Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie and The Great Ormond Street Hospital. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners. As for original characters and the plot itself, that does belong to me. Please do not use such without permission.
Summary: It is said that, if a bride falls the day before she is married, then she will die within a year. But Wendy is already haunted; for even with a prospect as cruel as death drawing near; a darker fate lies with a single choice alone, and of a ghost, who refuses to let the past lie buried. A very dark Hook/Wendy.
A Haunting Reflection
Chapter Two
…
The next morning could not have come any sooner, though it did not carry with it the light Wendy had hoped to see. Instead she had to content herself with dark-grey skies, a cold winter wind, and a dismal London, bathed in a thick blanket of ice and snow. The streets had already been corrupted by the bustling movement of those from without, as the snow-white beauty of the city's cobblestone paths had darkened to a dirty black hue, slushy and soiled by the imprint of tires and footprints. The city itself had appeared a tragic mess, compared to the silent wonder witnessed only the previous night.
And yet, the dawn itself had not been as breathtaking or memorable as those of previous dawns—most particularly, those which foretold the comings and goings of a certain inhabitant from a distant Neverland—but had no less been welcomed all the same.
Wendy's disappointment was of little consequence, however, for the morning had nevertheless come for her—the light of day existing beyond the sky's dull overcast. She had even welcomed it, when she braved leaving the sanctuary of her bed and stood before the window in her room. She had even closed her eyes, and absorbed whatever few, rays of light that pierced through the grey obscurity. She had even smiled, albeit a faint one. The sunlight had been as precious to her as faerie dust.
For even with the absence of light, Wendy felt safe regardless, when the early morning hours had come, the gentle tolling of a distant Big Ben comforting her after a night of wakeful dreams. She instantly frowned, and closed her troubled eyes. A single tear fell, her mind in tatters. She dared not consider what had transpired in the bed. She dared not recall the shadows encircling the room, closing in around her, taunting her, laughing, before consuming her. She dared not remember the terror she felt when the darkness whispered her name, or the relentless scratching which had accompanied it. Though most of all, she dared not bear in mind the memory of the arms which had held her, arms which she reluctantly found both terrifying and strangely comforting in the same instance. It was as if they had wanted to both possess and protect me. She abruptly disregarded the thought. For whatever had held her—if something had indeed done so, as her imagination was wont to believe—then it had departed with the morning light.
The whispered utterances of her name had faded along with the shadows. The scratching had ceased. That cold form of nothingness, which had lain next to her, returned to oblivion. All that remained had been that of an eerie silence, sacred, reverent, almost holy. For after all, is the absence of light, not where all things considered dark and evil dwell? she questioned herself thoughtfully, her eyes opening once again to the world she beheld without.
She smiled again. For in the distance, the sun had managed to overcome its dreary adversary, emerging from the gloom, where a certain slant of light enveloped the whole of London. It even came into her room, touching everything within sight. It touched her the most, however, bathing her ivory-warm skin in a purifying glow, touching upon the highlights in her blue-black hair, warming her face. She laughed softly, its warmth a welcome comfort. She almost wished it could remain, its golden disk never descending under the horizon, where it would abandon all to darkness, as its dusk-born twin reigned for another night.
Wendy sighed, suddenly disheartened. The moon was a poor comparison to the grandeur of the sun, where the shadows and scratching would again come to torment her under the moon's pale, waning light. Where it would come, she mentally corrected as she inwardly shuddered, her hands drawing against her arms for warmth. She looked once more upon the city, the snow-covered rooftops almost blinding her where the sun touched them. Wendy squinted. Fingers of darkness, which drifted from the smokestacks, did little defend her from the sun's radiance, the wispy digits a mere obstruction to it.
Another sigh fell away from her, and she placed a pale cheek against the window's stained glass, feeling its opposing coldness compared to the sun's blazing warmth. It was almost comforting to her, just as the need to withdraw from the light she loved so much compelled her to turn to her daily ablutions, and prepare herself for the coming day.
Reluctantly she turned away from it, her bare feet falling against the floorboards, which creaked with every step. She blushed slightly, half-ashamed that she could produce such noise. She prayed that Nana would not hear her, lest she be reprimanded for not wearing her slippers. Aunt Millicent would certainly be affronted if she knew of my half-dressed state. Wendy smiled at the thought of her aunt, the older woman's face growing white with outrage, that bird's nest of red hair contrasting that forbidding, patrician's countenance, before sitting at her vanity and taking a brush in hand.
She made a face when she looked at her reflection in the mirror, her wan features confirming her troubled night. Dark circles lingered under her eyes, her haggard expression evidence enough of her deprived sleep. She had not even bothered to make herself presentable; a half-inclined attempt to tame that unruly mass of hair into a loose bun, where wisps of darkness fell about her snow-white face like shadows from a raven's wing. Her lips were pale, her eyes bloodshot.
