New England played host to many old houses, some turned into historical monuments, museums, political offices, and the such. However, a few were yet to be touched, a couple abandoned here and there. In some sparsely inhabited town in Virginia, the Winner mansion on West Elm loomed like a dark castle in the bright sky.
Many legends and stories shrouded the house in mystery. One more commonly accepted tale was associated with the fifth and final generation to live there, though some contested as to whether the fifth generation had really be the last. It was said that the head of the large estate had fallen victim to a deterioration of the brain. And, in his crazed state, he had somehow managed to murder all thirty of his children and then himself on the eve of Christmas when his only heir had recently turned fifteen.
Most people passed the house by as quickly as their feet would allow, fighting the feeling of eyes on their backs. It was unclear as to whether this was the work of overactive imaginations, or whether there really were ghostly specters taking note of their every move. Small town myths were infectious.
Quatre pressed his forehead to the glass panes of the window. His thin, delicate fingers longingly caressed the glass, the image that lay beyond it. It was snowing, covering everything in a soft blanket of pristine white powder. The school bus would pass by soon dropping off three youths on the street corner across the way from the Winner estate. He knew them all, though not by name. He had watched them enviously for years, though, how many, he could not say.
How long he himself had existed, he could not say. It was all a blur. He was aware of events, their sequence, but time seemed a foreign instrument. There were clocks in the house. Large ornate clocks that no longer ticked, simply looming at the ends of narrow hallways, and calendars, all old, curled and yellowed on the walls. Everything hung heavy with time, unfathomable time. Time that had once held real importance then was gradually lost.
He realized with faint surprise that he had been slumping when he perked up at the sound of the bus. He counted the bodies descending the steps, one, two, three…four? He shifted in his seat to get a better view.
First, he took note of those he knew. There was the expressive young man with the long braid, his friend with short brown hair, and the third of the group was the youth with sleek black hair. All of the young men were similar in height with the braided boy taller by maybe two or three inches. The newcomer was taller than him, though.
He wore a black turtleneck and slacks of an earthen shade. He stood apart from the three familiar friends, unobtrusive but not unnoticeable.
The youth with the braid pointed towards the house directing everyone's attention. Quatre wasn't sure whether it would be practical to blush or not. They couldn't see him, but he felt studied anyway. He shied away from their collective stare.
--
"That over there is the Winner mansion. It's been abandoned for as long as anyone can remember. There's a little neat story that goes along with it. Do you wanna hear it?"
Two disdainful groans.
"A guy lived there, Mr. Winner Lord Winner Winner Winner….ah, heck whoever he was, he had a ton of children, like…thirty-forty give or take. He went insane one night on the Eve of Christmas and killed all of his kids, one big gory mess! After that, he waited for midnight until he finally offed himself. Then, all the servants that had been working at the house had to bury everyone in the morning-The End."
"Enlightening as usual, Maxwell."
"Thankew Wu," the so-called Maxwell said sweetly and threw his arms in a wide arc. "My adoring audience! I'm here Tuesdays and Thursdays!"
Receiving no response from his mostly tight lipped companions, Duo continued, "And, ofcourse…we all know that that house is haunted."
That one earned a couple derisive snorts.
"In your dreams."
"My dreams are positively lovely, thank you!"
"If you're a retard."
"Hey! I resent that!"
"I had a feeling you would."
"That's cold, Wu…so cold."
"My name is Wufei if you'd kindly remember it."
"Oh, give me an A for effort!" Maxwell taunted.
That got Wufei riled. Without any real time to form actual intent, he had Maxwell's rope like braid secure in his fist.
"Help! Help! I'm being attacked by a rabid martial arts man! Heero!"
The youth known as Heero at that moment decided to turn the other way. "I saw nothing."
"Oh Trowa!" Duo cried tugging his own braid trying to cut his abused head some slack.
Trowa had been preoccupied with staring at the Winner house and almost didn't hear him. "Hm?"
"Save me! You're a rough and tough western guy! Lasso him or something!"
"Not everyone in Texas goes to rodeo," Trowa informed him quietly.
"You all suck!" Duo cried just before he was released from Wufei's iron like grip.
"Cry me a river," Wufei said dusting non-existent dirt from his hands. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm headed home."
"Hey, we're coming!" Duo called after his retreating backside.
--
His breath made no mark on the window as he leaned in closer to it. What had they been saying? What curious verbal dance had led to the familiar anchoring of the longhaired boy by his braid?
He almost jumped when the familiar voice of his servant interrupted his thoughts.
"What was that, Rashid?" he asked, facing away from the window.
"I was asking what held your attention so fixedly."
Quatre glanced back at the boys who were growing smaller and smaller amidst the white snow outside. "I want to go out there," he declared, turning back.
"You know that is impossible," Rashid replied.
"Why is it impossible?" Quatre demanded softly.
"We've never been away from this house. Your father would not approve."
"I don't need his royal seal of approval," Quatre said bitterly knowing that he didn't mean a word of it. "How do we know that we can't do something if we don't try, anyway?"
"There's no telling what might happen if we leave this house. It is in your best interests to stay put," Rashid tried to explain. "…It might be dangerous."
