Phantom Lullaby
England, 1844. An orphaned Danny Fenton labors in a sweatshop in order to forestall inevitable tragedy, and helps a lonely visitor one fateful hour who takes uncanny interest in him. Ghost VladxDanny fatherson.
Some stuff happens. Please review!
~(*0*)~
CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!
Danny instinctively curled into a little warm ball at the familiar sound. He had just fallen into the warm threshold of sleep, although he saw laughing devils as blue as death chasing him around the graveyard in his mind-
CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!
Danny's blue eyes flew open, and exhausted as the child was, he scrambled out of bed, snatched the blanket someone had stolen from him, and began to make his bed. Around him, people were dashing to do the same. If all the beds did not pass inspection by Ms. Spectra, or if just one bed was made untidily, everyone in your designated barracks could lose their breakfast. Made fierce and angry by the demons of hunger crawling in their empty stomachs, boys typically beat the unlucky child to near unconsciousness, and swiped their supper and dinner. Danny had only needed one experience to keep him painfully immaculate with his blanket folding. All the little blankets the children had were to be folded into identical little squares in case someone were to take them away for washing. Judging by the fact that the blankets were normally stained, weatherworn, and smelly, it didn't happen often, but no one was willing to risk Ms. Spectra's displeasure.
Or pleasure, might have been a better word. Ms. Spectra was cool as a cucumber, even when she raked a child with her very long nails or instructed many of the large hired help to punish them. While Walker abhorred rule breaking, Ms. Spectra seemed to flourish from it. Disobedience meant punishment. Punishment meant misery. The fact that her pointed her looked similar to devil horns did not go unnoticed, and many children crossed themselves behind her back, afraid that she was some sort of witch.
As soon as the folding was done, Danny immediately raced out in front of his bed, hands tucked behind his back, chin held high (but not too high), and quickly glanced down at his front as the other children copied him. To his panic, one of his overall straps was not fastened, and he fought to re-fasten the appendage with shaking, sweaty fingertips. Thankfully, someone was still smashing the pots and pans together, so there was still time. When the alarm stopped, everyone who wanted breakfast and to NOT spend a night alone in the ash-shed had to standing in front of their folded blankets, looking as neat as they possibly could. Thankfully, no one actually expected their skin to be clean, else no one would eat at all. While their flimsy shoes had to be tied and on the right foot and their few buttons had to be fastened, their skin was almost always dusty and dirty from the great amount of smoke they bathed in every day, and the dirty coal and fertilizer they handled. There was nowhere to wash, though if you had to work outside and pack crates and such, you might get a shower in the rain.
Danny managed to fix his strap, but to his anxiety he noticed that the button was about ready to come off. Luckily, you couldn't notice by simply looking at it, but it wouldn't last for much longer. He would have to somehow steal away a needle and thread from the factory and fix it himself.
The clanging finally stopped. No child said a word. Most children's eyes were downcast. While they could so easily turn hostile, no one dared to be during inspection. No one dared make eye contact, just in case Ms. Spectra saw guilt in them, real or imagined. And Walker? He was the very boogeyman himself. Between him and the graveyard ghost, Danny had to probably admit that he would be much more likely to take his chances with an evil spirit.
The doors opened, and the children stiffened. Not one sneeze or cough, though many of the children spent all day coughing in the factories, particularly when it came time to shovel coal.
Danny kept his blue eyes on the dusty floor. He saw Walker's heavy boots drag in, and he tried to keep his face expressionless as Ms. Spectra's dainty heel fell into step beside Walker. The child stiffened and kept his hands behind his back, though his nails were digging into his palms.
Spectra giggled faintly as she passed one child, a boy named Collin with bronze colored hair and a speckled nose.
"Goodness. I hope you didn't wet the bed again this time. I would just hate to see you and your little friends go hungry because of you…." She mused, an absolutely malicious smile lighting up her pretty and terrible face. Danny's eyes flicked to the boy's now red face, feeling pity. Apparently, the boy hadn't had another one of episodes, because Spectra passed beside his bed without incident, and everyone in Collin's barracks visibly sighed with relief.