Dejected by her appearance, she released her hair from the confining pins which held it, and commenced to brush the tangled mess into that which would—if only slightly—make her look presentable. She flinched, grunting when she caught a tangle, and almost regretted even attempting to brush her hair. I should have left it in the bun. It would have been less trouble had I done, she thought distractedly, frowning at the instrument that had caused her so much grief. She set the brush aside, eyeing its tarnished silver handle critically before taking it into her hand once more. She barely managed to unravel another tangle before she heard a knock at the door.
"Wendy?" the soft, almost timid voice of her brother Michael filtered through its wooden length. "Are you awake? For if you in fact are… Oh, bother it! Might I come in for a moment, Wendy? I know you are awake; there is no sense in asking, since I heard you making so much noise, with your treading about the boards below stairs. You sound like an elephant, with all of that stomping, you realise."
A smile instantly replaced Wendy's frown. So someone had heard her! She almost laughed as she set the brush aside. "I am coming, Michael," she said, putting on a robe over her nightgown before opening the door. Her smile widened to see her brother's grinning countenance. Like a veritable Cheshire cat he was; half-crescent grin and all. Wendy could only commend him for it. "Now, what could have possibly gotten you in so bright a mood on this dreary day, I wonder? Did you manage to place something dreadful in Aunt Millicent's tea again?" she mused, feigning curiosity.
Michael returned her jest in kind. "Oh, would that not have been just the thing for this morning! She certainly hated those tadpoles swimming about in her teacup, didn't she?" He grinned at Wendy mischievously before adding, "But no, I fear it nothing quite so brilliant as that. John simply told her that we have another occupant; one who has taken up residence here." That Cheshire cat grin widened a fraction when he caught her curious stare. "Oh, come now, surely you are not so puzzled as Aunt was—especially when you were the one who ensured us of the possibility that another could, very well, come into our home, and remain with us till the end of our days?"
Wendy frowned, no less puzzled by her brother's assertion. "What are you implying, Michael? There is no one here, other than us. You know that as well as I."
And yet, in spite of the logic behind her argument, Michael gave Wendy a look that unnerved her. "That we have seen, anyhow," he gravely intoned, and Wendy had the good sense to scowl at him.
"You frightened Aunt Millicent with ghost stories," she deadpanned. "Michael, you surely must realise that she will tell Mother and Father, and that I shall be the one to suffer the brunt of how they choose to punish us. And Heaven only knows what she will do to Slightly, when she takes him home with her today." She closed her eyes, imagining her cousin's fate, before looking to Michael once more. "Knowing Aunt, she may not allow him to visit us again."
Michael looked down, his grin disappearing. "Oh…I had quite forgotten about Aunt's temper. I am terribly sorry, Wendy; none of us hadn't considered the possibility of her blaming you—or punishing Slightly. John only thought that it would be a grand laugh for us," he whispered, before meeting her gaze. "I suppose were we wrong…"
But Wendy only shook her head. "It hardly matters now," she returned, quietly, and then gave him a comforting smile. "Oh, do not fret over it, Michael: this is no fault of your own—or even that of our brothers', for that matter. I daresay Aunt shall always find a reason to admonish my behaviour. She has a tendency to find in me my worst qualities, since my stories are apparently the most shameful of them. She is probably waiting for me in the drawing room, watching every second pass on Mother's clock, and only waiting for her chance to have a word with me in private," she affirmed with a half-mocking grin.
The youngest Darling brother could only return the gesture, his freckles a bright contradiction to that impish face. Wendy shook her head in amusement, as she bade him to wait for her. "I shall only be a moment," she assured him, before taking the brush again in hand. She laughed when she caught his questioning look. "I know it appears quite the horror; but then, we should not want Aunt to make a claim that I have allowed birds to nest in my hair, either. I honestly believe that far worse a transgression, than the tadpoles and a host restless spirits haunting us combined!"
She heard Michael's laughter when she shut the door, and readied herself for a much-dreaded confrontation with her dear Aunt Millicent. Indeed, Wendy half-wondered, as she brushed her hair and put on a simple light-blue gown, if the entity—which she was now beginning to believe part of her wild imagination—was less of a hazard, compared to a very stiff and irate, if not very real Aunt Millicent. For after all, it had only said my name and…held me.
She shook her head, and looked at her reflection once more. Either way, she deduced thoughtfully to the solemn, raven-haired maiden before her, I shall discover the truth soon enough…Even if it is a truth that I very much fear.
…
And of course, Wendy's arrival downstairs had only confirmed her fears.
For as her prediction proved, unfortunately, true, Aunt Millicent had indeed been waiting for her in the drawing room, desiring a private word before everyone joined for breakfast. Wendy had known that, from the moment upon seeing the disapproval in her aunt's eyes, she would soon suffer for her brothers' mistake. For indeed, Aunt Millicent's face was as red as her hair, the massive, ebony grandfather clock, which belonged to Wendy's mother's, mother's mother, emphasised her aunt's impatience as the older woman stood before it, the tapping of an intolerant green shoe matching the clock's ticking perfectly.