"What's dangerous? I'm dead!" Quatre countered.
Rashid flinched, and Quatre hung his head low. Embarrassment burned his skin. He knew that he had crossed the line.
"I'm sorry," he offered receiving a nod.
"I'm sorry as well…" Rashid assured him before leaving, opening and closing the door even though it wasn't necessary. Just a force of habit.
Quatre blinked back a couple tears and returned to the image outside. The scenery had changed over the years, and he'd gladly embrace oblivion for just one day to experience it. But, honestly, he was afraid to chance it. He'd thought of it so often, committed himself to the idea, and then backed out at the last possible moment. Absently, he touched his fingers to the dusty glass and willed them through. When his fingers were about the breach the other side, he pulled back suddenly and cradled his hand as if it had just been burned.
Coward, he chided himself.
They all parted ways when the reached the intersection of West Elm and Bailey. Trowa turned left on Bailey with a shadow of an uttered good-bye.
He'd barely lived up north for more than a week, and already, he'd gained three steady acquaintances. It wasn't unusual for him to just "fall" into a group, though it normally took a little longer.
The frigid Virginia winter was a stark contrast to the mild Texas winters he'd grown so accustomed to, not the mention, the trees were definitely larger here.
He took a moment to glance back at his progress through the snow-covered ground. It was pleasing in a way to see the indentations from his shoes stretching so far behind him. The only way to see any trail even remotely resembling it in Texas would be to take a long walk outside on the hottest day of the year with black rubber soled shoes.
He relished the cool air that nipped his face, but at the same time, he missed the balmy winds that had blown though his hair only so many days before.
Idly, he kicked up the snow at his feet and watched its misty descent. He had never been witness to real snow until the day that his adoptive sister whisked him away up into winter land.
Bitterness swept through him as he remembered his previous guardian. He hadn't been unkind, never lifted his hands to him, never raised his voice. In truth, he'd been a pleasant man with boundless patience.
"Nathaniel Barton," Trowa murmured watching his steps imprint in the snow. He'd actually, most of his life, called him "Nate," not "dad" or "father" or "papa." Nate had been little more to him than an acquaintance and something possibly resembling an older sibling.
Nate had been an attorney for the state, a prosecutor. He had been good at his trade. His living was based off of which, what he kindly termed, "scum" he could stick with the right penalty. He feared nothing and no one, for as the almighty courts were his witness, he was always in the right. Apparently countless juries had seen that too.
Trowa had never been permitted to go into Nate's office. The curious times that he had found himself in there, staring blankly at the shelves and shelves of books, the sheaves of paper strewn everywhere in ordered stacks, Nate had appeared like an apparition and told him simply to "get out." There was no ire in his tone or gestures, which had served to confound Trowa on numerous occasions. Honestly, he'd hoped to anger him sometimes.
When Nate invited his male friends to their house, Trowa acted cold to them. Really, he didn't like them, he didn't know them, nor did he care. His mind itched with the vague sense that these strangers were touching something that was his.
It bothered him a little, that Nate never explained his behavior. He never made excuses when Trowa pretended not to hear questions posed by his friends. He never pushed him, never saved him when he got himself into trouble that he couldn't help himself out of. Whatever irritating schemes Trowa concocted eventually ended up with him right where he started and twice as frustrated as before.
Everything in that house had been passive, so painfully passive.
The toe of his boot clunked against the steps leading up to the porch.
I'm home, his brain supplied for him as he looked up befuddled at the quaint little house he and his adoptive sister now shared. Catherine, he reminded himself as he took the first few steps up.
He stopped for a moment on the top step and took one last look back at the path he had come. This place was all alien to him.
As he opened the door, Catherine's voice drifted from the toasty interior, "Welcome home!"
Moonlight kissed the white expanse of land lending it a pale blue sheen of color twinkling in the night like thousands of tiny lights. Quatre slept by the window for lack of anything else to occupy his time. His sleep was a dreamless one, a hollow void where no memory or fantasy dare tread. It was the only peace he knew, and yet, did not know.
The sound of intense sniffing roused him.
"Yes?" he whispered, as his eyes fluttered open. There was a stag just outside watching him intensely through the glass.
A smile crept unbidden up Quatre's face. He knew this deer well. He willed his hands to become like a strong wind as he opened the window.
The stag poked its snout in, and Quatre's whispering hands ran indulgently along its face.
"Schroeder," Quatre murmured against his fur. Its thick breath dampened Quatre's almost intangible cheek.
He'd known this deer since it was just a fawn stumbling around in constant pursuit of its mother. How long ago that had been, he couldn't tell.
Animals, for some reason, seemed drawn to Quatre. He supposed that it might be due to the energy of his vestigial spirit. Once, he remembered waking with dozens of cats crowded around and even within his form.
The stag licked the air loudly and wheezed in warning. Other deer, almost camouflaged within the shelter of light and shadow raised their heads. Their ears turned in alertness. Soon the whole lot of them were wheezing. One by one, they sprinted away silently like ghosts. The howl of wild dogs was the spur in Schroeder's side as he finally followed the others into the dark sanctuary of the wood. Quatre watched him go.
