Ghost of the Past

Chapter 2:

October, 1898

After that incident in August, Arthur decided to start keeping a written record on of any strange or supernatural activity that happened around the house. He kept track of all the laughter and footsteps, the random words of French that he didn't understand, the smell of freshly cooked food and all the figures and shadows that danced around the property.

It didn't take very long to identify the three key characters involved. There was a man and two boys. And though it might've been extremely obvious to anyone else, his observational skills were…limited, so he only managed to get very weak grasp at differentiating the children from each other. Most of the time, he just assumed it was Alfred.

'Alfred' was the louder of the two boys who often ran around laughing or yelling; an energetic boy all around. There'd been more than one instance where he leapt down a couple steps to make as loud of a sound as possible before laughing and running off down the hall again. He was the likely culprit behind the crayon and paint scribbles on the walls upstairs.

The second one was 'Mathieu' though more often than not, he heard 'Mattie' being yelled. Quiet and shy, Arthur rarely heard the boy be himself except for that one time at the door. He could hardly tell the boys apart let alone which was younger, it wasn't difficult to figure out that Alfred had been the leader while Mathieu quietly and contently followed.

And finally, there was the 'Papa' character. He was a French man who as far as he could tell, singlehandedly cared for the boys as he'd found no evidence of female residents or servants which he found strange. After all, they lived in Victorian England where marriages and families were the norm, and in a house as grand as his, given that he had the money to have the place design and built, there were bound to be servants-though he himself didn't have anyone assisting him at the moment, he was convinced that the Frenchman had help around the house. Aside from that, he could tell that the man was obviously skilled in the kitchen and was a caring paternal figure for the boys.

Most of the activities around the house, he found, were minor, nothing interactive, and nothing physical beyond doors opening and closing and occasionally, the taps turning on and off. After several weeks of recording in his journal, he began wondering if there was a point in keep track of the boys' random giggles and games of hide-and-seek. Then, one day, he heard the door closing as he sat in the kitchen, enjoying his late breakfast. Idly jotting down the occurrence in his notebook, he went on with his usual activities for awhile until suddenly; he could a feel a change in the atmosphere around him.

It was a low growl at first, but soon, he could smell smoke and hear flames eating away at houses and shattering the windows that stood in its way. Dashing down the stairs in alarm, he looked around but couldn't see or feel heat of any kind. Green eyes blinked as he stood by the doorway, dumbfounded.

By the door, thought the sound of the flames was deafening, he could tell that they hadn't reached the doorway yet. As he continued standing, suddenly the door flew open and incoherent yells were heard, the distinctive voice of the Frenchman and a child, he couldn't tell which it was. Footsteps stormed into the house, running up the stairs for a minute before rushing back down the stairs. The Frenchman was frantically calling out to someone, but he couldn't make out the name through the roaring of the fire.

With his attention was turned towards the 'Papa' and his calls. Following the man's voice into the kitchen which was also where the flames were the loudest. Once he entered the room, his eyes widened as he watched dancing flames licking away at everything. There was a cry of relief from the center of the room as he saw a figure standing there, shielding something in his arms the best he could.

The man's head turned and surveyed the scene only to realize that the flames had closed off every possible exit. The counters which lined the walls made it near impossible to get to the windows and part of the ceiling in the dining room collapsed, making it inaccessible. And the flames were simply too strong around the entrance to the parlour and the hall.

Taking a closer step towards the figure who was now coughing, he managed to catch a bit of his muttering. The man was comforting the bundle in his arms, holding it close. His French was too fast, too soft for him to decipher with his limited vocabulary.

So caught up in the situation, he gave a jump when he realized everything had gone back to normal. Blinking several times and looking around, he found himself standing in the middle of his kitchen, reaching for a figure that was no longer there. Knees buckling, he collapsed onto the floor, exhausted after witnessing such an event. Eyebrows furling, he decided to find out exactly what'd happened to the house's previous owners.

The next day, he returned to speak with the man who sold him the house.

"Hm? The house's previous owner? What about him?"

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, "I suppose I was hoping you'd be able to provide me with information on him like his name and whatnot."

The Dane blinked and turned to the blond with the clip in his hair, "are we allowed to tell him these kinds of things? You don't think he went into the attic, do you?"

He raised a brow at this.

The other shrugged, "He might go now, you're not discreet at all, bror."