Danny tried to stay motionless as Walker approached him, his cold eyes boring down on him. The man sneered.
"Well, little Fenton, so cold. Don't you have something nice to say to me this lovely morning?"
Danny kept his mouth shut, though his stomach twisted with dread. He heard this one before; Walker would try to trap people with this sort of statement, even though talking during inspection was expressively forbidden. When they DID reply back, Walker normally had one of his goons drag the unfortunate child away for a hard day's labor at the bricking yard. Or, if Walker was feeling particularly generous, a mere twenty-five spankings with his belt.
It appeared, however, that the manager only wanted to taunt him. Chuckling at Danny's reaction, Walker moved away, and Danny's eyes flicked to the ceiling. Thank God.
Luckily, this morning passed without much incident. They all slowly trooped to breakfast, although everyone was itching to run.
~(*0*)~
It didn't matter how the food tasted; Danny had learned by now to swallow his meager breakfast as quickly as he could, even if he burned his mouth in the process. The alternative was a sea of spoons trying to dip into his food, desperate to steal a morsel. Interestingly enough, there was no sort of rule for trying to steal your neighbor's food.
If you tried to steal a scrap of the veal Walker had every Friday or the chocolates that Ms. Spectra imported, the story was that you would be baked for Sunday dinner. No one dared to mark it off as a joke; such was their fear and conviction of their masters' cruelty.
In the dining hall, Danny pushed his wooden spoon into his mouth over and over again, feeling that if he could into a pit of gruel, he most certainly would. While breakfast normally left him feeling disappointingly empty, the point was to get as much into you as possible before you began work. A couple of people fainted on the job every now and again, which might only result in a bucket of cold water being dumped on you.
Once he'd all but licked his dirty bowl clean, the child stood up with the others, who had no choice but to watch Ms. Spectra and Walker eat their morning meal at the front of the room: A plate of salmon and eggs and biscuits with jelly with juice and bacon. You were not allowed to sit down once you stood, and you could only stand when you finished eating. If you tried to eat slowly, there were others who were more than happy to pull your bowl out of your hands.
Spectra seemed to have to wipe her mouth after every bite with an embroidered napkin, oddly enough. But when at last they had finished, they stood, and lead the way to the workroom.
~*0*~
Move faster. Move faster. Move faster.
It was only nine o'clock that morning, and Danny was already very hungry again. Today meant a particularly large amount of work, as there was a new shipment of tea from the docks that needed to be packed into carriages. Thankfully, this meant today's work was relatively easy; he received boxes from an assembly line of people and raced them over to a cart by the entrance of the factory, waiting to be packed. While the boxes were often very heavy and made him stagger underneath the weight, at least he wasn't doing harder, more intrinsic work like pulling wires. That was difficult AND dangerous.
He glanced up at the workroom's clock, and prayed for it to be three, already. Three o'clock meant supper. Five hours later meant dinner and bed.
For everyone else, that was.
Danny's arms wobbled under a great big crate of ginseng tea, eyes watering at the spicy smell as he awkwardly stacked the crate, not even wincing at the loud THUMP noise it made when it slipped from fingers onto the other boxes. His mind was preoccupied, twinkling with hope.
As he began to hurry back to the line, where another box was waiting for him, his heart beat with purpose and excitement. His eyes wandered back to the open door, where the cart was still waiting. Once it was full, the man waiting would simply pull the reins, and the horses would carry the cart away to the docks.
The docks. Unfortunately, he could not run past the driver, who would only spot him and tell the guards, who would bring him back to his "warm and nurturing" home of the government, and beat him.
But what if he left just enough room on the crate for himself to squeeze in? It was incredibly risky, but if he timed it perfectly and everyone went away to lunch just as the last filled cart was taken away, people would be far too distracted by their hungry bellies to notice a small child just slip out the door for what looked like a last box delivery before he ran to catch up with the others. He could steal away on the cart, and drop off it anywhere at any time, OR could hide himself in a crate of tea, get packed on a ship, and be taken away to some strange and distant land.
