Just a little ghost story for Halloween ... Completely AU. A Confidential Informant, a WWI soldier, spiders and our two favorite Major Case Detectives. Maybe they're just my two favorite - Goren and Eames.
All usual disclaimers apply. I don't own these characters, that privilege belongs to others. They simply inspire me.
A Cold Dark Night
Not for the first time that night, Alex Eames cursed her partner and his bizarre contacts. It wasn't the first time that Goren had kept her waiting - but Eames hadn't felt this uncomfortable for quite a while.
She leaned against one of the larger, slightly lopsided tombstones and rubbed her cold hands together, breathing into her cupped hands in an attempt to get them a little warmer. It was a damp and chilly night and Eames could think of better things to do than spending it in a graveyard, waiting for her partner.
She could kick herself for agreeing to come. It was Halloween and she was off duty for chrissake! Not that she celebrated Halloween; she never had enjoyed the holiday not even as a child. But, tonight she yearned for her warm home, a good gothic novel (if she absolutely had to follow the theme of the night) and a cup of hot tea. Considering how her teeth were chattering, maybe even something a little stronger. She cursed again and tugged her leather jacket closer to her shivering body.
What had started as a wonderful off-duty evening for the partners was turning into a nightmare. They'd been watching a fairly decent movie on Goren's new HD DVD player, relaxing and talking, waiting for the pizza delivery gy, when Goren received a call from one of his confidential informants. Eames didn't know who Goren's contact was, apparently someone from his time in Narcotics years ago. Still, the CI had convinced Goren that it was important and Goren had asked Eames to come with him. Of course, she agreed.
She had no idea that the CI had asked Goren to come to a graveyard in the middle of the night. Naturally, Goren only mentioned this casually once they were almost there, when it was too late for Eames to back out. Goren tried to appease his grumbling partner by assuring her that it wouldn't take long and promising to buy her a margarita after the meeting. Then to top it off, Goren had said he needed to run an errand first, and would she just meet him at the graveyard? She'd looked at him blankly before slowly blinking in shock. She'd turned and stalked off, but not before rolling her eyes at the sheer audacity of his request. She didn't miss his laughter follow her and could imagine the accompanying smirk.
But now he was keeping her waiting. In the cold. In the dark.
Eames shifted her position, looking around nervously, trying to see into the shadows. Graveyards weren't her favorite place to hang out in general, but even less so at night, on Halloween in the cold. She wasn't particularly superstitious, but graveyards were creepy, period. If the night been pitch black it would have been far less spooky, but the full moon was only a few days away and no clouds wandered in the clear, starlit night sky. She had forgotten to grab a flashlight, but with the moon shining so brightly, it really wasn't necessary, except the graveyard was bathed in a pale light and shadow that was creeping her out.
Eames couldn't think of a rational explanation for her uneasiness. She was neither afraid of the dead nor ghosts. She'd had so many brushes with death herself and had seen so many corpses it should last her several lifetimes. But still… there was an eerie atmosphere that she couldn't easily shrug off. She watched as a thick mist began to rise up, slowly creeping over the graves, over the tombstones casting shadows in its wake.
A few steps away, a large stone angel wielded an avenging sword, guarding a family burial site with a fierce expression and determination. Eames could have sworn that the angel was waving the weapon in her direction. She felt like an intruder, in a realm where she didn't belong.
For what must have been the hundredth time, she held her wrist up to scrutinize her watch in the moonlight.
"Trick or treat!" a familiar voice said very close to her right ear.
Nearly jumping out of her skin, Eames turned and slapped at his arm. "Goren! For Chrissake, don't do that!"
"Caught you off guard, eh?" In a near perfect imitation of Captain Ross's voice, Goren intoned, "That's sloppy work detective. I expected more of you than that Eames."
"Cut it out! It's not funny," Eames growled at her partner.
"Calm down, Eames! Since when are you so jumpy?" Goren responded, slightly shocked by Eames vehement reaction.
"Where have you been? I've been freezing my ass off for almost twenty minutes."
"Your ass looks fine to me," Goren offered. He bent and twisted to look around his partner. The words slipped out before he could censor himself. It was rare that either would utter a comment so personal, but it didn't stop either from thinking them. He believed both he and Eames hid a lot behind smirking grins.
"GOREN!" She looked up at her partner.
