Happy Halloween Guys…
"In here?" Mycroft asked incredulously, raising one eyebrow as he spoke. He didn't usually partake in unnecessary theatrics however standing outside the abandoned mansion in the howling wind and driving rain he felt that it was appropriate. "In here?" he repeated disbelievingly, "Are you sure?"
"Yes." Sherlock replied miserably. Mycroft glanced at the creaking house with disdain.
"Well in that case you're going to have to wait to retrieve your book. I have no desire to trek around a house that is the falling apart in the pitch black looking for a book."
"But Mycroft I go back to school tomorrow and if I don't have it they will give me the cane. Those boys knew that when they hid it in here - they said I wouldn't be brave enough to look for it."
"Fine." snapped Mycroft irritably and he stalked up the path towards the imposing front door. He heard Sherlock shuffling slowly down the path behind him sniffling as he walked. He continued walking until he was under the shelter of the front porch then he turned and watched as Sherlock approached the house with caution as though it may suddenly come to life and launch an attack on him.
"Will you hurry up Sherlock. I am cold and wet and I would like to return home as quickly as possible." he paused and seeing Sherlock's expression, which was caught somewhere between miserable and petrified, he added with something bordering on sympathy "Whatever's the matter?"
"It's All Hallows Eve." Sherlock replied wretchedly. The limited amounts of patience Mycroft had evaporated instantly.
"So?" he asked impatiently, "how does that stop you from retrieving your book or walking down that path at a quicker pace than a glacier?"
A sudden clap of thunder masked Sherlock's reply but Mycroft managed to discern the word 'ghost'.
Mycroft sighed furiously although the shrieking of the wind drowned it out. He thought about giving Sherlock the 'ghosts don't exist' speech. However Mycroft was cold, irritable and impatient and that would take far too long and judging by the last hundred times he had given Sherlock the speech it was unlikely to work anyway. But there was something he could do that would ensure that he got what he wanted. With a rare vindictiveness he called to his brother
"Sherlock the longer you take walking down that path the more time there will be for a ghost to find you." Sherlock's expression was something like a startled rabbit about to bolt and sure enough Sherlock darted down the path and through the open front door. Mycroft followed, too busy revelling in his spiteful glee to notice the door slamming shut behind him.
Sherlock stood in the very centre of the expansive hallway turning slowly as he tried to guess which direction he should go in. Two corridors branched off the hall; they were dark and unlit. A staircase led up to a well lit walkway that circled the entrance hall and had many doors coming off from it.
Sherlock looked around the hall again hoping for some inspiration as to which was to go. The house wasn't at all what he expected. It was clean and well-kept and was almost inviting. The fear that Sherlock had felt outside left him - this house was every bit as frightening as his own home.
After a moments pause he charged up the staircase reasoning that the boys who took his book were likely to have gone where there was light. He heard his brothers footsteps on the tiles and guessing that Mycroft would see him he didn't bother calling out to him to tell him where he was going.
Mycroft's footsteps echoed around the dimly lit entrance hall the only sound apart from the distant rhythm of a clock. Unsurprisingly Sherlock had already vanished leaving no clues that he had been in the house at all. Mycroft reached the centre of the hallway and glanced around, coughing as the thick dust he had disturbed when he was walking, flew up into his face.
Furiously Mycroft scanned the expansive hall for a clue as to where Sherlock had gone. A stone staircase led to a dilapidated walkway that hugged the walls. Several doors opened off of the walkway; many of them were hanging off their hinges, some were swinging gently. The walkway was in semi-darkness, lit sparsely by flickering candles.
Shivering - was it his imagination or was the inside of this house so much colder than outside? - Mycroft turned his attention away from the staircase surmising that Sherlock would be too frightened to brave the decrepit walkway especially as it was so dark up there. Sherlock's disappearance confused Mycroft; it wasn't logical for Sherlock to run off - he was terrified of ghosts and would be very wary of wandering too far on his own. Furthermore there were no footsteps in the dust; it lay inch thick on the floor, undisturbed. Unless Sherlock could fly Mycroft couldn't see any way that Sherlock could move around without upsetting the dust. There must be something that Mycroft couldn't see in the half light.