Danny shivered as he grabbed another box, and hurried it over to the cart again.
England was a lot of things, but it was his home. He wanted to see the countryside, but he didn't think he wanted a journey across the sea. Terrible things were said to happen-people got sick very easily, or attacked by pirates….
He was just imagining a flight of pirates taking the crate of tea he was hidden in, finding him, and raising him to be a scary and swashbuckling pirate when the doors at the second level of the factory noisily swung open. Spectra, Walker, and the rest of the guards curiously turned their heads at the noise, as did many of the children, despite themselves. Suddenly, everything seemed deathly quiet, other than the roar and clanking of distant machines nearby. Danny glanced up only to have his stomach turn, this time out of disgust rather than fear.
'Oh, no,' he thought. 'It's Mr. Collins.'
Mr. Collins was a paid charity-undertaker, meaning that he usually arranged the funerals of those too poor to afford their own (usually meant throwing them into some ditch), although his specialty was dealing with the great and grand funerals of the very wealthy (which usually did not entail throwing them into some ditch). He was a short sort of man who wore heeled shoes in order to seem taller than he actually was, and was constantly running run of his fingers through his glossy, thinning hair, trying to look clever and distinguished. He had a pipe and made a point of smoking it when he talked to you, even though it made him (and several others) cough. He had a place as director in chief of the London Charity Society, and so Ms. Spectra and Walker liked him very much. They very often invited Mr. Collins over for tea, supper, and poker nights, which usually wound up in Mr. Collins getting some sort of present-a bottle of brandy, or a basket of chocolate, which he liked very much. These sorts of exchanges normally led Mr. Collins to press for more donations to the noble workhouses, which usually wound up in Ms. Spectra's and Walker's pockets.
Mr. Collins had talked for years of hiring a young assistant, but disliked the idea of paying one. Although you could adopt a child from the workhouses if you were so inclined, it very rarely happened-certainly no one had come looking in Danny's lifetime-and Mr. Collins had made his point very clear with his booming voice: the children here were dirty and would horrify poor Mrs. Collins to no end.
Therefore, when he wanted to look very important and impressive at funerals, Mr. Collins would usually come to the workhouses in search of a child to hire for the day. When he showed up, children were normally on pins and needles, dying to be picked. While the duties that Mr. Collin assigned were not very interesting, they were typically very easy; you would stand behind Mr. Collins and look grave and sad in borrowed black clothing, and you would his hat, his cane, follow him about, stand where you supposed to, and not say anything. The children described their visits to the fancy graveyards with some relish-it was one of the few times they ever got to smell damp grass and see flowers.
At the end of the funeral, Mr. Collins normally took the child with him to his home, and the child was given a plate of food to eat in the stables while Mr. and Mrs. Collins supped upstairs. An entire plate of food. Sometimes, when the work had run very late, the child slept in the barn for the night with the horses, with a blanket and warm, clean hay. Danny had longed to be chosen dozens of times, but it had never happened; Mr. Collins normally picked boys who had the appearance of looking well-fed, like Dash. He glanced around, and saw Dash staring up at Mr. Collins with a smug smile on his face, expecting his attention.
Whatever. Danny rolled his eyes, dropped off the next crate in his hands, and went back to the line to get another while everyone kept their eyes fixed on Mr. Collins in the midst of their work.
~(*0*)~
Walker warmly shook his hand, and Mr. Collins bent to kiss Spectra's. The green-eyed vixen cooed and fussed over the state of his shoulders, and the man laughed.
"Not to worry, dear lady, not to worry, I suspect that I will be growing fatter again when the summer comes. Early this Spring, everyone is getting ill and leaving me with so much work to do…."
Spectra made a big show of puckering her lips in the expression of sympathy and nodded; Walker offered to have the servant fetch him something to drink. Mr. Collins shook his head importantly as he withdrew his golden pocket watch, although he was aware he had several hours before the funeral.