"Sorry. I had no idea you'd be running all the way to get here! I told you to take your time getting here. I thought you might even have stopped off to get a cup of coffee or something."
Now, why didn't I think of that. Eames sighed in frustration. "Never mind. Now that you're finally here, let's go and find your informant. I haven't seen anyone around."
"That's because you haven't looked in the right place." Goren smiled mischievously. He cocked his head, indicating Eames should follow him.
A few moments later, Goren stopped.
"Now what?" Eames asked impatiently. She just wanted to get this over with and done. She was ready for that margarita he promised her. She might just change that to Irish Coffee.
Goren raised an arm, pointing to the entrance of a burial crypt. "In there."
Eames' gaze followed the outstretched arm and saw that the crypt was almost the size of a small house. In broad daylight, she probably would have admired the playful neo-gothic architecture, but after her last half hour she felt as if she had swallowed a lump of ice.
"You've gotta be kidding!"
"Afraid not. Arthur has a weird sense of humor."
"Goren, if this is some kind of sick joke..."
"Honestly, can you think of a safer place to meet, especially at night?" Goren's smirk widened. "Ah, don't tell me you're afraid of ghosts."
"I don't believe in ghosts." Eames grumbled back, still staring at the entrance.
"Come on, Eames. It's just a building." Goren gave her an encouraging slap on the shoulder and led the way, opening the heavy metal door soundlessly and stepping inside.
Reluctantly, Eames followed. "Filled with dead bodies," she muttered.
"Did you at least bring a flashlight?" she asked. A sudden flash of piercing light pointed in her direction answered her question.
"Thanks so much for that." Temporarily blind, Eames fumbled after her partner with outstretched arms and almost stumbled down a short staircase of only four or five steps. She caught herself just in time by grabbing the doorframe. Carefully she went on.
She didn't know what to expect. She'd never actually been in a burial crypt before. What she hadn't expected was to see a clearly structured room with a high roof divided by cross beams at the ceiling. In the center of the room was a stone table. Two wrought-iron benches rested against the opposite walls, each facing the table. The walls had with pointed arches and nooks carved into its stonewalls. It gave the vault a distinctly sacred atmosphere.
There were no coffins. Marble plaques with golden inscriptions indicated where the dead lay in their final resting place. The air was heavy with dust, and cobwebs draped down from the ceiling. In contrast, a large vase with fresh flowers rested on the stone table, surrounded by four sanctuary lamps. Someone had also lit several candles, filling the space with subdued light. Goren switched off the flashlight.
"Why isn't this thing locked?" Eames asked.
"It usually is. But Arthur has the keys. It's his family's vault and he seems to be kind of the crypt keeper."
"I bet he is…. So, where is he now?" No one had been waiting inside, they were alone. Eames was feeling very annoyed.
"Well, he must have been here already or it wouldn't be unlocked. Maybe he got tired, waiting for us. I'm sure he'll be back soon."
Goren sat down on one of the benches, watching his partner closely. Eames still felt cold, so she did not sit down on the hard stone next to Goren, but continued to wander around to peering at the inscriptions on the marble slabs instead.
"So. The Wilson family, huh?" Goren said, moving slowly from one plaque to the next. Most of the slabs not only had the names and dates of the deceased on them, but a short verse of poetry. He reached a pair of slabs that particularly caught her eye, some of the few to display a photograph of the deceased. The first one was labeled Thomas Richard Wilson. Born May 22nd, 1898. Died September 26th 1918, at the Battle of the Argonne Forest.
"Poor kid. Guess he missed all the best parts in life," Eames murmured.
"Eh?" Goren asked, turning in her direction.
"Oh nothing, just thinking out loud. This one was only 20 years old when he died. He was a soldier. Died at the Battle of the Argonne Forest. There was a verse of poetry on the plaque. "Bobby, listen to this:
'We, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.'
Eames paused and then added softly: "That's very touching, isn't it?"
"Rupert Brooke." Goren said quietly. Eames looked at his partner.
"Oh yeah?"
"He was one of the War Poets. I read some of his stuff back in my army days". Goren made a point of using a casual tone, not looking at her. Eames tried to picture her partner in a soldier's uniform, reading poetry. She found she could.
Eames turned around and studied the picture of the young man again. He had a smooth and beautiful face, almost child-like if it hadn't been for the haunted expression and the uniform he was wearing.