The teenager frowned, "I don't understand, why don't you just tell him about the guy? He's not even around anymore."

"But…"

Suddenly, a voice spoke out from behind him, "'is name w's Fr'n's Bon'f'y."

He gave a start and turned around to see a tall man with glasses seemingly glaring at him, "s-sorry, I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that."

From behind, a shorter, less intimidating man appeared with an apologetic smile on his face, "he said Francis Bonnefoy." Turning to the taller man, he pointed down the hall, "Peter's looking for you, Berwald."

The man with glasses turned around and began walking away, "Hn? W's'wrong, Pet'r?"

Returning his attention to the English man, he continued, "Herra Bonnefoy hired me to design his house for him about ten years ago. Tino Väinämöinen," he introduced himself.

Thankful for the other's helpfulness, he shook the other man's hand, "Arthur Kirkland. So Francis Bonnefoy…" he pursed his lips, wondering why the name sounded so familiar, "what kind of person was he?"

Tino looked up in thought for a moment, "Herra Bonnefoy…well he was a very nice man and definitely well off. He had a really nice place in the middle of the city but he said he didn't want his children growing up in that area."

He perked up at the mention of the children, "Have you met the boys?"

The other blond blinked, "how did you know they were both boys?"

"I told you the house was haunted," the Dane called from the desk, "he probably saw them." He then began mumbling in Danish to himself, "det lille spøgelser…" he shuddered and made a face, "uhyggelig li-gah!"

"Snakker engelsk, bror," the Norwegian muttered, choking the other with his own tie.

"But what about you," the man rasped.

Tino laughed and waved at them dismissively, "don't mind them. They're always like this. And no, we never met the children personally. Was there anything else you'd like to know?"

Hesitantly, he shook his head, sparing a nervous glance at the man being strangled, "no…not really, that's all I wanted to know. Are you sure he's alright?"

The tallest man returned and shrugged, "s'okay, s'only Matthias."

Slowly backing up towards the door, he nodded politely, "Oh, alright then…thank you…have a nice day…"

When he returned home, he found the boy there again and let out a soft groan. He attempted to tap the boy on the shoulder but realized his finger passed through the boy instead. Immediately shrinking back, he hid his wariness and spoke, "Hi there, lad."

The boy turned to him with a familiar frown on his face, "hi, mister."

Taking in how casually the boy was interacting with him, a total stranger, he could only assume he was talking to Alfred. "Still can't get inside, hn," he asked conversationally.

"Nope," the boy's shoulders sagged dejectedly.

He decided to take a stab at the problem, "I believe Matthew and your papa are waiting for you though. They're worried about you."

Based on the other's reaction, he decided that he was right, that yes, it was Alfred he was talking to. Azure eyes widened in disbelief, "Mattie and papa? Really?"

Arthur nodded, inwardly pleased with the boy's reaction, "that's right, lad. So why don't you go inside?"

There was a pause, then the boy's excitement ebbed away as he began shaking his head, "I can't…" Simultaneously, he began fading away, "they're mad, they'll get mad at me…"

Left standing in front of his house by himself, he scratched his head in frustration, "what a stubborn boy!" Huffing indignantly, he marched into the house, muttering to himself, "I'll get to the bottom of this and stop all this silliness once and for all!"

Remembering what the Dane had said about the attic earlier, he decided to make his way to the top floor despite how horrifyingly creepy it was. But really, he shouldn't be afraid at all, he mentally scolded himself; after all, his parents had had him attend their strange occult rituals when he was but a boy. There was really no reason for him to be alarmed. Nothing could be worse than the things those adults had attempted to summon.

Opening the door at the top of the stairs, he swung the door open. Ignoring his pounding heart, he stepped inside and looked around only to find that it was being used as a storage area.

The place was covered in old furniture, things that had been saved from the fire but no longer had an owner. There were lined up in the corner and a couple desks next to it. Bookshelves lined the far wall though they were full of gaping holes where several books had been taken out and never returned. He suspected that everything of value had been auctioned off already which explained the lack of decorative pieces. He also noted with some annoyance that every piece of furniture was probably worth more than the ones he had downstairs.