"Can't, I'm afraid, simply can't, good chap…I have to hurry. There's a funeral being held for a very small child being buried to-day-the daughter of Viscount Edward has died from typhus."
"How awful!" Spectra exclaimed, fishing for her handkerchief to dab at dry eyes. "Poor little angel!"
The man nodded gravely.
"Yes, yes, indeed…therefore, in the name of respect and propriety, I shall need an assistant for the day. The child will have to stand in front of the procession, as there is no other child to do it, and the viscount did insist."
"Oh, please, feel free to it, our good man, feel free to it." Walker swept his hand carelessly out at the young boys, all but one were glancing hopefully in his direction. "Take any one you like."
Mr. Collins stepped forward on the observation platform, and his beetle-like eyes surveyed the area. There was that Derrick or Dash boy waving merrily at him, but no, he couldn't use him-the viscount would only think Collins was making a joke of it all by having a healthy and happy child at the funeral. No, no, that wouldn't do at all. The viscount regularly donated a fair sum to the board, and tax season was coming up; they couldn't afford to lose the viscount's generosity now.
He needed a very small and woeful looking child-he'd seen plenty of them here-to remind the viscount that the little girl was better off, wherever she was now. Someone to strike him with pity in his time of grief, and to gently remind him of the greatness of charity to the board. He needed someone who looked unhealthy, who reminded him enough of his little girl and who would unhappy, regardless of whether or not he'd actually known the child. A dark-haired person would be ideal, as black was symbolic for mourning.
Mr. Collins' attention was distracted by the only child who did not appear impressed enough with his greatness to look at him from his work. He did not know whether to pity him or to have Walker beat him mercilessly….
He noted the child's incredibly thin limbs, which looked like little twigs. Curious, he leaned forwards, gripping the railing tightly.
"Come, now…." He murmured. "Let me see your face."
As if the dark-haired fellow had heard him, he turned around to grab a-not-so-small crate, and carefully stacked it atop the other one. He rubbed absentmindedly at his face, and Mr. Collins was enchanted. Even from where he stood he could tell the child had a thin, cautious, world-weary face, and his face was strictly serious, as though the child were an adult in a little body. No boyish mischief in his face (the last thing he needed was a child making a fool out of them both at such an important event), nor was there any puppy fat on the boy. He was perfect. Mr. Collins could not have named a better substitute.
Mr. Collins immediately stuck his finger at the little boy, who had stacked the little boxes, and was now hurrying back for a large one.
"Him," he declared imperiously. "He will do."
~(*0*)~
Was this some sort of sign?
Danny flinched as Spectra started digging a wet handkerchief across his face. It smelled like her heady perfume, and he coughed, trying not to breathe it in. Spectra swatted him over the head, and he momentarily saw stars. Dazed, he looked up to see the red-headed woman glowering at him, her suet-sweet green eyes fixed in rage.
"You give Mr. Collins one bit of that at the funeral and I promise you, I'll lock you in the ash-shed with the dogs. You do anything to ruin that honorable man's reputation, and I promise you, you'll be dining on ashes for weeks," she hissed, dragging her wet cloth over his face so hard in that it hurt. "Good Lord, I think you're still filthy."
Of course he was. What else could he say? Danny heard her curse as she next attacked his wet hair with a comb, and focused inwardly on his thoughts to distract himself from the prickles of discomfort he felt on his scalp.
Mr. Collins was waiting outside in his carriage, and a guard had dragged Danny up by the arm to the observation deck. Spectra had taken one look at him and insisted the boy needed an immediate bath. She'd taken him to the kitchen, told the cook to draw up a bucket of water, and the cook had immediately pulled of his clothing, scrubbing at him so fiercely that Danny had cried out. Once the boy was rubbed pink and clean, Spectra had hastily started squirting him with her own perfume, which was made his head swim. Now the cook was hurriedly wiping off his shaking, naked body with an old rag, and Spectra was continuing her losing battle with Danny's hair. With a curse, she asked Cook for some animal fat to grease it up-the boy thanked his lucky stars when the cook replied that there was none.