She was jolted out of her reverie, when Goren suddenly jumped to his feet with a long drawn out, "Eeeeeewwwww...!"
Eames spun around, to see him desperately brushing something from his jacket.
"What's the matter?"
"Spiders." Goren gasped, his handsome features distorted with revulsion.
"So what? Don't tell me you're afraid of spiders!"
Seeing his partner's disgusted face flush with embarrassment was too much for Eames. She burst into hysterical giggles.
"I just don't like them," Goren said indignantly.
"Now who's the sissy?" Eames snorted, still giggling helplessly.
Trying to regain some of his dignity, Goren said, "I've hated them since I was as a kid. Frank and I used to sleep down in the basement sometimes and once, I woke up in the middle of the night and my body was literally swarming with them." Goren shuddered visibly at the memory and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "hate the nasty creepy crawlers," still brushing slightly at his shoulders, just in case another spider had found its way onto his jacket.
He didn't sit down on the bench again, but joined Eames, who had moved on to the next slab.
"Emily Matilda Wilson", he read aloud. "Born May 22nd, 1898. Died December 14th, 1949." Goren looked at the picture of the young soldier and back to the woman again. "She must have been his twin sister, spitting image of him over there!"
"You're right." Eames agreed. They wandered around for a little longer until there was nothing of interest left to see.
Finally, Goren grew impatient himself. "Where is that stupid …? It's too cold to keep us waiting this long, don't you think?"
"Oh? Whatever gave you that impression?" Eames grumbled sarcastically.
"I'll go and have a look around, maybe I can find him". Goren headed for the door.
"Hey! What about me?" For some reason, Eames didn't like the thought of being left alone in the crypt.
Goren turned around to his partner. "Someone has to stay here, or we might miss him! Don't worry, Eames, I'll be right back." Before she could say anything else, he disappeared outside.
"Oh, great!" Eames let herself drop down on one of the benches.
A few seconds later, the door slammed shut.
Caught off-guard, Eames stared disbelievingly at the closed entrance. What was Goren playing at, slamming the door shut behind him? Irritated, she got up and went to open it again, feeling somewhat trapped.
Which, in fact, is exactly what she was.
There was nothing to open the door with from the inside. Not quite believing what she was seeing or happening she stared at it. All right, don't panic.
With both hands she pushed, but the door didn't move an inch.
Eames' heartbeat raced and she felt sick. Angrily, she pictured her giggling partner standing outside, probably savoring his revenge for her laughter a few minutes ago. She pressed her forehead against the door.
"Oh yes. Very funny. You can open the door now. You've had your laugh!" Eames yelled.
Nothing.
"Come on, Goren, open the door."
Silence.
Eames tried to suppress a wave of panic. She slammed her shoulder violently against the door but the thing didn't move an inch.
Why for Chrissake was there no way to open the door from the inside? Because the dead don't usually no one need a way to open the door from the inside.
She breathed heavily; her heart hammered in her chest. "Goren, if you don't open this door at once, I'll kill you!" she roared, beating her fists against cold surface.
No answer.
Eames stepped back. There had to be a way to get out of here. If she only had a little more light… she remembered the flashlight that Goren had brought. Had he taken it along when he left? She turned back to the bench where Goren had been sitting. Luckily, he had left the flashlight there and Eames lunged for it as if someone were trying to beat her to it. She was just about to return to the door, when for some reason she looked back at the stone table. She froze.
Someone was standing there, watching her.
No, she thought, it was her mind playing a trick on her; the dark form was just a shadow. Damn Goren and his sick pranks. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had succeeded in scaring the shit out of his partner. Eames held her breath and switched on the flashlight. What she saw in the flash of light made her blood run cold. With a crash, the flashlight landed on the stone floor, the glass splintering into a myriad glittering shards.
The pale apparition of Thomas Richard Wilson was standing behind the table, watching Eames with sad, empty eyes, wearing the uniform he had very likely died and been buried in.
Unable to move, Eames watched in horror as the form glided slowly to the slabs that she and Goren had studied only shortly before. Hovering in front of them, the specter raised his right arm, as if to stroke the stone tenderly. Then, he turned back to Eames, looking at her with an expression of such sadness that Eames' heart felt it would break. It was as if Wilson was waiting for a reaction from her. For a moment, the two beings from utterly different spheres eyed each other silently.
