
"He's in the same grade as that Mayor's boy. The one that everyone's been fussing about, darling. He can't go anywhere nowadays without being questioned about his sister, I reckon. I wonder what her parents must think, what with her ruining the poor boy's future and all!" tattled Mrs. Ridley. She didn't notice her husband's lack of response or acknowledgement as she continued, nose upturned. "I know if it was one of our children, I'd never let that girl see the light of day. What kind of mother is Irene, anyway? Raising such a hell raiser."
"What's her name?"
Mrs. Ridley stopped.
"Whose?"
"The Warren's girl."
Mrs. Ridley remained a statue, staring widely into the night. A dazed look overcame the woman's features. Slowly, Mrs. Ridley confessed, "I don't know, darling. I can't seem to remember."
Neither could Mr. Ridley.
Mr. and Mrs. Ridley were not the only ones watching the strange little house at the end of the road. You see, the house had become sort of an oddity amongst oddities, and it attracted more than the curiosity of well-to-do, honest neighbors and hooligans looking to show that they weren't afraid of anything. It was midnight, as Mr. Ridley came to determine earlier, when a guest arrived at the house with little fanfare and less curiosity than the woman on the second floor.
Mr. King was the only non-corrupted defense attorney Storybrooke owned. A small town with an even smaller crime rate had reduced Mr. King's position to more of a formality than anything else, and his services had thus become round rather than refined. It was a drastic decline the once superstar defense attorney knew, but it came with perks. One of said perks was the ability to transverse across the tiny coastal town on a drop of a dime without anyone's cumbersome disapproval. It was useful, he reckoned, for visits to clients houses like this one.
Standing on the sagging wooden porch, Mr. King politely rapped the door with a leather bound glove. A cold autumn had sunken in the townspeople's bones the night before. His breath fogged the door, steaming from his mouth in a solid plume.
Unlike the wooden floorboards, the red door was solid oak and did not bend to his knuckles. It was also unlike the rest of the house as embedded into the wood―carved with a work knife or that of similar quality―were runes! Of all things to grace an old, oak door. They were ancient Germanic and Celtic runes that twirled and twisted in complex but perplexingly pleasing designs. An odd design for an odd house, he noted. On the positive side, it would make foreclosing the house much easier. Paranoia was a grand killer of mortgages.
He stopped examining the bizarrely decorated door the moment he heard languid footsteps fall on the other side of the door. No lights were flicked on but that of the second floor one. Mr. King pondered if this was from not wanting to pay more on the electricity bills or the desire of not attracting attention from the neighbors.
The footsteps fell short of the door.
On the other side of the windows on either side of the doors, darkness stared the attorney down. He was certain the woman on the other end was going to ignore him when it groaned open and a set of dark, oval eyes peaked out.
He gave his best smile.
"Ms. Warren, I presume. I'm Mr. King, the attorney the townships' hired for your case."
In the dark, he felt very much like prey being sized up. Head to toe, the woman on the other side examined him before humming. It was a deep, throaty tune. One of distrust.
"Mr. Gold said he was sending someone," whispered the woman.
Her eyes closed and she vanished into the darkness. The door closed silently. Then, the clattering of chains vibrated the door before it was forced open more and the woman reappeared. In her hands, she held a flooded binder.
"Here," she said, forcing it into Mr. King's hands, "this is everything Gold wanted and more. Take it." And leave.
He caught the door before it could slam shut.
The entire house groaned. It moaned loudly while a chilling wind nipped at the attorney's suit jacket as if urging him away. He would later swear in the privacy of his own home that there had been a shrill snickering behind the woman as a series of scratchings and clawings trembled the house.
"Ms. Warren, as much as I admire your dedication to Mr. Gold's request, I am not here on his behalf." He smiled charmingly. "I'm here on the township's," he explained, inching the door open.
The elusive Ms. Warren stood flabbergasted. A common reaction in his practice. One naturally assumed the town broker―Mr. Gold's responsibility as attorney was nonexistent for his focuses laid more in the business of rent than the law of it―would control all matters of the economical and judicial aspects of their issues. Mr. King's job in turn was making sure that Mr. Gold did not control all. He wondered briefly, his knuckles white from holding the door open, whether Ms. Warren was truly stupid enough to give Mr. Gold everything.
The black binder certainly suggested such.
It was as the saying went: what women lacked in brains, they made up for in looks.
"Ms. Warren, it is the township's concern that you are unable to meet the set neighborhood standard. Several complaints have been filed against you atop of the complaints the banks are having regarding your ability to pay your mortgage payments on a timely manner."
Mr. King released the door when he was certain she wouldn't bolt it closed.
"You're looking at a potential foreclosure."
Unlike most people, Ms. Warren didn't flinch at word. She stood her ground and jutted a sharp chin up.
"If Mr. Gold has an issue with my payments, he can come here himself," she said.
"Mr. Gold is currently occupied," retorted Mr. King.
"Then we have nothing to discuss," was her curt reply.
She meant to slam the door in his face as she attempted earlier but was cut off when Mr. King took the opportunity to slither in. She automatically stepped back to give him room.
"What do you think you're doing?" Ms. Warren hissed.
"Closing the door on me isn't going to solve your problems, Ms. Warren," replied Mr. King, cordially.
"Oh you're horrible!"
Mr. King dismissed her protest with a wave of his free hand. A feeling that something was missing from it filtered through his mind―something crystalline and roughly the size of his palm―but it was gone before he could ponder it any more. "I wonder what your basis for comparison is, Ms. Warren. I'm here to help you. If you don't want my help, I can leave but know that there won't be anyone to help you if I do. Choose: my help or a foreclosure."
It wasn't a fair choice, Mr. King knew, for there was no choice at all. Ms. Warren knew this as well. She clenched her fists―he assumed she did at least. It was still terribly dark and difficult to see the young woman―before she tucked her arms beneath her chest. Smooth fabric rustled noisily and he took the opportunity to take another step closer. When she moved, she did so into the dim light of the staircase behind her.
His breath caught.
The pale lighting illuminated a woman whom he imagined only in dreams. Dark tousled hair framed a lovely, well sculptured face. Beneath a furrowed brow, two mossy eyes with smudged black mascara glowered at him while a bowstring mouth curved downwards. She wore a black French kimono robe with little to nothing underneath, he garnered greedily. But it was not her state of dress or facial beauty that caught the attorney's attention. There were more beautiful faces than hers. His travels across the world confirmed such a fact.
Her eyes are like mine, he thought, abruptly and entirely amused. There's cruelty in those eyes.
He no longer minded the late hour or the difficulty the client was presenting. His smile grew exponentially in that moment as the woman turned from him and said, "don't you understand? I can't."
"Not a very large vocabulary you have here, Ms. Warren."
A look filtered across her face. It was gone before Mr. King could decipher it. It was very well for she sighed and gestured to the door with her chin.
"I just―I can't, alright?" In a softer, pleading voice, she said, "please, leave."
"What a pity."