Tick, tock, tick, tock. Tip, tap, tip, tap.
Wendy stilled herself against the menacing combination, since she could only thank God that, even though Michael had inherited some of their aunt's features, he had not inherited Aunt Millicent's temper. Although, thought Wendy quietly, I do not think all people with red hair have tempers—not like Aunt Millicent's, at any rate.
Nevertheless, she had the good sense to look down, her deference lifting only a fragment of the tension between aunt and niece.
"Good morning, Aunt Millicent," she said, her eyes remaining carefully on the hem of her aunt's green velvet dress. The material was expensive, and was certainly of a better quality than her own gown's wearing linen. She frowned, but wisely kept her eyes averted from the gorgon before her, that Medusa's gaze compelling her to escape from its stone scrutiny. Her present unease increased when she made her retreat, an unpleasant truth coming to light. Indeed, she despairingly considered, I think Aunt Millicent the worse of the two. At least I did not feel my blood turn cold when I was held last night. Nor did my skin become as stone when it whispered my name—not until now, under that insidious gaze of hers. Oh, why must she look at me so? I cannot escape her, no matter where I turn in this infernal room! Oh, dear, she intends to follow me…
Considering this, Wendy moved unsteadily to the other side of the room, taking a seat by the window, her eyes purposefully watching the movements from without. She almost forgot her sudden disquiet, the myriad of passers-by and automobiles drawing her attention as they traversed the cold dirty streets. She almost smiled at the dismal beauty of their daily commute, of London itself, and all its terrible wonders. "Oh, Rose, thou are sick indeed," she murmured quietly, instantly fascinated when a sparrow, which had landed upon the windowsill, ruffled its soft brown feathers, puffing out its chest against the cold. She smiled at it, and tapped at the window. "Oh, what a beauty you are!" she whispered to it, and laughed when it gave her a quizzical look.
Her Aunt Millicent, however, remained unimpressed by the display, and only huffed at Wendy's sudden interest in the pedestrian world without. "Oh, Wendy Moira Angela Darling," she muttered, those serpentine eyes falling upon the wretched, feathered creature from without. Prey for the perceptive. The Medusa inwardly hissed, finding another more susceptible to her charms. She cast Wendy a reproving look. "With your present observation, it appears that you have quite forgotten the rest of the world. You have even forgotten your manners this morning, I see," she put in, acerbically. "You care more for that sparrow than you do in your obligations to your family. Oh, what am I to do with you? After all of the many hours I have spent instructing you. And that hair of yours…wild and unbound, as usual. I should not be surprised." She suppressed an exasperated sigh, her grey eyes expressing only a portion of the fettered emotion instead. "I am sure that your brother has already disclosed a certain little incident upon my arriving here."
Wendy grimaced, her look contrite. "I am sorry, Aunt, about my telling them—"
But Aunt Millicent cast aside the apology with an indifferent hand. "You influence them too much, since you are the eldest," she interjected firmly, but then shook her head. "Oh, Wendy, really, though. Ghost stories? You are almost seventeen. I thought you a little above such nonsense, especially after that boy—"
"Please, Aunt Millicent, please leave Peter out of this," Wendy broke in, standing abruptly from her seat. She had the audacity to meet the older woman's gaze, those dark eyes fathomless, almost inscrutable. I refuse to be a stone statue in front of her. I will not falter before her. Not this time, she thought, and her hands clenched in resolve. She stepped forward then, closing the distance between them. She vaguely noticed her opponent take a cautious step back; for even though she and her Aunt Millicent, however equally matched in determination, were not so in height, as the older woman dwarfed her by half a head. And yet, I have encountered far worse in the Neverland than she has in her darkest dreams. She fears that which she has not seen, fears me for having seen it. But then…Peter was also there, protecting me.
And so it was that Wendy found her tongue. "Aunt Millicent, again, I do apologise if my stories have caused you any undue harm. But you must know that Peter has nothing to do with my telling any story that I may wish to impart to my brothers. In fact, he might actually agree with you, since my stories mainly concern matters of the adult world."
Millicent glowered, that flinty, venomous look promising retribution. "But he is the cause of all of this," argued she, disbelieving to the last. "He was the one who took you and your brothers away. Heaven only knows what danger he placed all of you in with those wild creatures, natives, and those…pirates. You could have been injured by any one of them, Wendy—perhaps even worse."
Wendy inwardly flinched at her aunt's implication. To be successfully violated—a Victorian preference in phrase for the act itself—would entail the worst having been done to her…Something she had little knowledge of then, though had still felt the fear of it nonetheless. And yet, she considered, the captain had kept me from his crew until Peter came… Her eyes darkened at the thought of what Hook had done—albeit out of a gentleman's courtesy, because his form had surely dictated it—for her. She considered it, dreading to acknowledge the possibility of something she had long denied, and was only relieved of admitting the truth of it when she heard Aunt Millicent mercifully continue, those bright-red curls bouncing in frustration.
