Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners. As for original characters and the plot itself, that does belong to me. Please do not use such without permission.

Summary: It is said that, if a bride falls the day before she is married, then she will die within a year. But Wendy is already haunted; for even with a prospect as cruel as death drawing near; a darker fate lies with a single choice alone, and of a ghost, who refuses to let the past lie buried. A very dark Hook/Wendy.

A Haunting Reflection

London, England

October 1913

'You said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!' — Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights, Chapter XVI

…

All brides, it is generally believed, are considered to be beautiful—if in their own, figurative way—as an occasion such as a wedding promotes only the beauties and pleasures of life, and not the horrible realities of heartbreak, death, and a very fragile understanding of what it is to be mortal. As all brides, both living and dead, have learned the painful truths of both—before and after their weddings—as a sharp tugging of the inevitable severs that thin, silver cord which binds both death and life into a single, fated strand of destiny. For like all superstitions, it said that, if a bride falls the day before she is to be married, then she will die within a year.

Wendy Darling had been no exception to that belief. Nor had her mother, or her grandmother, or the grandmother before her. No, the commonalities in birth, marriage, and death were as old and sacred as the churches that oversaw each stage in their towering monuments of stone. The age-old knowledge of the fates of those who entered beyond their sanctified thresholds would forever remain in secret until such was revealed upon the point of death. It was the same for all: a common-made ignorance instituted upon birth and a lifetime—however long or short it might be—filled with the eternal question of when the dance of life would end with the interception of death, as Heaven and Hell would be the next segment in an endless waltz of eternity. For those of the Catholic faith, there was Purgatory. For those of the dissenting Protestants, there was Judgment. As ghosts—those poor unfortunates, caught in between the realms of life and death—had no place to call their own. Priests lamented their unfortunate fate, as the devout were cautious not to fall into such a terrible state. As those trapped were thus condemned to walk the Earth, forever seeking that which they could never attain in life as they wandered the shaded paths of hopelessness, forever lost, and forever alone.

"As that, my brothers, is the fate of those who fail to go sleep after Nana has put them abed!" teased a very insightful Wendy. She almost laughed at the multitude of chagrined expressions—eight, to be precise—of her wakeful audience. The story had been told for the night, the need for sleep and dreams already well past its appointed time. And yet, the eagerness in wanting Wendy to continue with the story impelled their desperation to keep her close, as it was the eldest of her brothers who spoke for their discontent:

"But it is not yet midnight," protested a very critical John, who, now at the important age of fifteen, had acquired a most cynical view of the world, and who, also now, with his brow furrowed in consternation, took on the appearance of the grow-up John he would soon come to be. Wendy almost sighed at the certainty of it, when she heard him continue in his methodical reasoning on why she should finish the story.

John huffed at her continued silence. "You cannot simply end the story like that for the night, you know. It is simply not done." His spectacled eyes darkened in irritation. "You are gifted in your storytelling, dear sister, but you are not a Scheherazade, and we are not your enslaved Shahryars, waiting for a thousand and one nights for a story to be at its conclusion. We should like to know how it ends, Wendy. For whose is the fate, to walk that lonely road between death and mortality, searching for what he can never find? You must tell us!"

"Yes, do tell us!" many of the Lost Boys, including her brother, Michael, chimed in eagerly. "Who is it, Wendy? Who must forever be lost in his own self-despair? He must have a name."

But Wendy only gave them a sympathetic smile. "That I cannot tell you," she replied gently, almost sadly, "for even I do not know. I am afraid I have no name for which to give you, as the dead remain silent in their secrets. They impart precious little to those living. I suppose that is why they haunt us so; they are unable to tell us the reason for their continued existence in between worlds. As their business—whatever it must be—is theirs to conclude, something terribly left undone in life."

Michael beamed at the dark possibility of it. "Do you believe in ghosts, Wendy?" he asked, his bright blue eyes widening in curiosity. "John says he doesn't."

The brother in question snorted, his sardonic expression matching his disappointment. "I said I've not seen one to give me cause to believe in it," said he in his defence. "And I doubt Wendy believes in such rubbish, either. After all, we are much too grown up to believe in a handful of faerie stories and old women's superstitions."

Wendy could only smile at her brother's bold assertion of her, that puffed-up chest of his reminding her greatly of their father. "Believe as you will, John," returned she, calmly. "But have you forgotten that we have also seen faeries and mermaids and flying boys, who remain eternally young and beautiful? Why should ghosts be any less than real to us? For even though I have yet to encounter one, I shall not discount their existence—not yet, anyway!" she mirthfully vowed.