"Good night and god's speed," he whispered.
His only joy was the animals.
The only entities that could really see him.
Quatre came into awareness when the first rays of the sun hit the window.
Dead leaves danced across the wooden floor with aid from the open window. A few broad oak leaves fluttered through Quatre's outstretched hand. He was aware that there were things inside him that didn't belong to him. He felt them, but at the same time, didn't feel them.
He looked back into his body and saw a few animals nestled in his abdomen. Cats. Always cats. It didn't bother him, though.
"Good morning," he whispered allowing himself a while more of sheltering the little fuzzies.
Eventually, though, he decided to raise himself up to do his morning person watching.
Heero and Wufei were already up at the bus stop.
Later, Duo joined them.
Even later than that, the newest addition to their group.
Quatre willed his fingers through the glass again, every fiber of his being wanting to breach the other side. He wanted to see these people up close, maybe even thank them for their companionship, though offered unawares.
The cats joined him at the sill watching the street with him.
"I want to meet them," he whispered, not daring to speak his desire any louder. Then he began a soft poem of sorts, "O Dearest, canst thou tell me why the rose should be so pale? And why the azure violet should wither in the vale? And why the lark, should in the cloud, so sorrowfully sing? And why from the loveliest balsam-buds, a scent of death should spring…thou forsakest me…"
One of the more adventurous felines leapt from the sill during his soliloquy followed hesitantly by two others headed in the direction of the bus stop.
Trowa, though he hadn't been keenly aware of it, had been watching the house. It was a scar in the sky.
It seemed more like a dark apparition rather than a former residence.
Then, out of the window, he saw the shadows of cats slink out from the dark mansion traveling in single file. One stopped just outside of the shadow of the building while two slightly more adventurous ones continued onward. The next cat stopped at the edge of the wild growth spilling over the sidewalk. The final feline looked both ways before crossing the street. It seemed to be coming just for Trowa.
On his side of the asphalt, it did come to him and pressed itself to his legs weaving between his feet. Its black fur making it look less real than it felt.
Trowa turned to see if his friends were noticing any of this. Apparently, it wasn't creepy enough to catch their attention.
He reached down to pet the little creature, but it shied from his hand, flattening itself and slinking along the ground.
Just as he was about to give up, the cat sprang up onto all fours and dashed back across the street rounding up its siblings and leapt back into the house from whence it had come.
Trowa was still looking stupefied at the house when the bus came.
Quatre stared at the ceiling of his empty room. He hadn't left that room for uncountable years.
Iria, she and his other sisters were just upstairs in their rooms. He hadn't seen them since his death. How had he died? He could not remember, much like everything else in his sort of half-existence. His father was in the house too. Somewhere, maybe even in the walls.
Sometimes, Quatre could hear the papers being shuffled in the desk upstairs.
Whatever his family did in the afterlife was of none of his affair.
He looked at the cats in the window and began to tell himself more broken poetry. He could remember knowing all of the lyrics perfectly at one time, but much the same as everything else, even the awareness of knowledge was slowly, day by day, ebbing away.
"Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end…" he began.
It was hard to concentrate.
The house haunted him. There was something in there, and it wasn't just cats.
Trowa scribbled aimlessly on his spiral.
Maybe there was something to all those claims of bad luck and dangerous spirits involving the residence on West Elm.
Whatever the case, it seemed to be slowly weaving a siren's spell around him.
Dare he mention his reservations to the others?
He glanced pointedly at Duo, who was carefully constructing a paper football palace on his desk, and thought better of it.
They would laugh at him. Give his thoughts no credence.
Hell, he wouldn't even give his thoughts credence.
After he got off the bus that afternoon, he was looking at the house again.
It was beckoning to him.
A hearty clap on his shoulder made him almost jump out of his skin.
"So, you want to go in there?" Duo asked. "I'll go too if you're scared."
"Don't trust him," Wufei warned shouldering his satchel.
Heero made a noise of agreement, "Duo is a class A, bonafide wuss."
Duo's fingers dug into Trowa's shoulder mirroring his indignant embarrassment. "Hey, you guys are invited to come along!"
"Sure," Wufei replied rising to the challenge.
"Wuss," Heero added following Duo's hurried progress across the street.
They both laughed.
"Oh, laugh it up," Duo snorted. "Jackasses."
Trowa's stride helped along greatly by Duo's determined pushing slowed the closer and closer they all got to the house. What exactly was lurking there in the shadows? Why was he so sure that something was lurking there?
When they got to standing directly in front of the structure, no one was really enthusiastic about continuing onward. Eventually, it was Heero that took it upon himself to cross the threshold of the semi-circle staircase leading up to the door. The snow crunched underfoot, deep as if it'd never been touched. Which, it doubtlessly hadn't.
Duo, Wufei, and Trowa followed after him.
The door didn't open until Heero, Wufei, and Trowa laid their combined weight on it. The years of crust and decay crumbled and cracked as the door gave way.
