A/N – A new AU! I know that I probably shouldn't start another story, but I can't help it. So, here it is. This time, it's ghost hunting. Excited? Feel the tiniest change of the air? Like a presence you can't explain? Me, too.

This first chapter is a bit short. It's like the starting level of a new game. Don't forget to tell me what you think of this new AU! I love to hear from you, yes, even when it's not so good. Those aren't so much fun, but at least I know you read it. So, have fun! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Modern AU.

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Chapter 1

Hiccup Haddock III unlocked the front door to his new house, stepped across the threshold, and swung his arm wide to show his father the Victorian style interior that he'd fallen in love with the instant the realtor had given him the tour.

"Not bad," Stoick said as he stepped into the main living space. "It's a bit big for just you. What's the square footage?"

"Two thousand," Hiccup said. "Mostly original hardwood floors, except the kitchen and bathrooms."

Stoic turned sharply, eyes squinted. "And how much did you say you bought it for?"

Hiccup twisted the large key in his hands. It was bigger than modern keys, but he loved the old-timey feel of it, and the house. Rather than answer his father immediately, he let his stare wander over the built-ins on the east side of the living space. Solid wood. They'd be expensive to buy nowadays.

"Hiccup?" Stoick asked, frown deepening.

"Fifty-five," Hiccup said.

Stoick's brows shot upward. "Fifty-five thousand?"

Hiccup nodded.

"What's wrong with this place?" Stoick demanded, making a quick lap of the first floor. He walked through the side door into the dining area, which lead into the recently updated kitchen, which lead through a narrow hallway that divided the living space from the first-floor parlor, or library, or sitting room…Hiccup wasn't sure what it was. Stoick remerged from the parlor and stood by the stairs that led to the second floor; the banister was thick, shined wood. Each spindle had been hand-carved some hundred years ago, like most of the charm of the house.

"Nothing," Hiccup said, twiddling the key around his fingers.

"Does it flood? Birds in the attic? Asbestos? Mold? Termites? Lead plumbing? Leaks eating away at the foundation?"

"No, I had all that checked out before I bought it," Hiccup said.

"Then what's the matter with this place? No one in their right mind would sell a two thousand square foot house like this at fifty-five thousand without there being something major wrong with it. Your mother and I paid a hundred and ten for a house half this size."

"You also living right in town," Hiccup said. "I'm a good ten minutes from the city limits. It's technically in a small suburb, Berk. Population of about fifteen."

"Fifteen thousand?"

"No, uh, just fifteen people. It might be closer to fifty, I'm not sure."

Stoick let out a heavy sigh, rubbed his temple, and turned to face his son. "Look, Hiccup, a house is a big responsibility. And it can turn into a costly one. I just wish you'd have told me you were looking before you went and signed your life away on a mistake."

"It's not a mistake," Hiccup said, defending the home he had saved up for years to purchase, to get away from his parents, to finally start out on his own. "I'm not a little kid, anymore. I had the house checked professionally by the city. They didn't find anything that might burst or break or cause me problems. The only thing they saw was the roof. It might need to be replaced in the next ten years."

Stoick huffed. He set a hand on the banister's decorative end. He lifted his hand and brought it back down. The banister didn't budge. He said, "Sturdy."

"Let me show you the upstairs," Hiccup said, and went around his dad to the stairs.

The upstairs was a long hallway with two bedrooms, one full sized master bath, a narrow staircase that led into the kitchen, a parlor that led out onto a small balcony that overlooked the front lawn, and another small room at the end.

"Plenty of closet space," Stoick said, eyeing the empty hallway closet. "Your mother was worried about that."

"Each bedroom has a closet," Hiccup said. "And the master's got a walk-in."

"Your mother would love one of those, maybe we can turn your old room into a walk-in."

"She's got enough shoes."

Stoick chuckled. "That she does."

Hiccup showed his dad the narrow door beside the stairs that led into the unfinished attic. Stoick let himself up. The stairs hadn't been stained or painted, and the ceiling had loose, quickly installed instillation between the studs. The bare brick chimney from the downstairs parlor went through the middle of the room and out through the ceiling.

"You could eventually fix this up as a playroom," Stoick said, nudging his son in the arm.

"Or a study," Hiccup said on his arm. He didn't tell his father so, but the odds of him working in a finished attic far exceeded the odds of him having children to pay in a finished attic.

"Aye, or that," Stoick said.

They returned to the kitchen and Stoick leaned onto the faux-marble counter top. They'd put real tile on the floor, at least.

"It's not a bad place," Stoick said after a moment. "A little farther away from home that your mother would have liked."

"Two hours isn't that bad of a drive," Hiccup said. "And it's scenic. And It's a twenty minute drive to work."

"For your mother, two hours is a long time," Stoick said. "You know how she hates to ride in the car."

