A/N: Dear French readers (and people smarter than me), I do not speak French nor have I ever visited France, so please forgive any glaringly offensive errors in this story. This story is very loosely based on the legend of La Dame Blanche from Château de Puymartin, but I'm adjusting the story to fit here.
"Why couldn't your son's obsession with history lead us to explore museums and ancient architecture?" Blair hissed, rubbing her hands over her arms as the night chill pierced through her cardigan, causing her skin to prickle beneath the cashmere.
"Shhh," Henry turned and admonished his parents before returning his attention back to the tour guide's gruesome tales of France's most notorious killers.
The old woman who'd introduced herself as Brigitte led them around the back of the property. From this angle, the old manor appeared like something from a storybook, perhaps a witch's cottage. The damp gray stone was overgrown with dead vines snaking their way up to the roof. There was no electricity, and Brigitte had insisted they leave their cell phones tucked away as such devices were likely to disturb the spirits that lurked about the property. She motioned a lantern, their only source of light, toward a small plot of land. A slow shiver ran through Blair's spine when her eyes focused in on the illuminated spot. Three decrepit tombstones were nestled beneath a large tree.
"As the legend goes," Brigitte spoke in a chillingly low pitch, mostly to Henry who stooped to the ground to examine the old stones, "these belong to each of Marguerite's lovers. You can see that there is no inscription besides this singular statement," She pointed to the French engraving on the middle tombstone, "which roughly translates to 'May your souls suffer eternal torment.' At night, it's rumored that the mutilated corpses of each of these men appear throughout the property; sometimes they're looking for Marguerite, other times they seek revenge upon Marguerite's husband who put them in the ground."
Blair crossed her arms over her chest, scrunching her nose at the image Brigitte's words painted in her mind. "Don't you think he's too young for this? What kind of bad dreams are these horrible stories going to give him?" She cut her eyes to her husband in irritation, certain that he'd given into Henry's birthday request of exploring the haunted sites far too easily.
"He's twelve, Blair," Chuck looped his arm around his wife's shoulders, wrapping her tightly in his embrace in an attempt to warm her. "Look," he motioned to Henry who was still hanging on every word of the tour guide's ghost story, "Does that look like a kid who's going to have nightmares?"
Blair's eyes watched Henry's face light up at whatever part of the story she'd missed, and he exclaimed, "Cool! Can I see?"
"See what?" Blair furrowed her brows hesitantly.
"The pictures of the ghosts haunting the graveyard. Brigitte says that they were taken on the last tour she led."
Blair's face did little to conceal her grimace, and Chuck had to bury his face in her hair to hide his smirk. He didn't believe in the afterlife or the paranormal; there were enough real ghosts haunting him on a daily basis for him to concern himself with the supernatural, but he found Blair's reaction to the morbid stories adorable. He leaned in close to her ear so that only she could hear and whispered, "Don't worry; what I have planned for you later is certain to keep all the ghouls at bay."
She gave him a flirtatious smirk, loving the fact that he still offered her playful innuendos after so many years of marriage. Burrowing herself against his chest, she shivered as Brigitte held up a grainy photo for the three of them to see. It was not very high quality and given the lack of lighting, it was difficult to make out much in the picture.
"I don't see anything," Henry pouted.
"Here," Brigitte pointed to the upper right-hand corner of the picture, and by squinting, Henry could just make out a grayish figure hovering behind the tombstones.
"Whoa," he said under his breath, inspecting the image more closely. He walked to the tombstones and examined the areas around them. "There's no way that that's fake. No way."
Blair gripped Chuck's hand tightly, yanking ever-so-slightly so that he would walk her in the direction of Henry. He chuckled under his breath, but he led her toward the tombstones. She bit her lip, glancing around the entire perimeter - up at the tree and around the graves, but nothing was amiss. The entire story of Monsieur Dubois's murder spree had disturbed her more than she would like to admit; the hair on her arms stood at attention, and she felt like there was an unseen presence permeating the air all around them. She shuddered for the hundredth time in Chuck's arms, and said, "Okay, we're about done here, right?"
Henry ignored his mother and asked Brigitte, "So what happened to him and Marguerite?"
"No one knows what happened to Marguerite. One day, she just disappeared, as if she never existed, but at night, people claim to hear a shrill scream coming from the east wing of the manor. There's speculation that Monsieur Dubois pushed her from that window, before hanging himself on this very tree that we are standing under now."
Blair shrank back into her husband's warm chest, eyes darting wildly around the dark landscape. She couldn't see more than a few feet in either direction as a thick fog settled over the property. A clock tower chimed in the distance, announcing the ten o'clock hour. Her heart pounded in time with the thunderous ticks of the clock, and she yelped, "Alright, tour over!"
Henry gave his mother a knowing smile, just as amused by her as his father was. "Okay, mom, we can go before you pass out from fear."
"Henry Charles, I am not scared of some silly ghost stories!" She narrowed her eyes at her son, who was already towering over her. Her heart sank a bit at the fact that she was only a year away from being the mother of a teenager. "It's just getting late and we have a long commute -"
"Where are you staying?" Brigitte inquired, a glint of mischief dancing in her dark eyes.
"Château de Saint-Clar," Henry answered, an adolescent curiosity playing across his features. "Why?"
"Oh, you must know the stories of La Dame Blanche then?"
Henry shook his head, but when she didn't continue, he prompted, "Is it haunted? Please tell me it's haunted."
Brigitte glanced back at Blair and Chuck for permission, causing Blair to roll her eyes in mild annoyance. "Go ahead," she sighed. "You've already filled his head with enough nonsense tonight, so what will one more story hurt?"