Mycroft turned his attention to the two corridors; one was pitch black, the other was equally dark but had a thin strip of light blazing at the end that slowly grew and then shrank again as though the light was pouring through a crack in a door that was swinging slightly. Choosing the latter as the most likely option as to where Sherlock could have gone, Mycroft took a candle from a holder on the wall and proceeded cautiously down the corridor, cursing his younger brother and reminding himself never to do a favour for Sherlock again, no matter how forlorn Sherlock looked when he asked for it.
Sherlock raced along the walkway looking for a likely door amongst the masses of closed doors that he was faced with. It didn't concern him that his brother hadn't caught him up yet - Mycroft was no doubt being slow as usual. Sherlock wasn't sure what he was looking for but he knew that he would probably know the right door when he saw it. After all, Sherlock was the cleverest boy in his year at school and probably the cleverest in the school now that Mycroft had left. If he couldn't find the right door then no one could - well except maybe Mycroft.
Where is Mycroft? Sherlock began to feel a little uneasy. He knew Mycroft was slower than him but surely he should have followed by now. Just as Sherlock was beginning to wonder if he should go downstairs and search for his brother he heard footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock thought about waiting for his brother but then he saw a door that was standing open a crack. This is the room, thought Sherlock gleefully darting into the room. Thinking about how impressed Mycroft would be when he saw that Sherlock had found his book and how pleased Mycroft would be that they could go home now, Sherlock didn't notice the door swinging shut behind him or hear the lock click.
Mycroft walked slowly down the corridor, holding the candle high so it illuminated as much of the dark corridor as possible. Although he was sure that Sherlock had gone into the lit room at the end of the corridor, Mycroft methodically checked each door to see if it was locked. After all if Sherlock had disappeared into one of those rooms he didn't want to trek to the end of the corridor and then have to come all the way back - it made sense to check each door as he went. As Mycroft predicted all the doors that were still standing were locked. Some doors were falling off their hinges however Mycroft assumed Sherlock wouldn't have gone in these rooms - they looked as though they would be too scary for the eleven year old.
WARNING: may be a little creepy/dark/scary. Please do no read if you do not like horror stories or are of a nervous disposition or whatever…
The warm orange light inched ever closer as Mycroft made his way down the corridor. Suddenly movement out of the corner of his eye made Mycroft freeze. He turned slowly, his heart pounding and was faced with his reflection in a ornate mirror hanging on the wall. Mycroft laughed shakily and mentally berated himself for being so silly. You're acting like Sherlock he told himself. Either side of the mirror hung a painting, both were of a young lady.
For some reason the pictures captured Mycroft's attention and he briefly glanced at them in the pale circle of light the candle produced. In one painting the lady sat on a picnic rug, in the other she sat in a small rowing boat holding a pail of blood-red poppies. There was something strange about the paintings but Mycroft didn't have the patience or the desire to decipher what was bothering him and he moved on towards the glowing light.
Sherlock looked around the room he was in. It seemed to be an richly furnished bedroom complete with large wardrobe, a four-poster bed with heavy velvet hangings, a dressing table and a desk. A closed door was in the wall to the left of where Sherlock stood. A single painting hung on the wallpapered walls - a portrait of a striking young lady with brow eyes and dark hair.
Sherlock prowled around the room, examining it. He opened the desk drawers but found nothing except papers and letters, none of which were of much importance or interest to him. He crossed over to the wardrobe and threw open the doors. Inside were several dresses and other items of clothing but no book. Sherlock felt frustrated. Where was it? He tried the other door but found that it was locked.
Sherlock thought he better check the dressing table too, just to be sure that his book wasn't in the room. Among the blood red perfume bottles lay a gold key. Sherlock picked it up, it was warm to the touch as though someone had just put it down. The rest of the assorted items on the dressing table were as uninteresting as the rest of the room so Sherlock walked towards the door that led back to the walkway. He sighed heavily; he had been sure his book was in this room. He reached for the door handle and tugged it. It didn't move. He tugged a little harder but it still didn't move. In a slight panic Sherlock threw himself against the door. It didn't move an inch. He was trapped.