When no spooks rushed out of the poorly lit gloom, Duo regained his cheerful disposition and walked ahead of everyone. His boots churned up years and years of undisturbed dust throwing his friends simultaneously into allergic fits.
"It's a lot bigger inside than it looked from the street," he observed, pleased. His voice echoed in the vast emptiness making the innumerable cobwebs quiver. The foyer itself was large enough to be a little house all on its own. "This place isn't so scary," he said grateful for even the muted sunlight that filtered through the filmy windows.
Even with that lighthearted declaration, Trowa felt extremely anxious. Not being of a really collective mind, the little entourage strayed off exploring by themselves.
Trowa wandered off somewhere in the general direction he figured the cats must have originated from. He hadn't realized how extensive the house was by just looking at it. He got lost once or twice taking idle turns in maze-like halls.
Every room he opened was empty, undisturbed. A ways into his exploration, he came upon a less-dingy door. It yielded surprisingly easy under his hand.
In the middle of the mostly empty room was a slumbering boy, cats at the windowsill.
Trowa was surprised out of his mind feeling a little more than internally hysterical until his rational mind kicked in. Maybe that guy was just a runaway that got in through the open window. Though he'd never known any guy that ran away in the dead of winter wearing nothing but a pair of trousers and a paper-thin dress shirt. It didn't even look like they were from the current century.
The boy, himself, had a sort of aristocratic air rare now a days. His hair was trimmed to a length about halfway down his ears, the color of white gold. Every feature fit perfectly, not even a slight crook in his nose to mar his countenance.
Trowa wondered whether he should say something.
Just then, though, the boy woke. He rose to his feet with as much poise and grace as a valedictorian of a tea ceremony school. He did not notice Trowa, but instead went to stand at the open window. His movements not making a sound. His actions were those of countless repetition that he didn't even bother to look about himself anymore.
Just how long had he been camping out here?
"H-" Trowa began a pathetic attempt at a greeting ending in him just breathing heavily.
The boy turned from the window, his bright blue eyes widening partly in fear, partly in wonder. And in an instant, his form lost shape. The colors that comprised his being grew indistinct, and faded until he couldn't even be seen at all.
The hairs on the back of Trowa's neck stood on edge as he stared, dumbfounded, at the empty spot where the other boy should have been. People don't vanish, not like that.
He reached out and felt the vacant air. Maybe it had been a hallucination.
But his gut told him that there was no conceivable way that it could have possibly been a figment of his imagination, his mind simply wasn't romantic enough to conjure such an image, and what's more, he could still feel the effects of the burning blue of those eyes.
He wondered whether he should tell the others about his experience but wasn't sure whether they'd believe it. Duo probably would, but, the other two were more skeptical and scathing in their remarks. Was Duo trustworthy? There would be nothing more miserable than having a bunch of country boys at school making fun of the city-boy-psycho. Trowa wasn't one to treasure his reputation, but at times, he did feel the need to protect it.
He left to room in peace, at the same time, making a half-promise to return to it.
His curiosity was piqued, and there was no other help for it.
After a small time wandering, he found the foyer again and headed upstairs where he could hear the others making noise.
They were rummaging around the study.
Duo pulled out a thick, decaying volume and made a face. "You can't even read the title on this anymore. Something like, Love and War or something clichéd like that…No wait, Modern Economics." He opened the book to its title page. "Modern in 1760." He whistled wonderingly.
Wufei was studying the walls with a strange interest, "Look, Heero…there's blood spatter here too. Maybe those stories really are true."
"I'm sure that there's something else to it," Heero said scrutinizing the rust red marks with Wufei.
Trowa stood in the doorway a moment more before raising his voice a little, "What do you mean…'here too'?"
Wufei turned to face him, "Didn't you look at the other rooms?"
Trowa shook his head.
"Follow me," Wufei sighed pushing past him.
Together, they passed through to the east wing of the house. Among the first few doors, Wufei chose a random one and opened it roughly.
Inside were the tattered remains of a lady's room. Gray, molded lace hung here and there and lay helter-skelter. The centerpiece of the room, the large queen-sized canopy bed sat hunched like a beast. Faded red painted the sheets in a most grotesque fashion.
"Are all the rooms like this?" Trowa asked brushing a floating cobweb out of his face.
Wufei shook his head curtly, "No, not all of them. A good amount of them, though."
Struck with a feeling, Trowa began to open the doors to every room in the east wing. All of them were feminine.
The last door, though, led to a more stark room. There was no blood there, but there was plenty of destruction in its place. Books littered the floor, fabrics were torn, and all individuality that had gone into the room was cast into an abyss of nothingness.
It's his room, Trowa's mind screamed excitedly though his face betrayed nothing. Why isn't he in his room?
Trowa ventured a ways inside the room. There were no rusty blood spots anywhere or mummified appendages. He began poking around for pictures, clues about the boy, that through heated irrational thought, he concluded, had resided within that room. He ran across a volume titled Common Sense written by Thomas Paine, a 1776 publication and a few other mildly familiar sounding books and papers.
Everything about the room was extremely impersonal, not even a diary or framed picture.