"Indeed, I must confess," the older woman furthered, "that you had all of us worried. And even more, I have never seen George act so outrageously. You should have seen him in that doghouse. Quite shameful, really. The neighbours spoke of it for weeks…" She sighed then, though that hardened look remained. "But honestly, Wendy, that boy could have done a real harm to you, if not your brothers." She did not convey the fact that Slightly had once recklessly made the admission of a few of their adventures, though both she and Wendy knew of his error.
Wendy shook her head at the tacit truth. "And yet, he returned all of us home safely, as well as allowing my other brothers a place to live," she countered, decisively. "And besides, if it had not been for Peter, then you would not have found a son in Slightly. You cannot imagine how he dotes on you; he has certainly done so, whilst visiting us, here."
Aunt Millicent nodded, as that stern expression lightened at the mention of her own son's name. "Slightly is a good child," she admitted, if not a little lovingly. "I receive only the highest praise of his achievements. He has the highest marks in his Class, you know."
Wendy could only smile, as she knew that Slightly, albeit perceptive of the world and its workings, was not one for books. And yet, he wishes to be a scientist. She inwardly smiled at her cousin's endeavour, just as she found that she had successfully diffused her aunt's temper. She felt a hand fall over one of hers in a confiding gesture, all traces of anger and reproach absolved in those insightful grey eyes. She smiled at her aunt, finding that the old girl was not so terrible, after all.
"You have the strangest manner, Wendy Darling, if I do say so. But do come along," prodded a smiling Aunt Millicent. "I have yet to see your mother, since I only spoke with your father for a moment before he left for the bank, and this drawing room has grown quite cold with a chill. I am in need of a good breakfast, as I am also need to collect my son today. I daresay he has neglected to visit his poor mother quite long enough!"
With an encouraging nod, Wendy dutifully followed Aunt Millicent out of the drawing room, relieved that she had the tact to agree to everything being said, even the suggestion of her accompanying her aunt to a dinner party.
"Of course it shall take place within a fortnight, but we shall discuss the details with your mother over breakfast," Aunt Millicent prattled on, that prudent mind no longer concerned by Wendy's presence, as she made her way to Mrs. Darling's side instead. "Oh, Mary, there you are! I had almost forgotten to tell you the latest thing that the Baroness Hampden imparted to me, just yesterday…" She barely noticed Wendy no longer at her side, the impressionable girl lost in the shadows which lingered around the dining room's threshold.
Wendy's eyes widened at the sudden withdrawal, the presence of another—one, whom she could not see—pulling her against him, as if he had been waiting for her all along. She nearly screamed at the tight grasp on her arm, though held her tongue as she found herself turning, and coming face-to-face with a very concerned, if not overly penitent, John.
"John?" she whispered, noting the concern in his eyes. "You frightened me half to death! Why have you pulled me away from Aunt? What ever is the matter with you?"
He hesitated for a moment; that schooled expression of his troubled. He pulled her further away from the presence of their mother and aunt, before uttering in a hurried whisper, "I found this the only way to actually speak to you without Aunt or Mother hearing." He snorted as he spoke the former's name, his acknowledgment of their aunt laced with apathy.
Wendy frowned at him. "Oh, John, really," she muttered. "You need not harbour such resentment against Aunt Millicent, since I believe it 'twas you who gave her such a fright. I still cannot believe that you considered such a thing! You are behaving as a child would, frightening people for no cause but for your own pleasure!"
John baulked at her censure, even though he knew Wendy, in all her infinite wisdom, was right. "Oh, never mind that," he groused. "A lecture was not why I pulled you aside, anyhow."
"Then what, pray tell, was the reason?" prodded an irritated Wendy. Both heard the sound of laughter coming from the dining room, as whatever anecdote concerning the Baroness Hampden had intrigued both their mother and aunt.
John only sighed, as he quietly led a protesting Wendy out of the darkened corridor, and thus returning her to the drawing room. "I do hope Aunt's gossip will keep them awhile," he said, before closing the door. He almost smiled when he noticed that Wendy had already seated herself—by the window, of all places!—before he joined her, taking a seat across from her. "You always choose that window, you know," he mused, the fingers of his left hand idly tapping the table in front of him.
A dark brow rose in curiosity. "It is my favourite seat in this room, such that it is," Wendy answered laconically, unable to find any humour in her brother's observation.
"You wound me, sister dear," he retorted, mockingly.
She gave him an unladylike snort. "Oh, do not presume to mock me. Your sense of irony in choosing this room speaks volumes, John. You wished for a private word, like Aunt? Perhaps Mother will be after you." She almost smiled when she saw him stiffen. "Oh, dear, now I have offended you. You shall keep me here all morning as punishment, no doubt."