Mycroft was nearing the open door now and he swore he could hear gentle music. What on earth are you doing Sherlock? he wondered. He continued down the corridor the tinkling music growing louder and sharper in clarity with each step. He reached the door and pushed it open, walking into the blazing light.
Once his eyes had adjusted he saw that he was in a sitting room that was lit by gas lamps and as covered in dust and cobwebs as the entrance hall had been. He also saw that Sherlock wasn't in the room. The music was coming from an open jewellery box that lay on the sideboard. As he listened the music became distorted as the mechanism inside the box wore down. Irritated that he had walked all the way down the corridor for nothing Mycroft walked over and slammed the box shut and received a cloud of dust in his face for his efforts.
Mycroft was certain that Sherlock wasn't in the room - his brother was childish but he was sure Sherlock wouldn't stoop as low as hiding from him. However as a precaution Mycroft quickly checked the room and ascertained that there were no hiding places apart from behind the curtains. After opening the curtains just to make sure Sherlock wasn't hiding behind them Mycroft headed towards the door.
It was closed which struck Mycroft as odd - he didn't remember shutting it. As he tried to turn the handle he found that it was locked. Mycroft rattled the handle irritably but the door stayed firmly shut. With evident confusion Mycroft stalked around the small room searching for another way out, even though he knew there wasn't one. He threw himself down into a faded, ripped, overstuffed chair, closed his eyes and thought about what to do next.
A noise pulled him from his thoughts. He slowly turned his gaze to the door and saw that the handle was rattling.
"Sherlock?" he called, wondering if his brother had finally decided to put in an appearance. He received no answer.
"Sherlock!" he called a little louder, standing up. There was still no reply. Mycroft walked over to the door and put his hand on the doorknob. It instantly stopped rattling. Mycroft stood, his heart beginning to beat faster. He noticed light in the cracks in the door - someone had turned the lights on. Trying to force his fear away - it was irrational and wouldn't help him find a way to escape from this room - he turned the handle. The door was still locked. Mycroft moved his hand away and the door handle instantly began rattling again.
Swallowing, Mycroft backed away from the door. He forced himself to keep calm. It was probably Sherlock playing tricks on him -trying to scare him to prove his point about Halloween. Mycroft walked over to the window to collect his thoughts. Sherlock would let him out eventually, he reasoned, there was no cause for worry. As though to prove his point the door handle stopped rattling.
Mycroft stared past his pale reflection he saw a light bobbing in the grounds. Sherlock! he thought instantly. Then he remembered that 'Sherlock' had been outside the door mere seconds ago. He couldn't have gotten outside so quickly. Mycroft shivered. Relax. He told himself sharply. Sherlock is outside that door. Someone else is walking through the grounds - perhaps it's a shortcut to their house.
Try as he might Mycroft couldn't shake the feeling of unease that was growing within him. He knew within his heart that even the most impeccable logic wouldn't be enough to shake the dread and his logic was far from impeccable. Mycroft realised he was trembling and he drew his coat around him forcing himself to attribute it to the cold and not the sense of fear that was steadily growing.
Mycroft stared at his reflection trying to force his thumping heart to steady and slow. As he stared he became aware of another shape, another new reflection in the glass. As he shifted his focus to it disappeared. However Mycroft was sure it had been the face of a young lady. The young lady.
Sherlock began to panic. He hated confined spaces and the feeling it gave him of being trapped. Although the room wasn't small he didn't like the thought that he couldn't get out. Heart stuttering he ran to the other door and tried it again. It was still firmly shut. Panic began to well up inside Sherlock and just as the panic was threatening to overflow, Sherlock remembered the key in his hand. Desperately he shoved it in the lock and turned it. He tugged at the handle again but the door still wouldn't budge. He ran stricken to the other door and thrust the key into that lock. He tried the door but it was still locked.
In a blind panic now Sherlock stared around the room wildly. Everything that had looked so harmless and uninteresting before now somehow seemed threatening he wished he had waited for Mycroft. He wished he had just left his book and risked the cane. He wished he could just get out of this room. Movement caught his eye and he stared at the door to the corridor. A shadow flitted across the gap between the door and the floorboards.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock cried in relief. He ran towards the door. "Mycroft!" he pounded on the door. "Let me out!" he waited but there was no reply. The door didn't open either.