"But isn't it bad luck to see one—a ghost, I mean?" questioned a pensive Nibs, who had remained, until now, silent throughout their discourse. He failed to acknowledge that no one, except Wendy, believed in the things she had claimed they had seen in their youth—most especially that of the mythical flying boy, Peter Pan—whereas ghosts…were another matter entirely.

Dark eyes countered his green ones, as that thoughtful expression—which only belonged to his sister and former mother—answered him, even before the words left those lovely, soft-spoken lips. Wendy regarded him in silence, her eyes darkening to that of obsidian. "I suppose that depends heavily on the ghost," she answered quietly, enigmatic in her response.

But the boys accepted her answer, nodding their heads as they did so. They could do no less, for not even they fully understood the complexities in haunting the living; they barely grasped what it was to be alive, let alone attain a vast knowledge of what it was to actually be dead. They had seen death, yes, even if they could scarcely remember those dark times in the Neverland, when they were more than merely boys.

Wendy gave pause at the thought. For none of her brothers—including Michael, whose wide-eyed innocence would have assuredly protested otherwise—were without blood on their hands. They had watched a grown man die, after all—had celebrated it, even—as many of Hook's crew had fallen to those deceptively innocent, childlike hands. Just as their captain's death, in falling prey to the one thing he had feared most in life, his own timepiece drawing down to its final hour before its ticking ceased and silence followed thereafter, drew a sense of guilt for the tragedy it had been.

It was seldom that he was even remembered, since Wendy rarely ever thought of the dreaded Captain James Hook, though she had never forgotten him as the others had—as Peter, himself, had guiltlessly done. She could not. She doubted she would ever forget even one so wicked and maladjusted as her former captor. She frowned. She dared not remember her time in the Jolly Roger's hold; it would prove to be too much for the night, as her heart still ached for the one responsible for ending the miserable captain's life…

Whispering 'good-night', as was her nightly custom, and giving a kiss to each forehead—albeit a few drew out affront in their mock-protest of her sisterly affections—Wendy left her brothers for the night. She almost smiled when she heard them whisper amongst themselves, undoubtedly plotting some brilliant scheme to force her to reveal the identity of the tragic figure that had charmed them. Wendy could only sigh at their attempt, for she had not lied when she told them that she knew not the name of the ghost who had haunted their dark revelry. He could be anyone, she thought absently, before entering unto the sanctuary of her own room.

She vaguely took notice of it, with its humble furnishings and ridiculously vibrant floral wallpaper. It had been where her mother had entertained the notion of having her guests stay the night. And yet, books, both old and borrowed, had replaced the need for such idle pleasantries, as they inundated the empty space that might have, possibly, vacated a happy couple. Though in spite of the room's only occupant, it was a space that was well-loved for its variety—the winding labyrinth of domino-stacked books the greatest comfort of all. Wendy smiled at the sight of her silent companions, finding a sense of comfort amid their dusty pages. They were all she had in the lonely hours from dark to daylight, as her brothers, dear as they were to her, would soon end their Christmas furlough, and would thus return to their school, where they would again dwell among those hallowed halls of an influential Harrow.

Wendy envied them greatly for it—being a boy, that was—and therefore being afforded the chance to learn new and exciting things. Though yet, no matter her resentment towards the unfairness made upon those considered the fairer sex, she did not begrudge her brothers for their good fortune; no, in her heart, she was glad of their education, but sorely regretted that she, a mere girl, could not join them. For the stories they told her, of the goings on among their fellow schoolmates, made her heart genuinely ache for something she could never have. All that instead remained for her was that of a girl's finishing school; with its long tedious hours of needlepoint; corsets, which constricted her breathing; and the seemingly endless foray of learning all of the rules and proper etiquette of what it was to be a respectable, well-bred, young lady. All of this, so that I might marry properly, she thought bitterly, and her placid expression soured by the prospect of marriage.

A groan escaped her, and she looked down at the cold, wooden floor in unwilling defeat. It is much too soon for me.