John glowered at her. "You have a tongue, which could clip a hedge," he retorted dryly. "But give me half a moment! Good God, Wendy, I am to leave within the week, and already you make me feel as if I should be leaving today. If you would simply be patient, then I will tell you why I brought you in here, as I am sure that we both harbour no love for this room." He caught her eye. "Oh, yes, Aunt brought me in here, just before you came down. And since you asked why I brought you here, the truth of it is that I pulled you aside because I was worried. Call it brotherly concern for your wellbeing, but I knew that Aunt would believe you the cause for her little upset over our meagre jest."
"She was more than a little upset, John," Wendy corrected him. She stood up, almost ready to leave before she felt one of his hands firmly grasp her arm. Frowning, she conceded to his unspoken plea as she returned to her seat.
"Please, Wendy, I need only a moment," he implored of her quietly, the depth of his remorse evident. "I understand the profundity of Aunt's anger, I honestly do. But really, though, one would think no harm to be done, in making idle jest of a presence taking up residence in our own home. Of course I believe that, when we made the suggestion that such a presence came to inhabit your room, Aunt nearly had an apoplexy. She honestly assumed that you had a man in your room last night! Can you believe such rubbish? She practically believed you having some secret liaison with a man—a man! Apparently, the word, ghost, did not occur to her." He grumbled something under his breath, and Wendy strained to hear it; though to no avail, as her brother continued in his tirade. "But never mind…everything is all right—your discussion with Aunt Millicent in the drawing room, I mean? She did not…" He looked down, as if unable to continue, but then composed himself, those same dark eyes meeting hers. "Do you suppose that she will tell Mother and Father, about what we did to her after Father left this morning?"
Wendy shook her head. "No, John, she is not going to tell Mother or Father. At least…I do not believe she is."
The eldest Darling son nodded his head at this. "Good. Then I am at least relieved that she will not concern them with it. If she does, I shall intervene, Wendy. I'll not have you punished for something I did. I am very sorry about this morning."
Feeling his grasp on her arm soften, Wendy decided a different approach. "John," she said, almost complacently, "these intrigues in which you play on Aunt Millicent must stop. I could scarcely placate her, though she had certainly not mentioned any man in my room. I cannot believe she had even considered that," she mused, half in disbelief.
John snorted. "That woman would believe the worst of anyone. She already suspects that I shall be a man, whose means will come only through transactions of questionable legality. You know how she is. But really, Wendy, I have to say that you do look as if you have had company in the night. Did you sleep, at all?" he asked upon seeing the haunted look on her face, the light pouring in through the window emphasising her pallor. He carefully took one of her hands in his. "Wendy? What is it? You can tell me. Did something upset you last night?" When she did not answer him, he urged her, promising her that it was only out of concern that he know.
"I did have trouble sleeping," she finally admitted, the shadows under her eyes growing more profound in the sunlight. "It was a nightmare, John. And yet, I know it was not a dream. I was awake." She bit the lower part of her lip, her composed visage growing dark with uncertainty. "Oh, John, there were sounds—scratchings and whispers; I know not from where, but they continued for most of the night. I have barely slept." She shook her head, a few wayward strands of ebony overshadowing her torn expression. "I had at first believed it all of you, trying to frighten me—"
"Wendy," John broke in, his hands rising in defence, "we were not there. We had nothing to do with any scratching—or whispers, for that matter."
Wendy's gaze fell to the table between them, and she considered the hideous orange vase at its centre, though not really seeing it. "I know," she muttered, if not a little reluctantly. "I looked in the nursery last night, and found that all of you were asleep." She looked up then, her eyes meeting his. "It could not have been any of you."
John took her hand again, disheartened by what he saw in his sister's eyes, though unable to avert the pain in that solemn stare. "Wendy," he began gently, "I understand your uncertainties, and am glad that you have confided in me. But truly, it was probably something from without—a tree branch, or an owl, perhaps—as the rest…was probably just a dream."
A forced smile encouraged his faltering assumptions, as Wendy, not wishing to argue, gave in to his reasoning. "Perhaps you are right, John," she said, her face resigned to his justification. "Perhaps I dreamt it all, and believed myself awake. You need not worry over me; you must concern yourself with returning to school. I shall be fine," she promised him, smiling brightly to mollify that guarded look.
John, if only half-confident in her reassurance, returned that unconvincing smile, where he again assured it only a dream.
Wendy said nothing of her doubts regarding his assertions, however. Nor did she make to concern the rest of her brothers, as she allowed John to believe what he wanted. For after all, it was all she could do, as she knew—or rather, felt—it near, looming above, in her room, waiting until the sun's final rays died against the horizon, as the darkness and the shadows would come to haunt her once again.
As such, she did not partake in her aunt's discourse when she joined her family at table. Nor did she eat, the weight of her fears pressing heavily against her already unsettled stomach. No one noticed, of course, since she played the parts of the devoted daughter, niece, and sister to the greatest efficiency. She was an ideal woman of her age: young, charming, beautiful…that wondrous smile hiding the truth underneath its charming façade. Even her mother saw no fault in her composure, just as she would have the rest of her family—including her father, when he returned from the bank that evening—to believe everything was as perfect as that deceptive smile had them to so easily believe.