Trowa lifted the bed mattress partway and found a leather-bound book resting underneath. He grabbed it and let the mattress drop stirring up an explosion of dust that made him gag.
TBC!
Many legends and stories shrouded the house in mystery. One more commonly accepted tale was associated with the fifth and final generation to live there, though some contested as to whether the fifth generation had really be the last. It was said that the head of the large estate had fallen victim to a deterioration of the brain. And, in his crazed state, he had somehow managed to murder all thirty of his children and then himself on the eve of Christmas when his only heir had recently turned fifteen.
Most people passed the house by as quickly as their feet would allow, fighting the feeling of eyes on their backs. It was unclear as to whether this was the work of overactive imaginations, or whether there really were ghostly specters taking note of their every move. Small town myths were infectious.
Quatre pressed his forehead to the glass panes of the window. His thin, delicate fingers longingly caressed the glass, the image that lay beyond it. It was snowing, covering everything in a soft blanket of pristine white powder. The school bus would pass by soon dropping off three youths on the street corner across the way from the Winner estate. He knew them all, though not by name. He had watched them enviously for years, though, how many, he could not say.
How long he himself had existed, he could not say. It was all a blur. He was aware of events, their sequence, but time seemed a foreign instrument. There were clocks in the house. Large ornate clocks that no longer ticked, simply looming at the ends of narrow hallways, and calendars, all old, curled and yellowed on the walls. Everything hung heavy with time, unfathomable time. Time that had once held real importance then was gradually lost.
He realized with faint surprise that he had been slumping when he perked up at the sound of the bus. He counted the bodies descending the steps, one, two, three…four? He shifted in his seat to get a better view.
First, he took note of those he knew. There was the expressive young man with the long braid, his friend with short brown hair, and the third of the group was the youth with sleek black hair. All of the young men were similar in height with the braided boy taller by maybe two or three inches. The newcomer was taller than him, though.
He wore a black turtleneck and slacks of an earthen shade. He stood apart from the three familiar friends, unobtrusive but not unnoticeable.
The youth with the braid pointed towards the house directing everyone's attention. Quatre wasn't sure whether it would be practical to blush or not. They couldn't see him, but he felt studied anyway. He shied away from their collective stare.
--
"That over there is the Winner mansion. It's been abandoned for as long as anyone can remember. There's a little neat story that goes along with it. Do you wanna hear it?"
Two disdainful groans.
"A guy lived there, Mr. Winner Lord Winner Winner Winner….ah, heck whoever he was, he had a ton of children, like…thirty-forty give or take. He went insane one night on the Eve of Christmas and killed all of his kids, one big gory mess! After that, he waited for midnight until he finally offed himself. Then, all the servants that had been working at the house had to bury everyone in the morning-The End."
"Enlightening as usual, Maxwell."
"Thankew Wu," the so-called Maxwell said sweetly and threw his arms in a wide arc. "My adoring audience! I'm here Tuesdays and Thursdays!"
Receiving no response from his mostly tight lipped companions, Duo continued, "And, ofcourse…we all know that that house is haunted."
That one earned a couple derisive snorts.
"In your dreams."
"My dreams are positively lovely, thank you!"
"If you're a retard."
"Hey! I resent that!"
"I had a feeling you would."
"That's cold, Wu…so cold."
"My name is Wufei if you'd kindly remember it."
"Oh, give me an A for effort!" Maxwell taunted.
That got Wufei riled. Without any real time to form actual intent, he had Maxwell's rope like braid secure in his fist.
"Help! Help! I'm being attacked by a rabid martial arts man! Heero!"
The youth known as Heero at that moment decided to turn the other way. "I saw nothing."
"Oh Trowa!" Duo cried tugging his own braid trying to cut his abused head some slack.
Trowa had been preoccupied with staring at the Winner house and almost didn't hear him. "Hm?"
"Save me! You're a rough and tough western guy! Lasso him or something!"
"Not everyone in Texas goes to rodeo," Trowa informed him quietly.
"You all suck!" Duo cried just before he was released from Wufei's iron like grip.
"Cry me a river," Wufei said dusting non-existent dirt from his hands. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm headed home."
"Hey, we're coming!" Duo called after his retreating backside.
--
His breath made no mark on the window as he leaned in closer to it. What had they been saying? What curious verbal dance had led to the familiar anchoring of the longhaired boy by his braid?
He almost jumped when the familiar voice of his servant interrupted his thoughts.
"What was that, Rashid?" he asked, facing away from the window.
"I was asking what held your attention so fixedly."
Quatre glanced back at the boys who were growing smaller and smaller amidst the white snow outside. "I want to go out there," he declared, turning back.
"You know that is impossible," Rashid replied.
"Why is it impossible?" Quatre demanded softly.
"We've never been away from this house. Your father would not approve."
"I don't need his royal seal of approval," Quatre said bitterly knowing that he didn't mean a word of it. "How do we know that we can't do something if we don't try, anyway?"
"There's no telling what might happen if we leave this house. It is in your best interests to stay put," Rashid tried to explain. "…It might be dangerous."
"What's dangerous? I'm dead!" Quatre countered.