"Mycroft?" asked Sherlock his voice trembling. The shadow flitted across the gap travelling in the opposite direction.
"Mycroft?" he asked weakly when again he received no reply. Sherlock began to shiver. He was scared and close to tears. He shouldn't have come in here, especially not on Halloween. Panic reasserted its grip over him. The room seemed to grow steadily colder. His heartbeat sounded like a drum. Trapped in a horrible limbo between wanting to shut his eyes so he couldn't see what was happening and wanting to keep them open so he knew what was happening Sherlock suddenly realised with a sickening horror that although the shadow crisscrossed the door, as though a figure outside was pacing, Sherlock couldn't hear any footsteps.
Mycroft jumped backwards involuntarily. His heart pounded. That face. The face of the girl in the paintings. It was your imagination, he tried to tell himself. You are hallucinating. There is no such things as ghosts and there is nothing unnatural or unusual about his house. A small voice inside his head asked, if this house is abandoned, who turned on the gas? Mycroft found that he didn't have an answer. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get out of this house. Panic took over and he ran towards the door despite knowing it was locked. He twisted the doorknob violently and was surprised when the door leapt open. He was even more surprised to find that as soon as the door opened the lights turned off.
Trembling, he stumbled into the corridor and ran back down the corridor. As he went he was sure he heard the music box start playing again. Your imagination, he told himself fiercely. You shut the box, remember. But the thought didn't stop his heart from pounding a little faster, nor his legs moving a little quicker.
The corridor seemed everlasting. His rational mind seemed to have switched off and it was several minutes before Mycroft realised that the pressing inky blackness was due to the fact that he had left the candle on the sideboard in the sitting room. He didn't want to go back and get it so he just kept running. Distantly he heard the sound of a door slamming and he jumped.
Finally he reached the entrance hall and without pausing to catch his breath his crossed the hall and pulled at the front door. It stuck fast. No way out. No. Way. Out. The three words drummed in Mycroft's head over and over. They made logical thought impossible and Mycroft stood frozen, unable to do anything. As the words repeated they pushed his panic levels up and up. He heard a banging somewhere close to him and his heart stopped before starting again at an even faster rate than before.
Mycroft probably would have stood frozen with fear for an eternity had he not heard a scream. With a rush of shame he remembered Sherlock who was still alone in the mansion somewhere. Following the sound of the scream Mycroft dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. A feeling of fraternal protectiveness had temporarily taken the place of the panic and the fear for the moment and Mycroft ran down the creaking rickety walkway with little thought to his own safety.
Mycroft found he was able to virtually ignore distant sounds of banging and doors slamming that grew closer as though following him, when before they would have sent him spinning even further into the black abyss of panic. Even when one by one the candles in his wake began to snuff out pitching the walkway nearing and nearer to total darkness, Mycroft found he was able to keep relatively calm. The combination of the adrenaline that had kicked in and the clear goal - to find Sherlock - helped keep the fear at bay. They would get out of here Mycroft decided determinedly.
Sherlock stumbled backwards wanting to get away from the door as quickly as possible. As he walked backwards he tripped and fell back against the other door. The force of him falling against it caused the door to spring open and Sherlock tumbled unceremoniously into the next room. Not caring that the door had opened when before it had been locked Sherlock slammed the door shut behind him. He wanted to get as far away from that eerie shadow as possible.
The room he entered was dark - the only light came from the bedroom he had just come from. It was also claustrophobic although the darkness made it impossible to tell how big the room actually was. Sherlock stood. His heart was in his throat and he felt tears in his eyes. He couldn't remember ever being so scared. A shrill scream made him jump and he squeezed his eyes shut and balled his fists as his stomach jolted. He was petrified, completely unable to move.
He wondered who had screamed with a feeling of dread. Please don't let it have been Mycroft, he thought. A banging noise made his eyes fly open, although it was so dark it didn't make much of a difference. It drew closer and closer until Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He ran back into the bedroom slamming the door shut behind him. At least the shadow was outside. As he entered the bedroom he couldn't help crying out.
