Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.
Inspired by: "Ghost Town" by The Specials.
October 31st, 1891
Thankfully Watson did come the morning after Madeline and Sherlock's grand escapade to bail them out, equally not surprised and full of reprimands for the detective. For an entire hour he berated his old friend on the improprieties and dangers of involving a woman for reconnaissance work, while Madeline just sat there choking down giggles and departing for the bathroom to scrub herself clean of the accumulated mud. After that incident, Holmes did not dare suggest bringing her out on a case again; it was unclear whether he was afraid of being lectured again or if it was genuinely too dangerous for her to do so. In any case, she found herself to be quite relieved when he dismissed her offers for help.
And also, quite disappointed. As much as she hated to admit it (even if it was only to herself) she did enjoy the adventure he'd given her. It was thrilling to have assisted the world's greatest consulting detective.
Nearly two months had passed without any form of trouble, with only fencing practice and social outings bringing the duo together. However, when Madeline mentioned possibly attending a séance at a well-to-do acquaintance's home on All Hallow's Eve, Holmes put his foot down.
"Absolutely not. Those gatherings are nothing but a sham," he chided her, pouring tea for their afternoon meeting. "You cannot go through with such tomfoolery."
"I am a grown woman, Holmes. You cannot forbid me from doing anything. Besides," she stated, pausing for a moment to sip her beverage, "it's merely for a lark. I hardly expect to make any contact with the dead."
"Oh, a lark, you say? Well, that certainly changes the circumstances considerably," he snarked, rolling his eyes. "Still, if you're willing to throw your money away on actors hired to pretend to communicate with the deceased, far be it from me to tell you not to."
Madeline snickered. "It's all in good fun. That's the point of the holiday, after all…to be frightened. To wander with the souls come back from beyond the grave."
In truth, Halloween was her favorite holiday. When she was younger, her mother would gather her and her brother up and tell the children grisly tales about witches, imps, and other mad things that went bump in the night. The village would have a bonfire, and she'd go bobbing for apples. As she'd matured, Madeline was invited to her school's own version of revelry, a costumed masque. Dressing up in disguise, dancing in the hall with her best chums, and then hearing the same spooky stories again simply made her year. On this holiday, she could be anybody else. She could even walk with the spirits of her family…an almost comforting notion, as more and more members joined that ghostly group with each passing year.
The strange glint that Holmes had glazed in his eye every now and again was growing again. He was hatching a plan, and just from the way he was looking at her, Madeline could tell it wasn't going to be a picnic in the park.
"Whatever, you're planning, no."
"I am planning nothing." His audibly sipped his tea, but the look of deviousness did not leave his face. Setting the fine china cup down in its saucer, she started rubbing her forehead.
"If you are not 'planning', then what are you 'thinking'?" she had to ask, curiosity getting the better of her once more. Immediately, the sleuth's eyes diverted to the ottoman sitting by the fireplace, buried beneath mountains of paper and clothes.
"I rather think that, if you truly are seeking the macabre, you should go to places that exhibit actual signs of it," he murmured innocently…too innocently.
"Such as?"
"Now that would be telling," he mumbled, upending his cup when finished and rising from his chair. Scurrying across the room, he gathered up a pen and some paper, scrawling a short note on it. "Go to this address no later than nine o'clock this evening. I shall meet you there."
Taking the proffered page, Madeline stuttered, "But…the séance…I can hardly tell the hostess I will not attend. She is expecting me."
The detective shrugged, pulling out a dossier from one of the cabinets near the writing table.
"Do as you wish. I daresay that you would find a more pertinent All Hallow's Eve experience at this address, but if you must be somewhere, then you must go."
She nodded, but still eyed him warily as he thumbed through the files, his back turned to her suddenly. It appeared as though he wasn't taking note of her huffs of indignation, or that he was so wrapped up in his impromptu work that he couldn't hear her kicking the table leg in frustration.
"If you keep that up, you'll leave a dent in the wood."
In a flurry of motion, Madeline gathered up her skirts and her jacket, darting past the now-smirking detective.
"I won't be on time, Holmes, but whatever is at this address better be worth it."
xXxXxXx
Standing on the darkened streets of London, trembling in her coat, she had to wonder what was so special about this particularly shuttered and bolted house at 31 Hever Street. The wind howled, twisting the shutters on the house and chilling Madeline down to the bone. It was true, she did like this holiday for its sole purpose of being bewitching, but when one was entirely alone on a blackened road facing a spooky old home, one didn't find the situation so titillating. Especially not at half past ten.