Rashid flinched, and Quatre hung his head low. Embarrassment burned his skin. He knew that he had crossed the line.
"I'm sorry," he offered receiving a nod.
"I'm sorry as well…" Rashid assured him before leaving, opening and closing the door even though it wasn't necessary. Just a force of habit.
Quatre blinked back a couple tears and returned to the image outside. The scenery had changed over the years, and he'd gladly embrace oblivion for just one day to experience it. But, honestly, he was afraid to chance it. He'd thought of it so often, committed himself to the idea, and then backed out at the last possible moment. Absently, he touched his fingers to the dusty glass and willed them through. When his fingers were about the breach the other side, he pulled back suddenly and cradled his hand as if it had just been burned.
Coward, he chided himself.
They all parted ways when the reached the intersection of West Elm and Bailey. Trowa turned left on Bailey with a shadow of an uttered good-bye.
He'd barely lived up north for more than a week, and already, he'd gained three steady acquaintances. It wasn't unusual for him to just "fall" into a group, though it normally took a little longer.
The frigid Virginia winter was a stark contrast to the mild Texas winters he'd grown so accustomed to, not the mention, the trees were definitely larger here.
He took a moment to glance back at his progress through the snow-covered ground. It was pleasing in a way to see the indentations from his shoes stretching so far behind him. The only way to see any trail even remotely resembling it in Texas would be to take a long walk outside on the hottest day of the year with black rubber soled shoes.
He relished the cool air that nipped his face, but at the same time, he missed the balmy winds that had blown though his hair only so many days before.
Idly, he kicked up the snow at his feet and watched its misty descent. He had never been witness to real snow until the day that his adoptive sister whisked him away up into winter land.
Bitterness swept through him as he remembered his previous guardian. He hadn't been unkind, never lifted his hands to him, never raised his voice. In truth, he'd been a pleasant man with boundless patience.
"Nathaniel Barton," Trowa murmured watching his steps imprint in the snow. He'd actually, most of his life, called him "Nate," not "dad" or "father" or "papa." Nate had been little more to him than an acquaintance and something possibly resembling an older sibling.
Nate had been an attorney for the state, a prosecutor. He had been good at his trade. His living was based off of which, what he kindly termed, "scum" he could stick with the right penalty. He feared nothing and no one, for as the almighty courts were his witness, he was always in the right. Apparently countless juries had seen that too.
Trowa had never been permitted to go into Nate's office. The curious times that he had found himself in there, staring blankly at the shelves and shelves of books, the sheaves of paper strewn everywhere in ordered stacks, Nate had appeared like an apparition and told him simply to "get out." There was no ire in his tone or gestures, which had served to confound Trowa on numerous occasions. Honestly, he'd hoped to anger him sometimes.
When Nate invited his male friends to their house, Trowa acted cold to them. Really, he didn't like them, he didn't know them, nor did he care. His mind itched with the vague sense that these strangers were touching something that was his.
It bothered him a little, that Nate never explained his behavior. He never made excuses when Trowa pretended not to hear questions posed by his friends. He never pushed him, never saved him when he got himself into trouble that he couldn't help himself out of. Whatever irritating schemes Trowa concocted eventually ended up with him right where he started and twice as frustrated as before.
Everything in that house had been passive, so painfully passive.
The toe of his boot clunked against the steps leading up to the porch.
I'm home, his brain supplied for him as he looked up befuddled at the quaint little house he and his adoptive sister now shared. Catherine, he reminded himself as he took the first few steps up.
He stopped for a moment on the top step and took one last look back at the path he had come. This place was all alien to him.
As he opened the door, Catherine's voice drifted from the toasty interior, "Welcome home!"
Moonlight kissed the white expanse of land lending it a pale blue sheen of color twinkling in the night like thousands of tiny lights. Quatre slept by the window for lack of anything else to occupy his time. His sleep was a dreamless one, a hollow void where no memory or fantasy dare tread. It was the only peace he knew, and yet, did not know.
The sound of intense sniffing roused him.
"Yes?" he whispered, as his eyes fluttered open. There was a stag just outside watching him intensely through the glass.
A smile crept unbidden up Quatre's face. He knew this deer well. He willed his hands to become like a strong wind as he opened the window.
The stag poked its snout in, and Quatre's whispering hands ran indulgently along its face.
"Schroeder," Quatre murmured against his fur. Its thick breath dampened Quatre's almost intangible cheek.
He'd known this deer since it was just a fawn stumbling around in constant pursuit of its mother. How long ago that had been, he couldn't tell.
Animals, for some reason, seemed drawn to Quatre. He supposed that it might be due to the energy of his vestigial spirit. Once, he remembered waking with dozens of cats crowded around and even within his form.
The stag licked the air loudly and wheezed in warning. Other deer, almost camouflaged within the shelter of light and shadow raised their heads. Their ears turned in alertness. Soon the whole lot of them were wheezing. One by one, they sprinted away silently like ghosts. The howl of wild dogs was the spur in Schroeder's side as he finally followed the others into the dark sanctuary of the wood. Quatre watched him go.
"Good night and god's speed," he whispered.
