Marcus paced the halls that night, unable to sleep, mostly because Peteka wouldn't let him. The wizard seemed determined that Marcus get up from his nice warm bed, enter Carrie's room, and….talk to her. Why he had to do that in the middle of the night, he had no idea.

"She's asleep," he hissed, his hands clamped around the doorframe as Peteka tried to force him over the threshold. He shifted his damaged hand, and Peteka took the opportunity to give him an almighty shove. He skittered into the room swearing. Carrie woke up, saw him, and screamed. He fled.

"See ?" he demanded, "see ?? She doesn't want me near her ! Now lay off !"

"She'll come round," said Peteka with a shrug. Marcus could see him, lounging against a door jamb with a grin on his face. Somehow he suspected he'd just been deliberately humiliated.

"Bones !"

"Oh, not that again ! You're not going to do it, so why do you keep threatening me with it ?"

"You know she's not going to like me, so why keep trying to make her ?" countered Marcus. Peteka sniffed.

"She might, if you changed your attitude. For a German, you're quite likeable."

"I didn't make my career out of being likeable."

"Suit yourself. But it'll be much nicer round here if you two got on."

"It would be much nicer round here if you let her go and left me alone !" fumed Marcus.

"Not going to happen !" sang Peteka. His sing-song voice annoyed Marcus immensely. He threw back his head and screamed.


Carrie sat bolt upright in bed at the unholy shriek coming from the next room. Omygodomygodomygod. He really is insane ! I have to get out of here !

She shifted silently out of bed and went to the window to try to get it open. Maybe if she could sneak out….but the latch wouldn't budge. It was stuck fast. Maybe it had never been made to open. She tried her door. That too was stuck. No way out unless the lunatic's poltergeist said so, then.

She hammered on the door with her fists.

"Let me out !!"

The door swung inward, and she came face to face with Marcus, who looked angrier than she'd ever seen anyone look. There was that muscle in his cheek again, twitching. She'd already learned what that meant.

"Let me out," she repeated, refusing to be intimidated.

He stood aside. "Come on then. Leave, let's see you leave ! Bloody hell, we're both trapped here !"

That surprised her.

"Why can't you leave ?"

"Because Peteka won't let me."

"This is the ghost, right ?"

"Correct."

She huffed at him. "That's…odd. I never heard of a ghost preventing people leaving before. Usually they want them gone."

"Not this one."

Talkative, isn't he, she thought sourly. It's like trying to get blood from a stone. She elbowed past him and started down the stairs towards the front door.

"You should get dressed first," Marcus called down the stairs after her. She paused. No, if you're going, just go. She tried the door, and it opened easily enough. It was snowing hard. She shivered. Well, maybe I should get my coat and shoes……the door slammed again, wrenched out of her hand by Peteka. She sighed.

"Told you," said Marcus. She looked round for something to throw at him. He came down the stairs and went into the kitchen. She followed, having nowhere else better to be, except back in her own apartment in town which clearly wasn't happening any time soon.

"Why does he want me here ?" she asked Marcus as he set the kettle to boil on the stove. He shrugged.

"I have no idea."

"Haven't you asked him ?"

"He didn't give me an answer I understood. Believe me, this isn't exactly fun for me either."

She eyed a cookie jar on the shelf. "Anything in that ?"

He handed it down to her silently, and she was pleased to discover that not only was it full, but it had several kinds of cookie in it. She picked a stem ginger one, her favourite. "Mmmm," she said with her mouth full, "delicious. Did you make these ?"

"Yes."

"Cool. I guess you don't have much else to do, huh ?"

Marcus fixed her with a glare. "This place needs constant work," he said, "baking is just a change. For Goodness' sake, I would have thought that stuffing cookies in your mouth would shut you up for a minute or two !" Now that, he thought, surprised, was rude. What's got into me ? He slammed the cupboard door and nearly cracked the cups he placed on the table, suddenly furious with himself. "Sorry," he said, "I'm….just tired." I'm not nice. She was sitting there with wide eyes, a large chunk of cookie still in her mouth though she wasn't chewing, just staring at him with one cheek puffed out. At his apology, she recommenced chewing and swallowed.

"'S'okay," she said, "it can't be nice for you, having me here. I mean me, of all people !"

"Don't be like that," he said, stung by her sarcasm. "I haven't had company for…..well, too long. I forget how to behave."

"If you ever knew," she said rudely. Don't answer that, he told himself, taking a sip of tea. He looked at her. She was infuriating, and he wondered whether or not he liked her. Not that it mattered, since she didn't like him. She stared back. He began to feel self conscious. Then he remembered the burn scars on his jaw.

"Like what you see ?" he snapped. She blinked.

"What ?"

"The burns !"

