Disclaimer: Don't own a thing.
Arthur Kirkland is being haunted.
The problem is not caused by a spell, or a séance gone wrong; it is his doing, and his alone. Staring through half-lidded eyes at the small ghost in front of him, Arthur wishes he was dead.
A pair of wide blue eyes blink innocently back at him, unnaturally bright in the darkness of his bedroom. The distinct scent of old food and unwashed clothes hangs in the air – where it would've bothered him once, he is too far past the point of caring (about anything, really) anymore. The shimmering form before him moves closer, and he can't stop the whimper that comes from his throat as thin, not-quite-solid arms wrap around his neck. Arthur doesn't pull away like he did all the other times before. He knows that will only make it angrier than it already is.
"Arthur." it whispers, in its soft, high-pitched voice, gently nuzzling his neck. Arthur tries to ignore the urge to run away as the cold, cold flesh rubs against his own.
Staring at the stained floor beneath his feet, the tired man busies himself with trying to remember when the ghost became an 'it' in his mind. The thing in question had been a person, once – he knows that better than anyone. A boy, he recalls, his son; upon remembering the day they first met he feels the beginnings of tears.
The ghost pulls away from his neck to stare into his eyes, and it takes every ounce of strength within him not to look away. It is these moments Arthur hates the most, when the spirit makes him look; at what he's done, at what he's caused.
Its flesh is very pale, with a bluish tint. On its arms there are nasty-looking scars, each around the joint where the arms and forearms meet. They're on its legs, too. Arthur's eyes trace the hideous marks and remember how they got there. He begins to cry. Big, ugly bruises mar the skin around the ghost's neck; they are in the shape of hands. He knows that if he were to move his own to the hideous splotches, they would fit perfectly.
Blinking away the tears he looks up into dead blue eyes, and a memory pushes itself to the forefront of his mind.
"Alfred, meet Arthur, your new guardian."
The small child of six looks shyly up at him, clutching a worn stuffed bunny as though it were a lifeline. Arthur smiles awkwardly, entranced by the pretty blue of the younger's eyes. He shares a glance with the social worker and kneels before the little blonde, silently extending his hand.
"Hullo, Alfred. I'm Arthur. It's a pleasure to meet you."
He tries to make his expression as kind as possible – he's never been good with children, and even now he wonders what possessed him to take in the child of a friend he hasn't seen for years and years.
The tactic seems to work, for the child's shy demeanor morphs into one of curiosity. Eyes never leaving Arthur's, he tentatively places his little hand in the older man's, and Arthur marvels silently at the difference in size. Closing his fingers around the child's, he smiles, but it is much warmer this time. Alfred smiles in return, and as Arthur tells him of all the fun they'll have together, he giggles. To his ears, the sound is sweeter than honey.
"You talk funny, Arthur."
Arthur laughs.
"Alfred," he whispers, longingly, the image of the bright little boy a burning beacon within his mind. His heart begins to hurt, and he looks up to see the ghost's eyes flash at the name. The blue hues soften again just as quickly, shining with an innocence that Arthur knows isn't really there. A surge of hatred overtakes him as its hands cup his cheeks. How dare this demon wear his son's face? He longs to throw the false-Alfred away from him, but fears the consequences.
"Arthur." It says again. When there is no response it climbs nimbly into his lap, pressing its little body against his like the real Alfred used to. The action gives him no warmth as it once did, and he can't suppress a shudder. Where Alfred would murmur something sweet and snuggle closer, the ghost holds him uncomfortably tight, its nails digging into his back and tearing his skin through the cloth.
"Arthur," the fake-Alfred says sadly; his voice, in that moment, is disturbingly similar to the real thing - so much so that tears spring fresh from the older man's eyes, "Why are you ignoring me? Did I do something bad?"
Six months ago, when his tormentor first appeared, Arthur would've fallen for the act. The ghost was Alfred, after all, but at the same time, it was not.
As the weeks passed and the look-alike appeared more often, Arthur began to notice something…off… about the spirit. There was something dull about its eyes that set it apart from the lively boy he had known, and on the rare occasions it spoke, he scarcely recognized the hollow, empty voice.
The ghost's form flickers, and, though he knows better, Arthur wraps his arms around the fake, closing his eyes and wishing more than anything it was his Alfred -the one that sang loudly and talked endlessly, that complained about homework, that burped often and always, always greeted him with a hug and a smile, even if he didn't feel well. The one who always talked excitedly about his dreams of being a hero…
"Arthur!"
But that's all over now, he thinks. Alfred is gone, and will never live his dream - I stole that from him…
He knows he is crying again, but it's hard to care, anymore. Guilt overtakes him with the force of a tidal wave, and he hears himself sob the question he's asked every night for three months. "Why are you doing this to me?" he cries, watching fearfully as the ghost leans back to look into his face.
"Oh, Arthur." it says softly, touching his face. There is a dark undertone to the high, childish voice that Arthur fears. The ghost doesn't like it when he asks questions, but the long, sleepless nights -filled with terror and guilt –have pushed him scarily close to his limit, and he whispers brokenly,
"What do you want?"
The fake-Alfred pauses, seemingly surprised at its former guardian's question.
There is a long moment of silence. Arthur freezes as a slow giggle works its way out of the dead child's throat, and it morphs into full-blown raucous laughter, the likes of which chill the blood in his veins. This is not the loud, happy laughter of his long-gone son, his Alfred – this is the laughter of a person insane.
Arthur watches, terrified, as the laugh grows louder and louder, bouncing off the walls and hurting his ears. The little body shakes with the force of it, until slowly, slowly, the ghost begins to fade.
After a long minute, when fake-Alfred's torso has completely disappeared, the laughter stops. Arthur is unsure whether he should be relieved, or fearful of the silence. It stares at him, and there is that flicker in its eyes, the one that makes the older man want to shy away. Tilting its head, it smiles. Arthur recognizes that wide upturning of it lips for what it is – a promise.
A promise of return the next night; another nightmare. He can't see the ghost anymore, but Arthur isn't fooled. He knows it's still there with him, watching. The thought doesn't give him any comfort. Sobbing softly, he lays down and curls into himself, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes burning into his skin. At this point, he isn't sure how much more he can take of the fake's terrifying 'visits' - of its cold hugs and dead words and hollow laughs - all of these things a stark reminder that his Alfred is gone. Gone forever.
And Arthur's the one who killed him.
A/N: So, what do you think? I was planning to make this a two-shot, maybe a three, but I'd like to know what the readers think before I continue, it lets me know how I'm doing. :)
Next chapter, we find out how Alfred died, and Arthur decides its time he got some help. Our little ghost, of course, doesn't like this idea.
Reviews are appreciated!