She failed to eat for the remainder of the day.
…
It was late before Wendy decided to retire to her own room. The slow, steady drawing of hours between daylight and dusk had passed with painful intensity, where each sounding of the grandfather clock had foretold the dark coming of night. Aunt Millicent and Slightly had already departed from No. 14, their hosts left to their own devices in the drawing room and its cold draft. Wendy had almost shuddered without her cousin's presence; for without his warmth and smiling cheer, he had left the room that much colder, the ticking of the midnight hour proceeding until the rest of her family sought refuge in the lulling arms of sleep.
Wendy closed her eyes, recalling her hesitance to leave. The tick, tick, ticking of the clock echoed in her thoughts, matching the frenetic beating of her own heart. She almost sighed at the feel of it, the living muscle vaulting within her chest, as if anticipating what would come in the night. There is no need to fear anything, since I intend to keep the lights on, she told herself, a hand falling against her heart as if to calm it. So that now, to still the beating of my heart…
She smiled, half-expecting to see a raven upon her vanity. It would certainly be a comfort, compared to all of that horrid scratching, she mildly considered as she ruffled the sheets on her bed. But then her amusement dissipated, her doubts returning. For with the approaching night, her fears had intensified. Her soft expression faltered, as her uncertainties of that which would transpire in the night had remained with her throughout the day, quiet, subtle, buried underneath a layer of contrived happiness. Even her brothers, albeit perceptive and intelligent as they indeed were, had not suspected anything—not even when she had left them with her story for the night—one that was certainly without ghosts—before finding herself obliged to depart from their company. John had given her a comforting look, those spectacled eyes calming her, reassuring her. And she had given him another forced smile, before engulfing herself in the darkness of the corridor. She had grasped at its walls, almost blinded by the shadows which surrounded her.
She had stumbled, almost fallen, but did not scream as she found her way. She had hesitated at her door, a white hand clinging to its brass doorknob…waiting, listening for something which did not belong, something dwelling within. She had remained still for a moment, perhaps two, before finding the courage to open to the door. I had imagined the worst, believing that I would hear that which echoed in my memory, but was only greeted with a grave silence, the lights within keeping the shadows at bay. Nothing is here tonight. Nothing, as John had assured me.
It was with this idle comfort that she left the warmth of her bed, and sought out a nightgown from her wardrobe. Her hands plundered the mass of cotton and lace before falling upon a thin, modest substitute at the bottom. It was one for the summer, with its sleeveless arms and thin material, and was certainly not appropriate for the inclement weather without. But Wendy cared not, as she found herself growing tired of wearing layers of clothing. She longed for the sun, for the warmth of spring, not this deadened wasteland she was forced to endure for six months. She had barely covered herself before she heard something fall.
Her shoulders tensed as she turned abruptly, her eyes darting over the length of her room, searching, almost fearing. She sighed in relief, however, when she saw that it was only a book that had fallen from a nearby shelf, close to the window. Of all of the things to be frightened of…Really, Wendy Darling, you have indeed, gone quite mad.
Reproving herself, she made to return it to its rightful place. She bent down, regretting that she had taken off her stockings; the floor was unbearably cold where the rug did not touch. Her feet endured the floor's icy feel nevertheless, as she took the book in hand and glanced at its title. The Castle of Otranto. She almost laughed, the book's worn, blue leather surface mocking her. She shook her head. It was a fitting irony, that Walpole's work should be the one to have fallen, and had as thus frightened her. I should at least be grateful that it was only a book, and not a giant's helmet, she thought, laughing at her fears. Indeed, I think I shall refrain from confessing to John that he was right. I would never hear the end of—
Liar…
The book fell from her hand, clattering to the floor with a dull thud. It was an unceremonious comedown for a classic; the master of such a novel work, if still living, would be appalled by the effrontery imparted. Wendy, however, failed to notice her error, her thoughts on all else as that which she feared most was heard, the scratch, scratch, scratchhhhing, followed by a voice which had dwelled in her thoughts.
…Bewitcher…
Her head turned in all directions, the voice drawing both near to her, and then falling distant, almost echoing from every corner of the room. "Bewitcher?" she reiterated, uncomprehendingly.
…Betrayer…
She took a thoughtful step away from the window when it furthered in its ominous approach, her eyes remaining upon its shaded glass panes, perceiving all without. Nothing. There was nothing there: no tree branch, no owl, only shadows. She closed her eyes as the voice continued, growing more persistent when she tried to ignore it. "I have betrayed no one," she said, as if to convince herself of that self-assured truth.
…Blood on thy hands…
Wendy's heart stilled in her chest. Blood on her hands? Whatever did it mean? What was the meaning of all of this? What thing of darkness had she unknowingly unleashed?
"Please, please stop this," she found herself whisper to it, her eyes opening to reveal, not the confidence she had only moments before, but unbridled terror. "Whatever you are, I ask that you stop. Please. I am not what you say. I am none of these terrible things."