The beds were made of the finest wood and the mattresses, though well used, maintained their springiness and softness. They probably had silk covers too, he thought darkly to himself. Inspecting the beds closer, he noticed that out of the three beds, one which was clearly the master's bed and the other two were children sized. It made sense. Given that the third and fourth room had been caught in the fire and had to be rebuilt, none of the furniture could've survived such an event.

But at the same time, one of the children's beds was clearly more worn out than the other. In his mind, he could see Alfred having fun turning the bed into a trampoline. For all he knew, the brothers could've been so close that they cuddled together under the same sheet instead of in separate beds. While pondering their sleeping arrangements, he realized that they could've easily gone to their father's room and crawled under his covers as well, something he could've never done with his parents.

Ignoring the sudden wave of nostalgia and loneliness, he moved onto the desk. The top was barren save the clear film of dust covering it, but once he opened the drawers, he discovered a whole new connection to the house's ghosts that he never knew existed.

In the first drawer there were written documents, most of them incomplete or trivial, but they were still there; physical proof of the previous family's existence. There were various things, letters neatly written and recipes of dishes he'd never seen or heard of before. He sifted through them, separating them into two piles; one for English documents and one for French and others.

"My Dearest Madame,

I am most pleased to hear that you have taken such an interest in my small, humble business. I have no doubt we will be able to find a suitable date to hold your upcoming event…"

He could practically hear the man's French accent in his head. It wasn't like he had anything against 'papa', but he'd grown up around adults who'd lived through several wars against France and generally had something akin to a grudge towards the French, and in order to fit in with other people of his social status, he'd learnt to adopt their attitude.

In the second drawer, there were toys and pictures drawn by the children. He took out all the dolls and little wooden figures to find books and even more toys. The pictures themselves were adorable. Mathieu was clearly fond of polar bears while Alfred liked drawing heroes. There were family portraits drawn by them, their captions partially written in French, partially in English.

And in the third, there were sepia toned photos. The one on top was of the family, happy and casual. In the middle, there was a man sitting in a chair with shoulder-length wavy hair and a slight amount of facial hair, not quite stubbles, but not quite a beard. He had a warm grin on his face as he held one of the boys and had his hand on the other's head. One boy was standing, probably after sliding off the man's lap in excitement; he was striking a pose and beaming brightly at the camera with a thumbs-up towards it. The other smiled timidly and had his arms wrapped around his father's neck, ready to turn and hide his face, and tucked under his arm was a crocheted toy whose beady eyes stared passively at the camera. It was strange seeing a still-life of the trio whose ghost he'd seen moving around as though they were still alive.

In his family portraits, the three of them always stood or sat with their backs straight. They would be staring seriously at the camera, waiting for the man to finish taking their picture. Their pictures were always proper.

The next photos contained other people he'd never seen before. Possibly servants or friends, he couldn't tell. Then there were photos of the family when they were younger, when the boys were smaller and the man had his hair tied up, his chin clear of any facial hair. And then as the photos grew older, they turned black and white. However, there were no pictures of the children past a certain point and no woman he could clearly identify as a wife. Confused, he couldn't help but wonder exactly where the children came from if they weren't the man's.

Near the bottom of the pile, there were pictures of the man opening the doors to a restaurant, possibly for the first time, which made his mind clicked. Bonnefoy, that's where he'd heard the name from; there was a famous restaurant in central London by that name.

He remembered going there once when he was younger. The place was a sensation, constantly packed with customers waiting to be fed, people continuously ordering seconds. Not that they could be blamed, the food was spectacular, it was like nothing he'd ever tasted before. He furled his brows as he tried to remember everything. The night he'd gone with his parents, his brothers had already moved out by then, the place was livelier than usual, some hype about some person being in which apparently was a rare occasion…

June, 1884

He looked around the restaurant in awe. After getting past the chaos outside, the inside was perfectly orderly, with people seated and waiting patiently while waiters and servers went around doing their jobs. The chandeliers lit the place up brilliantly, even the furthest corners were free of shadows. Once they were seated, his mother did her best to mask her excitement, "now Arthur, dear, you should thank your father for bringing you here. We're very fortunate indeed, to be here tonight of all nights."

Emerald eyes blinked, "what's so special about tonight, mama?"

"Well you see, the owner is in tonight."

"The owner?"

"Yes, he only comes in once every week or so and he does so without notice. But when he's here, he's the head chef and he's in charge of everything. All the recipes in the menu were created by him so it's only natural that they taste better when made by him. Absolutely splendid is what his cooking is, heavenly almost."

