Title: Whispers

Fandom: Rave
Warning: Gore, Death

Summary: The story of the Blue Room. Have you heard of it?

Disclaimer: Don't own Rave. Mashima-sensei still does.

A/N: Buffed up, reworked version of 'Isle Fractions', an unfinished collaboration between Umi & I.

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Whispers

Chapter 2 – Stranger In My Attic

~~~~~o0o~~~~~

Up in the attic of the huge mansion, Lucia swore as he stretched and heard the cracking of his spine. He had been fiddling around the uppermost level of the manor, looking for stuff to throw out. Along the way, he had encountered not so friendly housemates; rodents.

"Oh, go away." He pouted when the little mouse blinked at him, its whiskers twitching, prompting Lucia to pluck the rodent from its perch on the wooden crate in front of him. Before the rodent could voice its protest in its squeaky voice, Lucia threw it out of the attic, through the small window just beside him.

'What's with house pests nowadays anyway?'

He grumbled lowly, cursing the existence of house pests—dust bunnies included. The sound of footsteps coming from below woke him up from his rant, and quickly sitting upright, Lucia turned his head expectantly at the hole, which served as a door to the attic. Then the wooden door pushed up and King appeared, still wearing that ridiculous fur jacket of his.

"Look't what I got, kid," King settled himself on the attic floor, ignoring the dust that he displaced and sent floating around the entire place. "An authentic Winchester that literally packs a bullet." King flicked a latch on the gun's handle, and a secret compartment revealed itself. The hidden space could hide about three rounds.

Lucia could feel the corner of his cheek twitching in annoyance, as if wanting to sneer at his father. But he resisted this, and decided to ignore him. The other took notice of this, and King gave him a level glare of disapproval.

"What? It's a gun. Don't you kids like guns?"

Lucia turned away and snorted.

"I'm not some seven-year-old who plays 'Cowboy', dad."

King stared at his spawn, as Lucia continued unpacking the box in front of him.

"True," he stated. "But you wouldn't let go of acting like Darth Maul for ages. I had to threaten to ground you before you broke something while swinging that broom around."

Lucia flushed at the memory.

"Th-that's different!"

"Oh?" King quirked an eyebrow, grinning. "And the face-paints…?"

Lucia flinched.

"…I don't suppose that woman ever took off the lock on her make-up set?"

"No, she didn't." King slowly shook his head. Then he narrowed his eyes slightly. "…Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want to know whether she ever stopped locking up her cosmetics and lipstick?"

Lucia opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by a question.

"You're not -gay- are you?!"

"WHA-?! FATHER!!"

Lucia hurled an old, ochre-coloured and probably-quite-valuable-really photo frame at his parental figure. King leaned to the side as the rectangular object went sailing past his head, laughter resonating from deep within his chest. Lucia turned to pick up a vase, and by the time he'd turned back to chuck it, the edge of King's jacket was disappearing down the hole in the floor from whence it came.

Lucia sighed, frustrated, and brushed a hand through his hair. Setting the vase back in place, he kicked lightly at an old, wooden study table to relieve some of his anger.

He jumped when something hit the attic floor with a muted thud.

He glanced over.

It was an old book; the pages were yellow with age and the dark blue cover was covered with a light frame of dust. Lucia walked over and picked it up, curiosity getting the better of him. He took care not to crush any of the delicate sheaves of paper, as some of the pages stuck out in various triangles. Oddly enough, the book wasn't bound with glue like others usually were. Its spine was made up of many rings of white string, looped carefully along one side of the bound paper, and they brushed roughly against the insides of his fingers in the blonde's grip. To his surprise, the book was quite thick, but reasonably light. Its weight did not suit its width.

Lucia brushed his fingers over the worn, hard cover –gone soft with use- and felt his brow crease in confusion. How old was this thing? Turning it over, he flipped through the pages. They were mostly blank, but the flickering off-white space began to show dots of something –ink?- as he continued the motion, and at last the dark splots gave way to text, writing; he must have started from the back, then.

Lucia stopped flipping, his thumb slotting into place along the book's side to keep his place, as a set of numbers caught his eye.

'13th November 1896.'

His eyes widened.

'1896?!' he thought. 'That's… that's over two hundred years ago!!'

The teen swallowed. What was a relic like this… heck, WHY was there a relic like this here? The book was surprisingly preserved, and something sitting around in some moldy old attic shouldn't have been. It should be much, much more worn than this.

Maybe the old care-taker guy… what was his name? -Gemmima?- had taken care of it.

Still, shouldn't things this old be in museums or something? In fact, he was surprised the book hadn't crumbled into dust in his hands. And why hadn't the caretaker-guy kept it in one of the huge oak bookshelves in the library?

Lucia was slightly disturbed.

Somehow, he didn't think the caretaker had even known about the ancient object in his hands. The book looked untouched.

A slight breeze came through the open window and numerous pages flipped over. But Lucia noticed something.

'They're going in the wrong direction! What the fuck?!'

The wind settled, and his eyes came to rest on a page. It was similar to the rest with its off-white colour and yellowed edges. But there were a few fairly large splotches of –something- in the center of it, and as Lucia looked closer, he realized something with frightening clarity.

He had been right. The splotch was ink.

But that wasn't all it was.

It was ink, and by the crusted, dark maroon in some areas…

It was ink mixed with blood.

Lucia stared fixedly at the book, eyes locked onto the page, and fought against something rising up in his throat –not a scream, Lucia refused to scream. Disgust, maybe? Horror?

And then, hands.

Hands.

The fingers dithered lightly on the edges of the stain, before sliding up to trace along the book's top edges, the touches butterfly-light.

Lucia bit down on his tongue.

He could still see the page's dark strains through the one palm that lovingly covered it.

Pale, white, see-through hands had crept onto the page, caressing the semi-rough paper, and Lucia almost screamed, chocked it back so it barely made a noise, almost snapped the book shut on spectral fingers.

The hands were attached by wrists to arms, which extended from the opening between his own limbs and his sides. They were pale, white and transparent.

'Oh fucking hell….'

He gulped, and tensed.

Lucia turned, slowly.

The hands slid out from under his arms as he did so, withdrawing gently.

Behind him stood a girl –no, boy?- a child, barely up to his waist.

He, she… was pale. So pale, so white. Sunlight shone on the child, bright and illuminating through the window. Shone through. The child was so pale. Almost transparent.

The child had long hair.

The child was barefoot.

The child was covered in chains and blood.

It stood unsteady, everything about it wavered; just so silently, looking so weak and lacking in any sort of hope, filled with despair. Slowly, heavily, with as much strength as the small body could muster, it raised its head. And Lucia looked into the most haunted pair of eyes he had ever set his gaze upon.

The lips moved.

"I was waiting…"

Lucia blinked.

And the child was gone.

[x][x][x]

TBC