The room he had left had been spotless -almost like new. Now it looked old and dilapidated, everywhere was covered in dust, the wardrobes hinges were broken and the thick curtains and drapes at the bed were moth eaten. The bedcovers were faded and the bed frame was rusting. The painting of the young was slashed viciously. Sherlock felt his knees buckle as he stared around the ruined room.
Sherlock heard the doorknob rattle and he whipped around. The door to the walkway began to open and Sherlock watched it move almost in slow motion. Sherlock was too scared to do anything, not even scream. He felt as though his heart would burst if it beat any faster and his breathing came out sharp and ragged. He squeezed his eyes closed not wanting to know what it was that was coming through the door.
"Sherlock" a voice said with relief. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. He knew that voice.
"Mycroft" he exclaimed as ran towards his brother and threw his arms around him in a rare moment of affection.
A loud bang echoed around the room and Sherlock tightened his hold on his brother.
"We've got to get out of here." Mycroft said, disentangling Sherlock from himself. Sherlock peered out of the door, it was almost completely dark. "The front door's locked so we'll have to find another way out." Mycroft added.
"Locked?" repeated Sherlock. He opened his fist to show Mycroft the golden key. "Maybe this is the key." he said. Mycroft looked at it briefly. Another bang, closer this time, shook the room and Sherlock jumped.
"It's the best plan we've got I suppose." he said. Another bang rocked the room. "Come on then," he almost snapped at Sherlock who was looking apprehensively at the dark corridor. They ran down the walkway the bangs following them closely. As they ran doors fell off their hinges into the corridor inches behind them and lamps shattered behind their heads.
Mycroft suddenly cried out.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked wildly into the darkness. He couldn't see his brother to check he was okay.
"I'm fine, I just hit my head on something. Keep going." Mycroft's voice came out of the darkness near Sherlock's head. They reached the stairs and stumbles blindly down them, crashes still echoing behind them. They reached the entrance hall which was mercifully still light and they both dashed towards the door. In the light Sherlock turned and saw that Mycroft's head was bleeding profusely.
"You're bleeding!" he commented.
"Never mind that!" snapped Mycroft, "just open the door." Sherlock nodded and was about to turn when he froze, staring at something behind Mycroft.
"What?" Mycroft asked, "What?" he asked again his voice rising in panic. He turned around slowly…
Mycroft woke up and found he was sitting bolt upright in bed. It took him a few seconds to work out how he got home and another few seconds to realise that it was all a dream - well nightmare. As he lay down, relaxing he felt a sudden and urgent need to check on Sherlock. He left his room and sprinted down the corridor towards Sherlock's room. He rushed in without knocking and found Sherlock sitting upright in bed.
"Mycroft!" he exclaimed, wide eyed, "horrible dream," he muttered slightly incoherently "Haunted house. Banging. Trapped." Mycroft shivered. That sounded exactly like his dream. Statistically he supposed, it was possible that two people could have the same dream but it was so incredibly impossible… he shook it off and turned on the lights in Sherlock's room.
"It's okay," he began although he was unsure whether he was trying to comfort Sherlock or himself, "It was just a dream, it's not-" he stopped when he saw Sherlock's expression. It was disturbingly like the expression he had held in the dream when he had been looking over Mycroft's shoulder at something. Mycroft whipped around his heart stuttering. He saw nothing and was filled with a ridiculous but over-whelming sense of relief.
"What is it?" he asked Sherlock who was still looking as though he had seen a ghost.
"Your head." Sherlock muttered.
"What about it?" Mycroft snapped.
"It's bleeding." Mycroft froze, and then slowly brought his hand up to the place where he had hit his head in the dream. When he pulled his hand away he saw a sticky red substance on it. Blood.
"A coincidence." he muttered as he stared at the blood. Sherlock slowly unclenched his fist a look of horror on his face. In his palm was a golden key, identical to the one in the dream.
"It can't be." whispered Mycroft. At that moment the wind outside sounded strangely like a gleeful laugh.
Probably has a few mistakes as written in a rush. Feel free to point any you spot out! Thanks for reading and Happy Halloween! Reviews greatly appreciated!