"Now dear, contain yourself," his father chided lightly.

It was strange listening to his mother praising a Frenchman of all people. It couldn't be that great. Sure, the service was excellent and their waiter was polite but that didn't mean the food would be equally immaculate. But once it came, those tiny, overpriced meals in oversized dishes, he took a bite and all his scepticism melted away. He cleared the dish within seconds and was eagerly awaiting more to arrive.

When the night began drawing to a close and the last dish came, his father asked the waiter in an approving manner, "Please send my compliments to the chef."

"Of course, sir," the waiter bowed and retreated to the kitchen.

Awhile later, a blond man in a chef hat and outfit, complete with a little red scarf tied around his neck, approached them. His blue eyes weary but still full of life. He'd probably approached them since they'd spent a fortune that night, ordering nothing but the finest dishes off the menu. "Bonsoir, madame," he kissed the back of his mother's hand, "et messieurs. I am Francis Bonnefoy. I trust the meal was to your satisfaction?"

His mother nearly gushed, "It was perfect, really. The most delightful meal I've ever had." Watching the way she behaved around the chef, she seemed so normal, he could hardly tell she was the type to have a demon-summoning habit.

The Frenchman smiled almost flirtatiously, "you flatter me, madame."

His father gave that approving nod again, "no, she's quite right. It was absolutely scrumptious."

"Merci beaucoup, monsieur. And you," the man was looking at him now, "I hope you liked the meal?"

He immediately dipped his head politely, "yes mister, it was really good."

At this, the chef grinned proudly to himself; his tone was chipper as he spoke, "excellent! Did you know? I actually have two little boys around your age," he paused in thought then corrected himself, "maybe a little younger. But tell you what, I'll go make you a little dessert that I only make at home. It's something they absolutely love, and you can be the first customer to try it."

As a child, he couldn't help but light up, "really?"

The man nodded, "oui, compliments of the chef."

"Arthur, thank Mr. Bonnefoy" was his father's immediate response.

He couldn't help but like the man for giving him free dessert; even if he was French. "Thank you very much, mister!"

The Frenchman was chuckling good-naturedly as he left, "je vous en prie."

October, 1898

He blinked, swallowing the saliva that'd collected in his mouth from his fond, fond memories. "…what do you know? I've met the man before…ah, that food was really good…" He shook the thoughts out of his head and wiped the bit of drool that'd escaped his lips. Opening the bottom drawer, he found that it was stuffed full of cards from customers. Not as interested in the cards, he returned to the second drawer's contents.

Sorting through the children's things, he came upon a hand drawn map of the neighbourhood which names corresponding to houses. He smiled to himself, "everyone around this neighbourhood must've known these rascals…"

On the map, one particular house caught his attention. It was the house with the most detail drawn in and had hearts floating around it. The front of the house had flowerbeds, possibly tulips, and there were two people standing in front. One was a woman with shoulder length hair and a hair band of some sort in her hair and a smile on her lips, and the word 'Bella' was floating around over her head. The other was a tall man with spikes for hair, a scratch on his head and a neutral line for a mouth. He also had a stick in his hand, a scarf around his neck and had been labelled 'Lars'. Of course, he had no idea how accurate a child's drawing could be, but he figured if he walked down the street and if they were still living there, he would be sure to recognize the flowerbeds.

He wasn't exactly sure what he'd be asking them, but at least he had a place to start his investigation now…

Nya~

The investigation begins! Sepia toning began in the 1880s and before that, photos were mostly monochrome. What else? Napoleon III's reign ended in 1870 when he was captured in the the Battle of Sedan though he didn't die until 1873 while in exile in England. He was apart of all sorts of things like the American Civil War (though officially neutral), the Austro-Prussian war which was then followed by the Franco-Prussian war. So yea, England and France fought a lot during his reign. I am a history buff. Anyways, please correct me on anything I may have gotten wrong and thank you readers! Love you reviewers! Enjoy!

Translations:

Herra - Mr. (Fin)
Det lille spøgelser - The little ghosts (Dan)
Uhyggelig - Creepy (Dan)
Snakker engelsk - Speak English (Nor)
Bonsoir - Good evening (Fr)
Je vous en prie - You're welcome (Fr)