His only joy was the animals.
The only entities that could really see him.
Quatre came into awareness when the first rays of the sun hit the window.
Dead leaves danced across the wooden floor with aid from the open window. A few broad oak leaves fluttered through Quatre's outstretched hand. He was aware that there were things inside him that didn't belong to him. He felt them, but at the same time, didn't feel them.
He looked back into his body and saw a few animals nestled in his abdomen. Cats. Always cats. It didn't bother him, though.
"Good morning," he whispered allowing himself a while more of sheltering the little fuzzies.
Eventually, though, he decided to raise himself up to do his morning person watching.
Heero and Wufei were already up at the bus stop.
Later, Duo joined them.
Even later than that, the newest addition to their group.
Quatre willed his fingers through the glass again, every fiber of his being wanting to breach the other side. He wanted to see these people up close, maybe even thank them for their companionship, though offered unawares.
The cats joined him at the sill watching the street with him.
"I want to meet them," he whispered, not daring to speak his desire any louder. Then he began a soft poem of sorts, "O Dearest, canst thou tell me why the rose should be so pale? And why the azure violet should wither in the vale? And why the lark, should in the cloud, so sorrowfully sing? And why from the loveliest balsam-buds, a scent of death should spring…thou forsakest me…"
One of the more adventurous felines leapt from the sill during his soliloquy followed hesitantly by two others headed in the direction of the bus stop.
Trowa, though he hadn't been keenly aware of it, had been watching the house. It was a scar in the sky.
It seemed more like a dark apparition rather than a former residence.
Then, out of the window, he saw the shadows of cats slink out from the dark mansion traveling in single file. One stopped just outside of the shadow of the building while two slightly more adventurous ones continued onward. The next cat stopped at the edge of the wild growth spilling over the sidewalk. The final feline looked both ways before crossing the street. It seemed to be coming just for Trowa.
On his side of the asphalt, it did come to him and pressed itself to his legs weaving between his feet. Its black fur making it look less real than it felt.
Trowa turned to see if his friends were noticing any of this. Apparently, it wasn't creepy enough to catch their attention.
He reached down to pet the little creature, but it shied from his hand, flattening itself and slinking along the ground.
Just as he was about to give up, the cat sprang up onto all fours and dashed back across the street rounding up its siblings and leapt back into the house from whence it had come.
Trowa was still looking stupefied at the house when the bus came.
Quatre stared at the ceiling of his empty room. He hadn't left that room for uncountable years.
Iria, she and his other sisters were just upstairs in their rooms. He hadn't seen them since his death. How had he died? He could not remember, much like everything else in his sort of half-existence. His father was in the house too. Somewhere, maybe even in the walls.
Sometimes, Quatre could hear the papers being shuffled in the desk upstairs.
Whatever his family did in the afterlife was of none of his affair.
He looked at the cats in the window and began to tell himself more broken poetry. He could remember knowing all of the lyrics perfectly at one time, but much the same as everything else, even the awareness of knowledge was slowly, day by day, ebbing away.
"Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end…" he began.
It was hard to concentrate.
The house haunted him. There was something in there, and it wasn't just cats.
Trowa scribbled aimlessly on his spiral.
Maybe there was something to all those claims of bad luck and dangerous spirits involving the residence on West Elm.
Whatever the case, it seemed to be slowly weaving a siren's spell around him.
Dare he mention his reservations to the others?
He glanced pointedly at Duo, who was carefully constructing a paper football palace on his desk, and thought better of it.
They would laugh at him. Give his thoughts no credence.
Hell, he wouldn't even give his thoughts credence.
After he got off the bus that afternoon, he was looking at the house again.
It was beckoning to him.
A hearty clap on his shoulder made him almost jump out of his skin.
"So, you want to go in there?" Duo asked. "I'll go too if you're scared."
"Don't trust him," Wufei warned shouldering his satchel.
Heero made a noise of agreement, "Duo is a class A, bonafide wuss."
Duo's fingers dug into Trowa's shoulder mirroring his indignant embarrassment. "Hey, you guys are invited to come along!"
"Sure," Wufei replied rising to the challenge.
"Wuss," Heero added following Duo's hurried progress across the street.
They both laughed.
"Oh, laugh it up," Duo snorted. "Jackasses."
Trowa's stride helped along greatly by Duo's determined pushing slowed the closer and closer they all got to the house. What exactly was lurking there in the shadows? Why was he so sure that something was lurking there?
When they got to standing directly in front of the structure, no one was really enthusiastic about continuing onward. Eventually, it was Heero that took it upon himself to cross the threshold of the semi-circle staircase leading up to the door. The snow crunched underfoot, deep as if it'd never been touched. Which, it doubtlessly hadn't.
Duo, Wufei, and Trowa followed after him.
The door didn't open until Heero, Wufei, and Trowa laid their combined weight on it. The years of crust and decay crumbled and cracked as the door gave way.
When no spooks rushed out of the poorly lit gloom, Duo regained his cheerful disposition and walked ahead of everyone. His boots churned up years and years of undisturbed dust throwing his friends simultaneously into allergic fits.