But it ignored her, where it instead whispered the final word which condemned her utterly:
…Murderer…
She felt herself collapse at the harsh sound of its verdict, her knees failing her as she fell to the floor. She shuddered, her breathing an unsteady rasp, where all the while feeling its dark presence drawing near.
Wendy, it uttered, as if in mock reverence, as it was then, in the height of its power over her, that all of the lights in the room went out, plunging Wendy into a sea of perpetual darkness.
She cried out, though no sound escaped her, that lovely voice silenced by some unknown hand…as that same hand was upon her now, tugging at the hem of her nightgown, cold, nebulous, unnatural. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes when she felt it continue its methodical journey upward, that stiffened, watery feel of its hand leeching through the fabric of her nightgown, leaving her skin chilled by its invisible impressions. Its presence was cold. So very cold, she thought, trembling, when it considered the edge of her knee, and then drifting over the curve of her waist, before lingering over a bared shoulder. She nearly cried when she felt that unseen hand close in around her shoulder, absorbing its remaining warmth, possessing it.
Wendy, it said again, this time next to her ear. I am here, just as I promised thee.
A single tear fell upon the utterance of her name. Oh, God, please make it leave, please make it depart, she prayed, her lips trembling when she felt those cold fingers fall upon them. She heard a sigh—almost one she could swear of contentment—when it traced over her kiss, the one she had freely given, but was undeniably rejected. She felt herself growing faint, for the feel of those shadowy fingers appraising her most sacred treasure made her feel tainted, dirty. She felt ashamed of herself—ashamed of it trying to claim what rightfully belonged to another. She pulled away, finding a sliver of courage amidst her fear, her voice freed from its crushing spell.
"Who are you?" she whispered to it, glaring out into the darkness, but was greeted with only silence. Even the scratching had ceased upon the asking of her question. She took a step forward, her eyes as dark as the shadows which clung to her, the kiss tingling at the corner of her mouth. She ignored its stinging feel, her eyes falling blindly upon the mirror. "I demand to know who you are, for I will not allow this to go on a moment longer. You will not touch me again!" she vowed, taking another step forward. She thought she heard something in front of her. A movement, near the vanity. She took a step toward it. "Are you afraid to speak, now that I have found my voice?" she taunted it, taking another blind step. "Not so frightening now, are you? Oh, why so silent? Surely you are not afraid of me?"
The rest of the books fell from the shelf behind her, joining the fate of the first. Wendy ceased in her step. She had crossed a line. She had passed her own bounds, finding herself in unknown territory with this faceless entity.
Foolish, Wendy, absolutely foolish of you! she scolded herself, her body growing cold with a sudden chill. She breathed out, her warm breath nought but a vapour in front of her, the floor a thin layer of ice. She instinctively grasped her arms, rubbing them for warmth, her feet numbed by the aching sting of the floor. Dear God, what she had done? Her confidence had abandoned her, and her heart plummeted when she heard the scratching—not at the window, where she had first believed it—but upon her mirror. I have been wrong, so terribly wrong. She had almost believed it part of her imagination; a dream, and nothing more.
And yet, the entity remained, denying her that pleasant, self-deception, scratching away at her sanity, calling out to her. A hazy shadow drew over the mirror like a veil, and Wendy was drawn to it, like a delicate white moth to an alluring flame. She realised her folly, yet its pull compelled her, tempting her to be burned; and Wendy wanted to be burned, if only to learn of her tormentor's identity.
The entity moved beyond the dark obscurity, shadowy in its ever-shifting movements within the silvery pool which harboured it. Wendy could not discern its face, though she knew it attained a more masculine presence. She ventured near it, disregarding all that which screamed at her no to. She could not escape from it if she tried; the door, she was sure, locked by its unbending will.
Wendy, Wendy, Wendy…it whispered, and Wendy heeded it, drawing near the vanity.
"Who are you?" she asked of it again, her eyes trying to pierce through the shadows which kept them apart. She reached out, touching the thick patch of darkness. It slipped through her fingers like the finest silk. She looked down at her hands in intrigue before turning once again to her faceless companion. "I must know who you are," she murmured, half in dread, half in fear. "Show yourself to me." She could swear she heard its amusement in her plea, that faceless visage, though, inclining its head to her desire.
Then I shall show thee, as I have journeyed far to find thee, Wendy Darling…it said, the veil falling away at last.
Wendy halted in her breathing, as she knew, with undue certainty, whose voice and whose face to which the image in the mirror belonged. For there she stood, in the presence of one she believed to be long dead. As there in the mirror, meeting her gaze, was the ghost of a former Captain James Hook. Wendy paled in horror at the sight of him. He was unlike that which she remembered in her childhood. No, he was nothing like the charismatic cutthroat whom she once believed to be a man of feeling. He was nothing like the man whom she had once feared, and yet, secretly, had also admired. And yet, she knew it was the same man, only changed by death.