And indeed, perhaps it was. For being well nigh close to her seventeenth birthday, she was already near the age expected of her finding a suitor, one whom might, eventually, become her husband. She dreaded it, however—dreaded it even more than almost being forced to walk the plank, with the fear of a hungry crocodile lingering underneath, its jaws opened wide in grave anticipation, savouring the thought of its forthcoming meal, digesting the image of flesh and bone being crushed under two sharp rows of merciless teeth, crying crocodile tears for a pitiful scream, loving it, nurturing it, demanding it, waiting for her…

Her eyes widened at the dark imagery that she reserved only for her nightmares. The fear she once had of that wretched creature had not left her; she doubted it ever would—even when another had taken her place, among it cavernous jaws. Shaking her head at the fate she had mercifully eluded, she could at least thank God that her parents, good-intentioned as they indelibly were over her wellbeing, had not yet thrust her into the arms of a nameless stranger. She could rarely, at times, understand her own schoolmates, who prattled on about what they wanted in a match, as money and a position in society were paramount, in their long list of requirements in choosing a potential husband. None had ever mentioned their simply marrying for love, something in which her own parents—to the dismay of the families of her mother and father—had done.

Of course, marriage itself was a very delicate subject, when discussed in the presence of her family; for Wendy knew that, to marry for something deemed as vulgar and disingenuous as love, would only add to the already tarnished, Darling name. She would therefore be expected to marry into a decent, respectable family, and not for what she, herself, truly wanted in a match—not if her Aunt Millicent had anything to say of it—as it was simply not expected that she would ever confine herself to something that was as infrequent and was, just as sadly, as unreliable as love—not when her heart already belonged to another…

She dared not imagine where her thoughts would continue to lead, had she allowed them, her fragile mind already left in shambles by the passing of another year—another year of her nearing the end of her own childhood—which would only emphasise the responsibility in her growing up. Sighing at the cruel inevitability of her unwanted fate, she instead looked to the window, that vain hope in seeing one among the midnight skies darkening to the emptiness that lay between the stars. Another sigh escaped her, though Wendy continued in her silent vigil of the heavens, hoping, dreaming, half a thought away from opening the window, and… She vaguely noticed the faint scratching of something against the smooth, cold surface of something in the distance. A tree branch against the casement, perhaps.

Disregarding it, she made her way across the room, her bare feet lightly treading over the worn pink rug which she, as a child, had loved so much. Her Aunt Millicent hated it—despised its very existence. Indeed, the older woman thought it an affront to one whom she considered 'on the verge of womanhood', that she pleaded with Mr. and Mrs. Darling to have it removed from her sight. Wendy had merely humoured her aunt, by agreeing that it should be removed, though the rug, had nevertheless, remained, untouched, and exactly where its owner wanted it. As here it shall stay, thought Wendy, a little primly. She almost grinned in her small triumph before ending her journey, the window—which held all within the realm of possibility—standing before her.

Wendy looked beyond it, those dark eyes ever searching beyond its stained-glass panes, ever fearing for that elusive figure, which could so easily slip from her memory as it had her brothers'.

"Oh, Peter," the words escaped her in a hushed whisper. Her face fell at the utterance of his name, the lines of a perpetual worry drawing heavily upon her face, and revealing only the care in her young age—since it was only those who have grown up, that knew the pains that often vex the human heart. And Wendy felt that troubled emotion, more than one so young should want. Her height and developing figure were evidence enough of it, though she had ignored the truth. She had been growing up without even intending it. Perhaps it is why he will not come to me now. I am much too grown up for him, the miserable thought came to mind; and Wendy turned away, unable to bear the sky and all its terrible wonders a moment longer.

She instead returned to that of her books, her gaze falling upon each before looking upon the comforting length of her bed. She cast it a heartened look of admiration. It was nothing of great significance—certainly nothing as opulent or grandiose as her aunt's, which the older woman proudly related of it having been in her mother's family for generations. No, with its plain, mahogany-furnished frame and headboard, and equally plain white sheets, Wendy's bed was the model of any young woman's of her class. It was surely far from the bed that she once had in the nursery, the bed in which she had first encountered a boy with a missing shadow and learned to fly.

Mechanically, Wendy made her way to the bed, and folded back the sheets before getting in. She suppressed the need to look again at the window; she would only find herself disappointed by the nothingness she knew to be there. No, it was best not to think of it, since Peter had long been in absence for over a year, and spring-cleaning time was well past. It is winter, after all, she mildly considered, and set all thoughts of Peter and the Neverland aside, where, in their place, she maintained her need for a good night's rest, so that she might see her brothers—who, oddly enough, were apt to rise early, as their days at Harrow had indoctrinated in them—come morning. Perhaps I shall be able to tell another story before breakfast.

The thought comforted her. Their very presence comforted her. And she almost smiled at the thought of them, and of the story she would tell them. She debated on whether to continue the story she had told them, of the wandering soul without a name to call his own, and her giving in to the temptation in granting him a name. But she shook her head at the notion, as it was then that she heard it: the scratch, scratch, scratching of something, sharp and metallic, against plated glass.