On the very same day that he decided to run away, he was being taken away for the first time in his life for a new situation. It would only be a day's work, of course, but he still flummoxed with the irony of it all. Was this a sign that he should stay? Did he try to slip away after the funeral, before, or during? What would Mr. Collins be like? Should he at least stay for dinner, if he were allowed to?
And what of the ghost? Would it really be there?
Danny shivered as he was wiped dry, and raised his arms so that the cook could thrust the black mourning-tunic over his front (it was a little big), and he grabbed the black shorts and underpants before Spectra could humiliate him any further.
Still not happy with his hair, Spectra sighed as she leaned against the sill, observing him over her spectacles.
"Now you look like a drowned rat, and half as charming," she said dryly, sighing. 'If only little boys were so easy to make up….' "Which, I suppose, is perfect for your situation. Heed my warning and do everything Mr. Collins tells you to, understand?"
"Yes, Mistress Spectra," said Danny meekly as the cook tied his boots on. Spectra narrowed her eyes.
"I hear one word of you fidgeting, I will personally beat you."
"Yes, Mistress Spectra."
"You disobey Mr. Collins' smallest request, and you will sleep in the shacks."
"Yes, Mistress Spectra."
A small smirk appeared on Spectra's face. She leaned down to Danny's level, and mockingly pinched his cheek before she seized the scruff of his clothes.
"You think of running away-try anything of the sort, and I will see to it that not only every policeman in London looks to drag you out of your rat hole, but everyone in your barracks goes hungry until you return. Is. That. Clear?"
What, could this woman read minds? Terrified, Danny nodded. Looking appeased, Spectra nonetheless threw him back, making him stagger a few paces on the wet kitchen floor. She lazily dragged out a file, and began work on her red fingertips.
"Go. He's waiting for you," she said simply, and Danny all but sprinted out of there, body numb, mind clouding over with despair. Now, he had no choice BUT to return…
~(*0*)~
'What a pretty place to be dead in.'
So thought Danny as the preacher continued on about his speech about valleys and mountains and death and such. He stood perfectly still, enjoying the feel of the cool and clean March air brush over his skin, making his dark hair sway. But while he longed to turn his head to the sky and to the flowers that were at the corners of his eyes, he couldn't bring himself to. His blue eyes were fixed on the great casket he saw before him, ready to be lowered into the Earth forever. In spite of his own sadness concerning his imprisonment, Danny felt his eyes burn when he saw the viscountess weeping into a black lace handkerchief. That could have been his mother. The girl could have been his sister. But for a few social classes, she was his sister.
A tear streamed down Danny's face, and then another. Mr. Collins' dark eyes rolled to him, and the man gave the child an approving glance. He certainly hadn't told the child to cry, but it definitely looked very good. He shifted slightly, so that his page-boy might be more noticeable to the audience. Consumed in grief, Danny did not notice.
Feeling remarkably lonely, despite being surrounded by people, Danny squeezed Mr. Collins' cane and top hat a bit more tightly with his gloved hands. This was a beautiful place, surrounded by sweet-smelling green grass and flowers, but the air had a cold, absent scent to it that stank of death and loneliness. The stone cherubim here looked more foreboding than happy and peaceful, and their empty eyes seemed to be hostile, foreboding.
Speaking of hostile and foreboding….
This time, Danny couldn't help but glance nervously at the colossal tomb that was at the center of the cemetery, great and terrible all at once. There were more stone pillars than Danny could count, and the little white mausoleum was decked with stone angels and flanked by what looked like ugly, fanged monsters.
Gargoyles.
So the boys had been telling the truth, to a point. Sure, the weather was rainy, but it often was, and Danny got a sense of sorrow coming out from the dead earth, rather than terror. There was also but little mist, and the wind wasn't screaming in his ears.
Dash had been exasperating.