"As the story goes," Brigitte began in a low, husky voice that Blair had come to recognize as her tone of suspense. "In the sixteenth century, Thérèse de Saint-Clar was caught in the middle of a passionate affair with her lover when her husband, Jean, returned early from war. In a fit of blind jealousy, Jean murdered Thérèse's lover and made her watch as he hung his body from a tree. As punishment for her infidelity, Jean locked her in the northern tower. He boarded up the room so that only a small hatch in the ceiling could be opened to give her food and water. One small window was covered in bars so that she could look out of the tower, but all she could see was the tree from which her lover's body had hung. She lived a lonely, sad life until she finally died in the tower fifteen years later. Jean did not afford her a proper burial, instead walling her body in that room for all eternity. Over the years, guests have reported eerie noises throughout the castle – a woman crying, the soft creak of footsteps on the stairway, fists pounding against the walls of the tower, desperate to escape. Others say that at the stroke of midnight, a ghostly figure in a long white dress can be seen wandering the inner corridor, weeping into her handkerchief as she searches aimlessly night-by-night for her lost lover."
XOXO
After telling Henry goodnight and settling into the huge master suite, Chuck pulled Blair close to his body - partially for warmth from the cool air in the expansive castle, mostly because it had been nearly twelve hours since he'd last touched his wife's soft skin. He ran his hands slowly over her thighs, drawing circles into her flesh. She shivered against him, and he tucked the thick comforter around both their bodies. "Are you still scared, my love? Do you need me to chase the ghosts away?" Chuck whispered against the shell of her ear.
"I wasn't scared," she pouted weakly, "But I don't like those stories. Something's wrong with our son to find entertainment in such macabre topics."
"Nah," Chuck stroked his palm over her hips, playing with the silk material of her chemise. "He's just got a healthy imagination mixed with the morbid curiosity of a twelve-year-old boy."
"You've got the 'morbid' part right," she grumbled, turning on her side to face Chuck. "Kiss me already and make me forget all those awful stories."
He grazed his hand up her hip, tracing his fingers along the taut lines of her stomach. His mouth lingered over hers, teasing her, before giving into her request. The kiss was slow and sensual; their tongues danced together while their hands trailed languid, exploratory paths over each other's bodies.
"What was that?" Blair jumped back, shaken. Her eyes darted wildly around the dimly-lit room, but she found nothing that could've inspired such alarm.
"What was what?" Chuck asked halfheartedly, pulling her back into his arms.
"That sound," she stilled his movements, shoving his hand away from her hip bone. "Listen," she hissed quietly.
"I don't hear anything but the ticking of the clock, Blair," he soothed. "Don't let some dumb fabricated stories make your blood run cold – or at least, let me warm you back up."
He dipped his head to her neck again, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the iron hand of the antique clock tick from 11:59 to 12:00. A soft sound, barely audible, hummed in his ears, and all thoughts of sex escaped him, replaced with an icy chill sliding down his spine. The humming grew steadily louder and louder, as though the source was slowly approaching the closed bedroom door.
"Chuck," Blair whined, tugging at his pajama sleeve. "Chuck, do you hear that?"
He held up his hand to quieten her, surveying the room for some type of weapon. His skin grew damp with sweat despite the chill in the air.
Blair swallowed hard, her entire body trembling beneath the weight of the blanket. The faintest sound of footsteps patted toward their bedroom, causing her heartbeat to mimic the haunting rhythm.
Pitter-patter.
Pitter-patter.
Pitter-patter.
A low whimper echoed down the corridor, vibrating off of the thick interior walls. For several moments, neither Chuck nor Blair could speak. As the whimper turned to loud ghastly moans, they huddled together beneath the blanket, awaiting whatever terrifying fate they were sure to face inside the haunted castle.
"Chuck," Blair hissed, "Oh, my God, Chuck, do something!"
"Like what?" he snapped in exasperation, but he was already throwing the comforter off his body, ready to protect his wife and son at all costs.
He yanked the lamp from the bedside table, just as the bedroom door handle jiggled. The lovers were frozen in place as they watched the handle whine under the pressure coming from the other side of the door. It turned slowly…so slowly until the door creaked open, a dull light spreading across the floor of the room.
Chuck stumbled backwards, half-intending to cover Blair's body with his. He tripped over the lamp cord, effectively falling back onto the bed beside Blair. They barely caught sight of the phantom hovering in the doorway before Chuck clenched his eyes closed in fear and Blair let out a blood-curdling scream, digging her nails into Chuck's forearm.
"Blaaa-irrr," the figure groaned, dragging her name out into multiple syllables. "Chuu-uuck."
They both opened their eyes in confusion, blinking rapidly to readjust their vision to the light pouring in from the hallway. Laughter pealed from behind the figure, and Chuck and Blair were shaken back to reality, embarrassment quickly replacing the terror in their expressions.
"What the -" Chuck censored himself, recognizing the young boy from whom the laughter emanated. "Henry Bass!"
Blair narrowed her eyes at the woman dressed in white - taking in the pale make-up paired with the long veil and dress. She looked like the very image that Blair's mind had created upon hearing the story of La Dame Blanche, but now that her pulse had returned to a normal rhythm, she could see the familiarity in the ghost's features. "Serena?!" she screeched. "What are you doing?!"
Serena's giggles erupted into a fit of laughter, joining Henry in the hilarity. "Whenever my nephew called and said that he wanted to play the ultimate Halloween prank on his parents, how could I refuse?"