She nearly started, almost crying out in surprise, but then admonished herself. Oh, stuff and nonsense, Wendy. You are behaving like a cowardy custard of a schoolgirl, without any wits about her! 'Tis merely a tree branch, scraping against the window, and nothing more.

She then made a face at her momentary fear, where she, as if to reaffirm herself of that self-made conviction, got up and made her way over to the window…and instantly frowned. For there was no tree branch, no idle burst of wind, which disturbed the casement—there was nothing scraping against the other windows, for that matter—when she stepped out, and looked for the likely culprit.

"How curious," Wendy murmured quietly, but then set her interest of it aside, no longer in the mood to discover the sound's origin. Honestly, I must refrain from telling stories of the supernatural so late at night. Otherwise, I shall have the same nightmares that Michael so often has, she tiredly mused, before returning to bed. She pulled the sheets around her, her senses already dulled by the need for sleep. She almost laughed, when she gave in to that necessity, as her breathing slowed to that of a gentle whisper, her eyes closing from a day's adventures in dancing and executing proper behaviour, whilst among her aunt's company.

And yet, the scratching had continued on, unabated, as it, if strangely, had heightened in its intensity.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratchhhh.

Muttering in protest, Wendy opened her eyes, and frowned at its continued persistence. She knew it not to be at the window, though she could hardly think of where else it could be. She automatically ruled out the idea of Nana scratching against the wall, since such would not only be considered unprofessional, as Nana herself, would take great offence if suspected, but also unlikely. Perhaps it is a rat, she allowed herself to imagine, albeit reluctantly. She dreaded to consider the possibility of some horrid creature, running rampant behind the walls. But no, it was on glass. It was definitely on glass; there was no doubt of that.

But where?

The window was, relatively, the only sizeable thing made of glass in her room. And the sound was, in her room. Realisation suddenly dawned, and she gave an unladylike snort, before turning her gaze to the door.

Of all the tricks…How dare they?

Once more, she departed from the bed, her graceful footfalls almost inaudible against the wooden floor. She glowered at the door before her, those serene features, which many had praised so often in her company, and in equal measure, melding into a look of irritation. Quietly, however, she repressed any form of resentment, her hand idly resting on the doorknob. A grim smile pervaded her sharp expression before turning the knob and opening the door…

"Caught you!" she cried out, to what she believed to be her brothers, standing there, guilty, as they were caught in the act of frightening her…only to find nothing there, the hallway devoid of all of which she had expected.

What is this? Where were her brothers? John was certainly the one responsible for contriving such a clever trick. But then, one glance upon their sleeping figures proved the contrary, and Wendy was bewildered. Utterly. For if it had not been them responsible for the scratching upon her window, as she was now led to believe, then who…She could scarcely consider it. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it, for she had certainly heard it—whatever it was—keeping her awake. If only she could discern its origin…

She sighed in resignation, and thus returned to her room, brooding, considering. She had barely gotten into bed before hearing—what she believed to be—a laugh, almost soft and cruel in its projection, as it echoed in her thoughts. She faintly turned to the mirror hanging over her vanity, her reflection emulating her confusion. Dark eyes met hers in a single expression of thought, her face and body as white as the snow, which now fell from without. Her long, dark hair lay in tangles over her nightgown; a tousled, silken mass of sweat, pearls, and wrinkles, where only her lips—lips, as dark as blood—assured that she was still among the living, the kiss firmly tucked away in that alluring, right-hand corner of her mouth—a kiss…which had never been taken.

For in the mirror, Wendy saw the truth in her appearance: a veritable Snow White, caught adrift between two realms. For there she lay among the rushes, comatose, the waters of an indolent Lethe flowing over her listless shape. She floated like that of a tragic Ophelia: adorned in a funerary wreath of rosemary, remembering, dreaming, yearning to be awakened, waiting to be kissed…

She turned away from the mirror, and pulled the sheets closer, her face almost obscured by their comforting security. She compelled herself to close her eyes, and think only of happy thoughts, think of the Neverland, think of Peter—anything, that would distract her from the scratching which had, mercifully, stopped. She almost sighed in relief before something—which she would never, to the end of her days, forget—whispered her name:

Wendy.