He appeared as one drowned, decayed and purple, his veins a dark contrast under that sickly, thin layer of skin. His long dark hair was a tangled, waterlogged mass of ebony, which fell like a black river over the remnants of his once-resplendent red coat. It was in tatters now; torn apart by rows of merciless teeth. His lips were pale, bloodless, that dreadful hook the only thing which had remained as Wendy remembered it. As his eyes…Those terrible, forget-me-not eyes—that now bore into the very moorings of her soul—promised retribution within their hollow, clouded depths. He grinned at her, an eternal gesture of the dead. Wendy recoiled at the sight of it. This was not a nightmare John could banish through reason; this was real, as it was a reality in which she hated.
Oh, God, no!
"It cannot be!" she rasped out, turning away from the truth, unwilling to believe. "You died. I saw you fall into the jaws of that crocodile! This cannot be!"
Ah, but it is, he confirmed, wholly without sympathy. He looked at her horror-stricken face in triumph, that appalling grin deepening, an intoxicating poison all its own. So thou dost remember me, after all, hemused, immeasurably pleased when he noted her dismay. Ah, but he could not injure her with false civility; that would be terribly bad form indeed. No. He would assure her, promise her what any man of form would for a lady as treacherous and inconstant as she. For what he spoke only plunged Wendy further into despair, as the shadows of his own darkness drew around her, forcing her to acknowledge him, pulling her close to the mirror's edge. He heard her cry out when she looked into his eyes and saw what lay there, and he smiled.
You do remember, he said again, his lips barely a whisper from hers, the mirror their only barrier. And since thou knowest the truth of my return, thou shouldst also know that I, having finally found thee, shall remain with thee for all time. For indeed, my dear Miss Darling, it has been far too long since our last meeting, as I have been in sore need of thy company. As I have finally found thee at last…
His cruel laughter was the only sound Wendy heard as her world—once a place of hopes, wishes, and dreams—had been torn asunder. The light within her eyes died, becoming as dark and opaque as the shadows that surrounded her. Her sight began to fail, that horrific visage before her diminishing as everything, real and imagined, blurred before finally fading to black.
…
Author's Note: Since tonight is Halloween, I wanted to surprise everyone, as tonight is the perfect night for this kind of story. I could have made this into two separate chapters, but I wanted to include the ghost element for tonight. For what would Halloween be without a ghost? Of course, I daresay that Wendy is not having a very pleasant Halloween. But then, it is Christmas for her. Perhaps she can blame Charles Dickens for her troubles, albeit she is only going to be visited by one ghost. I know that I have need to blame Mr. Dickens for this. His ChristmasCarol is a virtual treasure trove of wondrous inspiration—especially when concerning ghosts and sins from the past! As now we finally know the identity of Wendy's ghost—a very angry ghost, at that! (Grins.)
Anyway, on a side note, for anyone who caught either poem Wendy quotes in the chapter, congratulations! Wendy has a tendency to quote from various works in this story. Here are the two poems:
The first poem , when she says 'Oh, Rose, thou are sick' is from William Blake's TheSickRose. There are quite a few interpretations for what the Rose actually is. Some people have sexualised its meaning, whereas others have claimed the Rose representative of London itself. I opted for the latter explanation, as it fits in rather nicely with the overall darkness and decay of a winter-struck London.
The second poem Wendy alludes to 'So that now, to still the beating of my heart…' is from Edgar Allen Poe's TheRaven. I am sure that poem, in particular, was quite obvious—with Wendy's accompanying mention of a raven upon her vanity! It was something that could not be helped, as the poem itself compliments the overall theme of this story. For the much like the quote from Wuthering Heights, I can only hope for those curious to reread The Raven. It may give a clue as to where I am taking this story. ;)
The third thing Wendy mentions is The Castle of Otranto. For those of you who are fans of Gothic Horror, yes, indeed, The Castle of Otranto, like Edgar Allen Poe's Murders in the Rue Morgue, introduced a whole new literary genre! We have Horace Walpoe for which to thank, as he is considered the Father of Gothic Horror. Poe is considered the Father of Mystery, but Walpoe remains the progenitor of my favourite, all-time genre! ;)
Emily Dickenson is also etched into this chapter, though her Certain Slant of Light is merely a subtle allusion at the chapter's opening. I could not resist including these most excellent writers and their works concerning life and death! ;)
Also, I have to say that Aunt Millicent's character was greatly inspired by her portrayal in KatherineNotGreat's Stuart Family Values. A fantastic work of wit and humour, which I cannot recommend reading enough; for indeed, the 'old girl' is quite amusing as the ever-bothersome aunt in the family! Thanks for the inspiration, Kate!
I do hope that everyone enjoyed the chapter. And again, I do apologise for any errors; I shall fix them if I find any. But even more, I really want to thank all of you who are reading this. Thanks so much, especially, for your thoughts and comments. They are greatly appreciated! Thanks so much again for reading! ;)
Until the next chapter!
— Kittie