Somewhat comforted, Danny returned his attention to the funeral, although he did wonder why so little plant life grew surrounding the great tomb. The few strands of around the tomb were brown and dull, and there were absolutely no flowers.
~(*0*)~
The wind did pick up, and the world did have somewhat of a threatening feel to it in the graveyard, though it was not overwhelming. After the burial, the Viscount and his sad-eyed wife came to talk with Mr. Collins himself, and a donation increase by 15% was spoken about. Mr. Collins tried his best to look mournful and serious, though he was as swollen up as a puffer fish over his success. Danny could tell. The viscount had gone so far as to pat Danny on the head and tell him to chip up in a hoarse voice before they walked away. Mr. Collins had given him an immensely approving glance when he was positive the two were alone at the little girl's now filled-grave.
"That was passable," he remarked, pulling out his pipe. Danny had to fight hard not to crinkle his nose. "Good fortune allows me to be charitable to-day; is there some small token you might appreciate?"
Danny stared at him, astonished. The man sighed irritably.
"Some trite delicacy, like a candy? Come now, don't be shy."
Candy? Danny only tasted candy perhaps once a year, at Christmas time. His mouth watered as his empty stomach nudged insistently at him.
But the answer was out of his mouth before he could stop it:
"Please sir, if it is not too much disrespect, may I walk to the grave down yonder? It is very pretty!"
The man cast him a derisive look.
"That again. It isn't haunted, you little fool. But I suppose you may, if only to appease the rumors of your fellows. It is only the grave of a sinner, and nothing more. You have ten minutes."
"But-"
Mr. Collins began to walk away towards the great black cemetery gates. He carelessly waved his hand.
"Go," he said dismissively, not bothering to look around. "My carriage will be waiting out front. Play."
~(*0*)~
This was an awful reward to have asked for and he hated himself bitterly for it, but now that he was here alone, he supposed he might as well approach it. Once he saw that it was a unremarkable grave for all its lavish décor, he would sleep better that night and have a story to share with the other boys.
And soon, there would be dinner. Mr. Collins confirmed that Danny would be eating that night at his home, and he felt in much higher spirits at the prospect, regardless of how unpleasant Ms. Collins was said to be. He cautiously made his way over to the large tomb, shivering slightly in the late evening chill. A bird croaked from a nearby tree, still in the bare, deathly throes of winter.
Danny could not read the inscription on the plaque at the foot of the grave, so he settled for peering up at the magnificent white tomb. He did not dare step inside, of course-it was sure to be locked as it was-but he kept a respectful distance from it, hands behind his back.
The wind played at his hair.
He wondered if the stories were true about the man. If he had really died in such a fashion. Was that why there were no flowers or wreaths around his grave, though his tomb was the largest?
His eyes wandered over to the new grave-the one owned by the viscount's daughter. It was carpeted in flowers, and even the older looking graves that had some wear at them had springtime flowers popping out of the hard Earth near them. Many had bouquets on them. Some of the very small graves had little presents on them.
His heart aching in his throat, Danny glanced behind him, and saw a large bed of flowers belonging to no grave in particular. Glancing around and ensuring that he was indeed alone, Danny turned around, walked to the little plot, and took an armful of fragrant little blossoms into his arms. He inhaled them deeply as he awkwardly walked back, dropping one or two flowers on the way. He carefully arranged them around the name plaque that he could not read, and once he was satisfied, went back for more, being sure to carefully pick up the little flowers he left behind.
He searched for different plots of flowers, and soon had the dull name plaque encircled by a little wreath of different-covered blossoms. Once he was finished, he sank down to his knees with a sigh, pressing his face into the cold wood of the plaque.
For a moment, stillness. And then, the very Earth before him exploded; grass and earth went scattering everywhere as a blue specter rose from the grave, bloody tears racing down his cold as death face, stake buried in his bleeding heart.
Danny's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as the ghost, just a few feet away from him, reached for his small form, moaning incoherently, imploringly.
His overworked heart stopped beating.
And the child fainted.