This time, she did not turn to look at the window. She did not look at anything, her eyes kept shut to the encroaching darkness which surrounded her. She could not hear its footsteps, though no less knew that it was with her, standing beside of her, and almost touching her with what she envisioned to be a pair of slender, twisting, spidery fingers. She steeled herself against their nebulous feel, since their presence seemed more to frighten her than to cause true harm. Her breathing quickened, her heart nearly bursting in anticipation as that unwanted presence lingered over her, hovering close to her shoulders and spine, those idle fingers drawing over her in mild curiosity, before claiming a lock of her hair for its own.

Wendy, it whispered again, this time next to her ear, its presence never leaving her, stroking that captive lock as it urged her to sleep.

She almost cried out at its soothing tone, feeling utterly desecrated by a voice—which she believed belonged to that of some nightmarish phantom—that had strangely released her hair from its imprisoning grasp, as shifted its massive frame on the bed—Wendy dared not look—behind her, and remained close. Tears brimmed along the corners of her closed eyes; for although Wendy remained outwardly defiant, wilful to the perversity which now drew near an unmarried woman—even if she believed it imaginary and merely curious of her—she knew it to be there, taunting her with its invisible company.

And yet, the reasonable part of her mind contested, it had only touched her shoulders and hair—nothing indecent, by any means—for even if she had wanted it to cease in its ministrations, she allowed it to remain, where she instead curled into that of a tiny ball, and prayed as it lay there and held her. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God, please, please make it stop. Make it leave. Make it go away!

But she received only silence as an answer, and she shuddered under the pitiful protection the sheets offered her, hoping that the dawn would soon come, and with it, the sun. Yes, with the morning, she believed, everything would be as it was, just as her present fears, would be nought but an anecdote, to be laughed at over breakfast.

Yes, she thought desperately, with the morning, everything will be better. But until then, she would sleep, and would thus dream of a boy whom she longed to see; and of a world without the horrible presence, which she still could not fathom, even in her dreams.

For whether it was by the mercy of some divine entity, or of her own, forced volition, Wendy fell into a restless slumber, where only nightmares and waking dreams plagued her for the rest of the night. As a voice—one of vague familiarity—continued to whisper her name, as well as a dark promise:

Wendy, Wendy, Wendy…

Canst thou hear me?

…I am coming…

Wendy, Wendy…

…Darling.

…

Author's Note: And so ends our first chapter in a short series of five. I intend it to be five—five or seven; I unfortunately have yet to decide which. But seven is a nice, well-rounded number. Thirteen is also, just as lovely, but I fear I cannot stretch this story to that particular mile-marker. Oh, well…

I also apologise for any grammatical errors. I have really only looked through this once before posting, as my Graduate class has kept me fairly busy. If I see anything, I will be sure to correct it. Right now, I fear I am only running on four hours of sleep. And since I rarely consume little to no caffeine, the results can be…somewhat interesting. (Sighs.)

I also realise that the opening to this may be considered Barriesque. I do apologise for that, as I honestly despise mimicking another author's writing style; I feel it wrong on so many levels. And yet, the opening happened as it did, and I figure it a slight antithesis to the idea of all children, except one, having to grow up. I have no idea which exposition is darker, though, since Mr. Barrie's was light and somewhat comical; however, still wonderfully maintaining the underlying themes of melancholy, loss, regret, and the pains of an unrequited love throughout his master work. Mine is merely that of horror, drama, and is only added with a good dose of romance and angst. But I am still a tad iffy on the horror aspect, since I have never, really before, written it. Oh, well, I do hope it is not too terrible. I am trying to make it as suspenseful and as edge-on-the-seat as some of the wonderful horror stories I have read.

Oh, and on the quote from Wuthering Heights. For those who are curious, that quotation was taken from none other than Heathcliff himself. And sadly, while I am not personally a fan of Wuthering Heights—I hated Cathy's character with a passion, on my first reading; but then, she is no Undine Spragg, who is, in my opinion, infinitely worse—but the quote itself, seems to fit quite perfectly, with the overall theme of this story, for it is indeed very much a ghost story.

And as such, the identity of Wendy's ghostly visitor will soon be revealed in the next chapter. I do not intend to make this a long story, since I have so many others I want to finish. I have not forgotten Promise or The Mask's Lament—those indeed are priority, as well as a couple of one-shots I am also working on, as well as my term paper for my English class. Must not forget that, in spite of my present enthusiasm in Peter Pan and The Phantom of the Opéra…—but I wanted to write this as well, since I was greatly tempted to see a ghost story centred round the novel of Peter Pan.

But again, I do hope everyone enjoys this. I have had a wonderful time writing it thus far. I do hope to get the second part up very soon! ;)

— Kittie