Just as Eames was about to regain something of her self-control, the apparition moved again. It drifted slowly towards her, the pale, handsome features distorted by an expression of utter despair.
A fresh surge of panic grabbed Eames and she staggered backwards. A dull moan reached her ears, but the specter had not opened its mouth and she realized it had been herself moaning in terror.
Still backing off, not daring to look away from the approaching form, Eames had forgotten about the stairs. Stumbling, she lost her balance and fell backwards, her arms flailing. She reached out to the wall to catch her fall, but in vain. With a sickening thud, her head smashed against the edge of a stair and exploded in pain.
Alex Eames was thrown into the bliss and ignorance that was unconsciousness.
"Eames? Speak to me, Alex!" A concerned voice reached him through the thick haze as she slowly came to. She felt strong, tender hands touching her face.
Goren?
She opened her eyes, trying to focus, but a wave of dizziness forced her to close them again.
"Easy, Eames. You're sporting a huge lump on that pretty head of yours. What happened for Chrissake?"
And Eames remembered.
Ignoring the dizziness, she opened her eyes again and tried to sit up. She looked into Goren's worried face. "Where is he?"
"Who?"
"Wilson."
"I'm here," a voice responded somewhere above her.
Eames raised her head and regretted her move immediately as pain shot through her. Squinting back tears, she saw that the speaker was a very much alive man. Not a ghost.
"But… I meant Thomas." Eames said, her voice croaky, her eyes searching the crypt for a sign of the specter.
Goren and the other man exchanged glances.
"Listen Eames, I think we should get you to a hospital," Goren said softly.
"I don't need a hospital," Eames exclaimed angrily, gingerly rubbing her head. "Help me up, will you?"
Goren pulled his partner up, but grabbed her again, as her shaky legs threatened to give way. Leaning back against the wall, Eames tried to regain her balance, breathing hard from the effort, her face pale as death itself. She closed her eyes, wishing that the room would stop spinning.
"Geez, Eames! I can hardly leave you alone for a second, can I?"
Feeling a bit better, Eames opened his eyes again. "Bobby, why did you close the door behind you? Is that your idea of a sick joke?"
The shock in Goren's face seemed genuine.
"What are you talking about? I didn't close the door. I was hardly gone for five minutes. When I found Arthur, we came back here. Then we heard you screaming. We found you lying here, out cold. And the door was still ajar, just as I left it!"
Eames didn't answer. She was still staring in Goren's direction, but he seemed far away.
"Alex, what happened?" Goren stepped closer to his partner.
"I think she saw a ghost." Both detectives looked at Arthur Wilson.
"What?" Goren snorted, not taking her seriously. When he looked back at his partner, the grin disappeared from his face.
"You even know his name. Thomas. You saw him, didn't you?" Wilson asked
Eames nodded slowly.
"Would someone please tell me what's going on here?" Goren snapped angrily.
"I never believed the stories, you know." Arthur walked towards the niche where the two slabs of the twins were. "This place is supposed to be haunted by one of my ancestors. Thomas Richard Wilson to be precise. He had a twin sister."
"Emily…" Eames offered.
"Yes. They were very close. They were inseparable before the war. It broke her heart when her brother fell at the Battle of the Argonne Forest outside of Verdun, France. Before Thomas left, he asked that in the event of his death his body be returned to the States to be buried here." Arthur touched the slab with Thomas' inscription. "However, fate had something else in mind and Thomas was buried in France."
Now it was Goren's turn to look confused. "His body isn't here? But why the plaque?"
"The family made several attempts to bring him back, but for a variety of reasons it never happened. And now it's said he haunts the family crypt – but I never believed the stories." He looked back to Eames.
"I think he wants to come home." She said quietly.
"I think we all need a drink now." Goren concluded.
The lines of the poem are from Rupert Brookes' Sonnet "Peace". Rupert Brookes was known as a War poet during WWI. Aug 3, 1887- April 23, 1915
A/N My grandfather's older brother fought in the Battle of Verdun in 1916 and kind of inspired that part of the story. But the battle of Verdun was fought between the French and the Germans and didn't fit with the story, so I took a little 'artistic license' because I needed an American involved battle, hence the Battle of the Argonne Forest, which took place not that far from Verdun, but north of the city. Little would you have guessed you'd get a history lecture too, huh?