"I know," Hiccup said. He gestured to the house. "But this house was a deal, Dad. I couldn't let it go. And I can't drive two hours to work every day. That's killer on my car."

"I know, I know," Stoick said. "I'm still worried about that price. That's suspicious."

"The owners were moving to Florida and needed to get rid of it," Hiccup said. He rubbed the back of his neck. It wasn't technically a lie. "None of their children wanted it, so…I came along at just the right time."

"Why didn't anyone else want it?" Stoick said, gaze narrowed again. "What's the matter with this house?"

"Nothing is…the matter," Hiccup said, gaze drifting over the crown molding. The window panes were wooden, but looked new. They'd been replaced for energy saving reasons, the realtor had said, save for the stained-glass window on the second floor.

"Hiccup," Stoick said, puffing up his chest. "If I go ask the neighbors about this house, what are they going to say?"

Hiccup took a deep breath, and looked at his father. He looked serious about that threat. Might as well tell him before someone else did. Hiccup let out his breath and said, "They'd probably say something about…itbeinghaunted."

"What?" Stoick thundered.

"The owners claimed that the house was haunted," Hiccup said. He dropped his arms to his sides. "But, I've been here three days already and I haven't seen or heard anything."

"Are you serious, Son?"

Hiccup groaned.

"You need to leave all this ghost-hunting nonsense behind you," Stoick said. "It was cute when you were seven, but you're nearly twenty-five. It's time to grow up and realize there's no such thing as ghosts."

Hiccup wanted to argue with his father on that, but he held his breath. He'd learned that Stoick "the Vast" Haddock didn't do well with arguing.

"I've already been approved for the loan and signed," Hiccup said. He held the key tighter. "The house is mine."

Stoick groaned. He sighed, and sat up straight. "And we're proud that you've taken that step, Son, we are."

"Then don't worry about how 'supposedly' haunted the house is," Hiccup said. "Like you said, ghosts aren't real. So, I probably got the house at a steal."

"You're right," Stoick said, rubbing his temple.

After promises to keep in touch, Hiccup led his father to the front door. He stood on the front porch as his father drove away. Hiccup waved, and didn't go back inside until he no longer could see his father's car down the gravel road.

Hiccup shut the door, and locked it. He took in the slightly musty, unused air, and let out a sigh.

His house.

Hiccup's house.

It had a nice ring to it.

He opened the pocket doors to the first-floor parlor/sitting room and sat down at one of the few pieces of furniture that he'd brought with him when he'd moved: a small writing desk. Beside it, he opened the plastic drawers he'd had since his first college dorm room. Inside, he pulled out the notebook he'd kept since he'd found out about the house. He scanned his notes:

Built in 1850 by Randal J. Hofferson and his brother Jacob H. Hofferson. Also living in the house at that time: Randal's wife, Ingrid L. Hofferson, Randal and Ingrid's son, Willie Hofferson, who later enlisted in the Union Army and died in 1864.

In 1853, Jacob and Karla suffered a miscarriage that also took Karla's life.

In 1855, Randal and Ingrid had a daughter, Astrid Hofferson.

In 1859, Randal and Ingrid had another son, Robert Hofferson.

Both brothers enlisted for the Union Army at the start of the Civil War. Both made it home. According to local gossip Hiccup had learned from the ancient librarian, Randal hadn't known his son had joined the army. Willie had been put in charge of the household in case something happened to both brothers. When Randal came home to discover that his son had gone, and later had died, he'd gone into a deep depression.

Hiccup's only historical evidence on that story came on Randal Hofferson's death certificate which read he'd been receiving medication for mania, which back then could have been anything from depression to cancer.

Things hadn't gotten better for the Hofferson's.

In 1965, Robert Hofferson dies, cause unknown.

In 1870, Jacob Hofferson dies in his sleep, cause unknown.

In 1880, Astrid Hofferson dies from apparently suicide. She was found in the second bedroom upstairs, which had been her room. Speculations point to it being because of a man, but Hiccup could find no hard evidence to suggest that.

In 1885, only Randal and his wife Ingrid lived in the house. According to the historical records, they had tried for another child, but Ingrid was getting to be too old.

A thump from upstairs caused Hiccup to pause. He looked up from his notebook, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. No one stood in the doorway, or spoke. He listened harder, but he heard nothing. Above him, the dainty light fixture moved, ever so slightly.

Hiccup set his notebook onto the desk, and reached for one of the boxes he'd brought with him in the move. He'd made sure to bring his ghost-hunting equipment. He didn't hold it past his dad to throw it out while he wasn't looking.

Hiccup set the EVP recorder on the desk, and dug out his thermal imaging camera. He put two new batteries into the camera, clipped the EVP recorder to his shirt's pocket and headed upstairs to where the thump had come from: the room directly above the first floor parlor, which happened to also be Astrid Hofferson's bedroom, the room where she supposedly hung herself.