Nor was it exciting when a certain male friend decided to leap out from the nearby alley, weaving his way silently to one's side.
"Hello, dear lady," he whispered in her ear, causing her to screech and jump a foot in the air. Once she'd realized who it was she settled down, and then swiftly smacked Sherlock hard on the chest.
"Don't do that!"
"So many things you dislike my doing, Madeline…What can I do with you?" he muttered, clicking his tongue in a joking reproach. "Enjoy your séance?"
Her eyelids closed briefly, replaying the night's events in her head. Mrs. Sumnor had brought in Madame Chekov to lead the ceremony. Hands joined, the madame hummed, and names were shouted out. Messages from beyond the grave were sent. When she inquired as to if she could speak with her father, Madeline was told that he missed her dearly. With Holmes' suspicious voice whispering in the back of her mind, she asked if remembered his prized horse Bill, and Chekov exclaimed that he could, and that he was glad she was taking good care of the old nag.
"It was an interesting experience. Not terrifying at all," she confessed, shrugging her shoulders. It was no surprise that Holmes merely blinked and shook his head.
"And here I thought that was the reason you so treasured this day: to be scared out of your wits."
She snorted. "Not out of my wits, but a little dose of the unexplained is…not so bad."
In response, the sleuth's eyes narrowed in the lamplight. "The unexplained and I are not exactly on the best of terms."
"Because there are some things that lie beyond your realm of intelligence? It's not a shortcoming to not know everything."
"I understand that," he grumbled almost irritably. "But to presented with challenges with no solutions in sight…mmph."
The last word was more of a grunt of displeasure, like no word could convey his complete hatred of an unsolvable puzzle. Clearing his throat, he retrieved his fallen lantern and led the way up to the battered doorway of the house. Twisting the knob several times, he eventually had to force it open with forceful pushes of his shoulder.
"I gather you wonder as to why I've instructed you to come to this obviously decrepit piece of land," Holmes soldiered on, halfway over the threshold. "It is purported that the house has long since been abandoned as no one could keep it. Hearing creaks and moans, shuffling footsteps in the night and all that."
"And here I thought you were a doubter," she responded sarcastically. "Why indulge in something you refuse to believe in? Just for the sake of sport?"
"Perhaps…and to maybe disprove the theory of spectral beings entirely."
Her lips spread in a massive grin. "You don't leave deduction out of anything, do you?"
Holmes' own smirk went wide as well before he turned towards the interior of the building. Following his guiding light into the darkness, Madeline sidestepped two broken chairs and a fallen ladder. The two stood in the foyer, breathing in the layers of untouched dust blanketing everything. A swaying staircase stretched upward into the blackness, and the hall continued on towards another set of doors.
"A client of mine lived next door to this house for years. He told me of lamps flickering at odd hours of the night, and a woman's scream at precisely 2:37 every morning."
Despite knowing full well that Holmes could be spewing lies, she found herself getting chills as he ventured forth. His client dug deeper into the mysterious house next door, trying to pinpoint exactly why nobody lived in it for longer than three weeks. As he researched, the man found that back in 1811 the first owners of the newly-built home had moved in. The husband was a tanner, and his wife was a fifteen-year-old girl brought down from Edinburgh specifically for their marriage. Betsy, she was called, and the poor girl lived unhappily in the city. As the marriage was arranged ("Hardly a surprise there, Holmes."), Betsy clearly had no love for her husband, for being a homemaker. He was far older than she, and merely wanted the offspring that could be gotten from a fertile young girl. He would work all day, come home and eat the dinner she'd been preparing for hours, and then go to the common house and drink until it was nearly dawn out. It was rumored that within the first year of the union she was straying, her attention captured by another tanner her husband worked with.
One night, the husband decided to go home early after a night of carousing. He caught Betsy in a romantic tryst with her lover in the master bedroom. The young man scurried out the window, never to be seen in London again. Unfortunately for Betsy, her husband carried a loaded pistol to protect himself as he crossed to and from work every day. In a fit of rage, he shot the poor girl, her yelps of terror echoing down the sleepy streets. The tanner ran in fear of his life as her blood drained down onto the floorboards.
"And he was never found. Since that day, every man who sets foot in this house is driven out within a few days' time. Painters have stopped by, as you saw in the foyer, but had to leave in a hurry when they heard footsteps in the master bedroom, which is kept under lock and key. Cold blasts of air freeze you down to your very bones…and Betsy's death throes are heard in the night, begging for someone to notice her plight and bring her murderous husband to justice," Sherlock concluded, having guided her around the ground floor and halfway up the stairs.