"It's a lot bigger inside than it looked from the street," he observed, pleased. His voice echoed in the vast emptiness making the innumerable cobwebs quiver. The foyer itself was large enough to be a little house all on its own. "This place isn't so scary," he said grateful for even the muted sunlight that filtered through the filmy windows.
Even with that lighthearted declaration, Trowa felt extremely anxious. Not being of a really collective mind, the little entourage strayed off exploring by themselves.
Trowa wandered off somewhere in the general direction he figured the cats must have originated from. He hadn't realized how extensive the house was by just looking at it. He got lost once or twice taking idle turns in maze-like halls.
Every room he opened was empty, undisturbed. A ways into his exploration, he came upon a less-dingy door. It yielded surprisingly easy under his hand.
In the middle of the mostly empty room was a slumbering boy, cats at the windowsill.
Trowa was surprised out of his mind feeling a little more than internally hysterical until his rational mind kicked in. Maybe that guy was just a runaway that got in through the open window. Though he'd never known any guy that ran away in the dead of winter wearing nothing but a pair of trousers and a paper-thin dress shirt. It didn't even look like they were from the current century.
The boy, himself, had a sort of aristocratic air rare now a days. His hair was trimmed to a length about halfway down his ears, the color of white gold. Every feature fit perfectly, not even a slight crook in his nose to mar his countenance.
Trowa wondered whether he should say something.
Just then, though, the boy woke. He rose to his feet with as much poise and grace as a valedictorian of a tea ceremony school. He did not notice Trowa, but instead went to stand at the open window. His movements not making a sound. His actions were those of countless repetition that he didn't even bother to look about himself anymore.
Just how long had he been camping out here?
"H-" Trowa began a pathetic attempt at a greeting ending in him just breathing heavily.
The boy turned from the window, his bright blue eyes widening partly in fear, partly in wonder. And in an instant, his form lost shape. The colors that comprised his being grew indistinct, and faded until he couldn't even be seen at all.
The hairs on the back of Trowa's neck stood on edge as he stared, dumbfounded, at the empty spot where the other boy should have been. People don't vanish, not like that.
He reached out and felt the vacant air. Maybe it had been a hallucination.
But his gut told him that there was no conceivable way that it could have possibly been a figment of his imagination, his mind simply wasn't romantic enough to conjure such an image, and what's more, he could still feel the effects of the burning blue of those eyes.
He wondered whether he should tell the others about his experience but wasn't sure whether they'd believe it. Duo probably would, but, the other two were more skeptical and scathing in their remarks. Was Duo trustworthy? There would be nothing more miserable than having a bunch of country boys at school making fun of the city-boy-psycho. Trowa wasn't one to treasure his reputation, but at times, he did feel the need to protect it.
He left to room in peace, at the same time, making a half-promise to return to it.
His curiosity was piqued, and there was no other help for it.
After a small time wandering, he found the foyer again and headed upstairs where he could hear the others making noise.
They were rummaging around the study.
Duo pulled out a thick, decaying volume and made a face. "You can't even read the title on this anymore. Something like, Love and War or something clichéd like that…No wait, Modern Economics." He opened the book to its title page. "Modern in 1760." He whistled wonderingly.
Wufei was studying the walls with a strange interest, "Look, Heero…there's blood spatter here too. Maybe those stories really are true."
"I'm sure that there's something else to it," Heero said scrutinizing the rust red marks with Wufei.
Trowa stood in the doorway a moment more before raising his voice a little, "What do you mean…'here too'?"
Wufei turned to face him, "Didn't you look at the other rooms?"
Trowa shook his head.
"Follow me," Wufei sighed pushing past him.
Together, they passed through to the east wing of the house. Among the first few doors, Wufei chose a random one and opened it roughly.
Inside were the tattered remains of a lady's room. Gray, molded lace hung here and there and lay helter-skelter. The centerpiece of the room, the large queen-sized canopy bed sat hunched like a beast. Faded red painted the sheets in a most grotesque fashion.
"Are all the rooms like this?" Trowa asked brushing a floating cobweb out of his face.
Wufei shook his head curtly, "No, not all of them. A good amount of them, though."
Struck with a feeling, Trowa began to open the doors to every room in the east wing. All of them were feminine.
The last door, though, led to a more stark room. There was no blood there, but there was plenty of destruction in its place. Books littered the floor, fabrics were torn, and all individuality that had gone into the room was cast into an abyss of nothingness.
It's his room, Trowa's mind screamed excitedly though his face betrayed nothing. Why isn't he in his room?
Trowa ventured a ways inside the room. There were no rusty blood spots anywhere or mummified appendages. He began poking around for pictures, clues about the boy, that through heated irrational thought, he concluded, had resided within that room. He ran across a volume titled Common Sense written by Thomas Paine, a 1776 publication and a few other mildly familiar sounding books and papers.
Everything about the room was extremely impersonal, not even a diary or framed picture.
Trowa lifted the bed mattress partway and found a leather-bound book resting underneath. He grabbed it and let the mattress drop stirring up an explosion of dust that made him gag.
TBC!