Warning for hauntings, psychological terror/breaking, and slight body horror.

The brownstone looks nothing like he remembers.

The man checks the address scribbled on the back of his map before squinting at the building numbers. They match, and he sets down his case to flex cold fingers before tucking the paper away. The people hurrying by on the sidewalks are careful to avoid eye contact, and not for the first time he wonders if perhaps they sense something is amiss. Their reticence to find out is in the way they refuse to linger, stepping quickly past the cursed building while hunching their shoulders defensively.

He looks up at the brownstone again, and — there. A blur of ghostly white at the window, there and gone again in the space of a blink. A face, or a trick of the eye?

He can't be sure, but he knows there's only one way to find out.

The man rubs his sweaty palms over the front of his sun-faded trousers before hefting his case and climbing the stairs.

The entranceway is dim and dusty, festooned with cobwebs.

The intruder frowns at the stairs tilting drunkenly to the upper levels before drawing his wand. There's an unmistakable sense of presence in this place, a tense atmosphere that makes him think of the most dangerous of predators, lying in wait for their next prey. He looks at the battered case in his hand before coming to a snap decision, setting it close to the door with reverence before bending to speak to the lid.

"You know what to do if I don't come back, Dougal," he murmurs and waits for the answering unhappy grunt before straightening with a grimace. His life's work now safely in the hands of his oldest and most trusted companion, he wrests down the charnel house panic that hums just beneath his skin and tests the first step.

The stairs creak and groan like a woman being murdered, each step rotten and spongy beneath his feet. He's halfway up when he's doused with sudden, intense cold, a feeling not unlike plunging into an unexpected pool of dark water on a sunny day. He shivers and murmurs a warming charm before pressing through the thick air, only for the feeling to pass as suddenly as it had come.

"I'm not here to hurt you," he says as gently as he can manage. His heartbeat echoes in his voice, slow but very hard. The sense of waiting in the building seems to intensify when he reaches the landing, and his gaze fixates onto the peeling and charred wallpaper until something pale and pink drifts into his peripheral.

"You shouldn't have come here," a voice sighs from the shadows.

His heart drops to his feet before crawling past his stomach to crowd his throat. He swallows convulsively, spreading his hands to show he's not a threat, his wand held loosely between his fingers.

"I heard what happened," he says gently, "and I'm sorry but... I couldn't stay away. I felt — I feel—"

"It wasn't your fault," she says, her hollow voice like the wind through winter trees. "We don't blame you. None of us do. Especially not...her."

The lonely man sinks into a crouch when another draft of frigid air wraps around him, bleeding into his bones. "How is she?" he asks, a vivid remembrance of fair skin and dark, laughing eyes flashing through his memory.

"Angry," the once-vivacious woman moans.

He nods as if this was what he expected, watching from the corner of his eyes as she steps into view. Her once bouncy blonde hair hangs around her face in frayed and tangled knots, her blood-stained dress a frayed relic. She soundlessly crosses the floor toward him in a wedge of arctic air, until he is fairly certain his blood has frozen in his veins, skin stinging nastily.

"She loved you, you know," the ghost says low in his ear, and the man discovers to his shock that he is not too frozen to weep.

Transparent fingers wipe his tears away, splitting the skin on his cheeks. The woman in pink looks at them curiously before lifting her head. Her forehead is cloven, revealing shiny white bone and the pale gray matter of her brain. His stomach rolls slowly but he refuses to allow it to show on his face, keeping his eyes on her from an oblique angle.

"And you loved her." It isn't a question.

"Love," he corrects softly, biting his lip when she gasps. "I love her. Love doesn't die just because a person does."

A sudden wind crashes into the side of the brownstone, making it shiver. A howl rises from the beams and foundations of the house, rising and falling in wild, unearthly harmony, full of unspeakable pain.

The ghost touches his shoulder and he dares to turn his head to look at her, meeting her faded blue eyes. "She's coming," she says clearly and glances over his shoulder before squeezing his arm. "Whatever you do — be strong. She misses you still, even if she is a monster now."

"She will never be a monster to me," he manages past numb lips.

The ghost of Queenie Goldstein nods once before widening her eyes fearfully. "I will keep you as safe as I can," she promises, squeezing his arm one final time before vanishing in a wisp of pink smoke.

The rushing sound of a freight train fills the building, loud enough to rattle his teeth in his jaw. He looks at where Queenie was before throwing off the deathly cold with supreme effort and standing. Dark shadows congregate in a corner, twisting and curling like smoke and shot through with gibbering eyes peering at him.

He touches the golden locket hanging around his neck with the solemnity of ritual before opening his arms wide.

"Tina," he breathes and tips his head back when the shadows hurl themselves at him, welcoming her indefinable weight into his arms.

Sights and sensation engulf him, knocking his spirit from the weak mores of his body—

—Tina and Queenie dance together in their apartment, drunk on love for their men and each other, laughing as they prepare a meal while dark forces gather on the sidewalk below—

—a goblin sneers disdainfully from the shadows before laying a curse on the youngest of the two, the life leaving her body with a casual flick of his wrist—

—a slight, pale, greasy man holds down Tina, but she is too busy reaching for a dying Queenie to offer much resistance; he overpowers her easily, laughing when he takes down her slacks as her sister's eyes turn dim and unfocused and all the fight goes out of Tina at once, her body wilting—

—unresolved, blinding anger keeps her anchored to the apartment long after the men have had their way and left, and she curses each and every one of them with the remaining strength of her dying psyche, voicing vengeful laughter as the void yawns at her feet and she turns away—

—as her dying breath lovingly expels a single name.

"Newt."

The man stands at the docks, careful not to bring any unwanted attention to himself.

If anyone were to look too closely, they'd notice the deep shadows in his eyes — eyes that don't seem to fit his face. Eyes that appear too old for a man who looks to be in the prime of his life, too haunted. Too dark.

If anyone were to look too closely, they'd notice the protective way he keeps his battered brown suitcase tucked against his legs, as if the case were full of the most precious jewels and metal. They wouldn't be wrong but then, no one sees it, too lost in the protective magic woven around him and the hustle of a New York day.

If anyone were to look too closely, they'd notice the way the locket hanging around his neck — the most prized possession of the only woman he ever loved — seeming to glow smugly from within, as if containing the most paranormal of secrets.

If anyone were to look too closely, they'd notice the latch of his case flicking up, and him looking down at it with a fond but exasperated smile.

"Settle down now, Tina," he says absently, securing the lock before looking away. "It won't be long."

A tinkle of ghostly laughter ripples through the air, causing the gathered throng to shudder as one and babies to start wailing.

Newt smiles indulgently at the sound and pats the case with a lover's affection before stepping forward to join the rest of the queue.

Thanks, as always, to kemara for beta-reading, advice and encouragement. Find me on Tumblr at katiehavok.