As she had no light of her own, she'd stuck close to his side as he spun the tragic tale, taking his arm so he wouldn't lose her in the dark. No matter how hard she tried to pretend like the story didn't bother her, Madeline felt her grip tighten on him as the house shifted. The stirring shadows kicked up ghastly figures and made her think something was following them. The cold winds of the night seeped through the cracks, icing over her core. With numbed steps she went on, dragged down the upstairs hall to a door positioned at the very end. It was the master bedroom, and the lock was bolted.
"Very well, Sherlock, you've had your fun. The tale of terror had been told, so we can go," she murmured, wanting nothing more than to put the eerie building in her past. Scary stories were much easier to hear when one was in one's own home, safe and far away from the tale's setting. The thrill of finding out what lay behind the wooden panels was overriding her desire to go, though.
"It's no tale," Holmes replied, putting the light down on the floorboards and suddenly kicking in the door. Screaming in shock, Madeline nearly bolted. However, the detective's constrictive arms curled around her waist and pulled her right against his body. Her heart hammered in her chest, her own arms curling around him in search of protection. Slowly her breath became regular, and with a gentle tug, Holmes brought her into the room of death.
Moonlight poured in from the single window, illuminating a bed frame coated in grime. Tumbling over each other, they began to investigate the room. Heel imprints of lady's boots were fresh in the dust...and a massive stain spread out at the very head of the bed. "It appears as if the lady has been making her rounds. Perhaps if we stay until the early morning hours, we could listen to her ethereal scream."
"We could…if the story was true," Madeline groused, looking down and out the window. Hooking her thumb at it, Holmes came over and began cursing under his breath. She'd spotted the abandoned shoes hiding on the portion of roof below the window. "I appreciate the try, Holmes. You did have me going for awhile there. What did you use for the blood stain?"
He turned away, stumbling over a chair leg. "Red ink. It seeped into the wood quickly and dried brown, as blood would've after being unattended for years."
Wrinkling her nose, the living lady cast her gaze around the room. "Is this just another home in London that simply fell into disrepair, with no one bothering to claim it and try again?"
"Yes. And I believe my point is proven; ghosts are a figment of the imagination. Spin the right wool, and you can assemble the belief that souls can be trapped after death," Holmes said, leaning against the far wall. "They're only good for filling children's brains with fright and perpetuating the holiday."
"So say you."
Suddenly, the lamp nestled on the floor began sputtering, extinguished by a mysterious breeze. Now plunged fully in the dark, Madeline felt her pulse race in dread. Feelings of heartache and sadness washed over her, and it was no longer a night of enjoyment.
CreeeEEEAAak…
"Please tell me that the creaking noise is you crossing the floor, Holmes," she gasped. An uncomfortable silence passed, the moaning of the wood going on.
"…I thought you were crossing over to me."
SLAM! The bedroom door violently crashed against its frame, and thus shattered the remaining splinters of her composure. Yelling to wake the dead, Madeline rushed across the room, smacking against something solid. A hand clamped over her mouth, and a loud hissing bounced into her ear.
"Calm down!" Holmes hushed her, gathering her close once more. "Swallow down the fear. I promise that there is nobody in here that will hurt you. Your imagination is getting the better of you."
If she had been able to concentrate on his voice, she would've heard the smallest twinge of alarm hidden beneath layers of bravado. Rather, she heard only the words, and could only feel the strength of Holmes' grip as he kept her close. The hand was removed from her lips, coming to rest on her shoulder.
"Right…right," Madeline crooned, still quaking in her boots, "it's all my imagination."
BANG! The door flew open again, and this time she did not scream. Instead, she hauled her companion behind her out of the room, down the stairs, and leaping over the threshold. As they tore away, Madeline swore a young woman cackled upon their departure.
xXxXxXx
Six hours and three pots of tea later, Madeline found herself huddled beneath one of Holmes' old blankets, sitting cross-legged on the floor before a roaring fire. He was seated next to her, cradling a mug and staring into the flames. In all that time, they hardly said two words to one another, shaken by the night's events.
Blinking sleepily, Madeline set down her teacup and curled onto her side.
"Holmes?"
The detective glanced over momentarily, placing his mug next to hers.
"Yes?" he said, his voice gravelly with fatigue.
"Let's never speak of this night again."
The sound of bones popping reached her ears; Sherlock had stretched his arms above his head to work out the kinks.
"I agree to those terms."
Author's note: Did I scare you? I don't expect I did… Anyway, hope you enjoyed that little taste of Halloween in June, please review, and I'll see you all next week!