"I wasn't - I – to tell you the truth, I didn't notice, actually. But now you've brought it up…."

"It's a long story," he sighed, misunderstanding. "And you should know by now that I can't tell you."

"That's not what I meant." She poured herself more tea, "I meant that now you've mentioned it, I can't help staring. But it's not as bad as you think, you know."

His eyebrow arched. "No ?"

"No. Really."

Marcus looked down at the table. No-one's seen me for years, maybe she's right, it's not as bad as I think. There was no mockery or laughter in her eyes, only puzzlement. As if she couldn't work out what his problem was. He placed his forefinger against the scars and traced them gently, feeling the puckered, rough skin that marred his face. It didn't feel so bad after all. Perhaps the years had healed it enough so that he didn't look monstrous any more.

"But I can see it's worse than it looks," she continued, "I mean, it obviously prevents your face from moving."

"Pardon ?"

"Yeah – I mean, you've never once smiled, it must be hard not being able to smile because your face doesn't move."

He thumped his fist on the table, making the crockery rattle. "That isn't why !" he shouted, "there's nothing about you that makes me want to smile !" He flung his chair back, the legs scraping loudly across the terracotta tiles, and stamped out, thoroughly annoyed. It didn't take long for Peteka to catch up with him.

"Every time I think you're making progress, you go and ruin it," he said.

"You call that progress ? She started it."

"Now that's petulant, and you know it," said Peteka. Marcus pushed open the library door. The light that fell on the wooden floor was dull, grey. A quick glance out of the window showed him the snow was piling up outside. He bit his lip.

"I spoke the truth," he said quietly, "she makes me want to strangle her. Peteka, please, for her own good. Let her leave."


Carrie wandered the house, bored to tears. It was snowing so hard outside that there was no chance of exploring the gardens, not that she'd call it a garden, more a wilderness. Though Marcus claimed to work constantly on the house, it was obvious he'd left the gardens to go to rack and ruin. At least the house, old and rambling, was interesting enough for the time being. Most of the rooms were cluttered up with things – old books, piles of letters, old and ragged photographs, and what seemed an unreasonable amount of junk. Most of it seemed to be various engine parts, though what from, she didn't know, having never taken an interest in engineering. There was an old tobacco tine full of old coins, including several Reichsmarks. She picked through those, looking for the dates and laying them out in date order. There were Dutch coins too, and a couple of Finnish ones. Did they belong to Marcus ? Who had he been ? She discarded the coins and took a different box down from a shelf, finding a chess set inside along with a spider and a lot of dust. She put the spider out of the window and blew the dust off the yellowed ivory board. Maybe he played. It had to be better than poking through junk. She went to find him.

"Marcus ?" He looked up. Carrie stood there in the doorway to the library, holding a chess set. He recognised it as one his victims had been using when he knocked down their door. One set of ivory pieces, one set of ebony. He hoped she put the dark stains on it down to damp and mould. He knew better.

"Do you play ?" she asked hopefully. He paused, wondering if he ought to throw her out. Peteka pinched his ear.

"Yes," he said, flinching "but I warn you, I play well."

"So do I," she said impishly, and brought in the chess. He cleared a space for it on the table and she pulled up a chair from a corner and sat opposite him.

"I call white," she said. He turned the board so the black pieces faced him.

"You move first," he invited, knowing that her move would tell him what kind of player she was. She shrugged, and moved. He grimaced. This would be one tough game.

It continued in silence, for both players were in deadly earnest, determined to win. But finally, Marcus sat back with a grin on his face.

"Checkmate," he announced, and his grin grew wider at the look on her face.

"Well, at least you know how to smile," she grumped. He wiped the grin off his mouth and held out his hand. She shook it.

"Good game, though," he said graciously, "fancy a rematch ?"

"Maybe," she hedged, "I think I'd like some tea first though. Losing to you is hard work."

He frowned. "I'll ignore that," he said, and she laughed.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that ! Lighten up, Marcus. Oh – the sun's out ! I'm going for a walk."

"But what about tea ?" he objected as she rose. She shrugged.

"Later," she said, "I need to get out of here for a bit. You know, you could come too if you like."

He declined, for the simple reason that he didn't feel like getting up. His mood was rapidly descending into blackness again and being left alone would allow him to indulge. He felt Peteka's breath on the back of his neck and hunched his shoulders irritably. "Sod off," he muttered. Carrie gave him a startled look. "Not you !" he snapped. She sighed and slammed the door.

"There you go again," said Peteka, materialising in the chair Carrie'd vacated. "And it was going so well !"

"It won't go well when she finds out what I have done," growled Marcus. "I wish you'd just let me go."

No answer came back to him, however, and he was left to his thoughts. The worst thing was, his thoughts always came back to one thing.

Janneke.