AN ~ Here we are ladies and gentlemen, another chapter of Stars brought to you by Nanowrimo. I'm 10 895 words in out of 23 333 ahahaha going well…
Anyhow, enjoy!
Chapter Seventy Five: Ghosts
Esme:
Avebury, England: a historical town surrounded by beautiful countryside. The fresh air was calming; the old, artful buildings spoke to me. I felt welcome here. Just like old times – very old times – Carlisle had spoken to a man at a market stall for information regarding Alistair: a vampire so famously elusive that not even I, the wife of the closest thing in this world he had to a friend, has not met the man. Of course the merchant did not know Alistair was a vampire; did not know Alistair at all. Actually, as far as he was concerned, Carlisle and I were from a television studio making a documentary about the legends of the area, and Alistair was nothing more than a nameless ghost.
"Swindon Road? Thank you," Carlisle finally said, nodding as he backed up to me. Beckoning me to follow him, he told me what he had found out, still pretending to be planning the documentary as we slipped around the corner. "He and his wife and daughter saw a figure at the Swindon Road bus station in October, and apparently three blond men were seen running away from a crop circle faster than human speed near Silbury Hill."
We disappeared down an alleyway and took off for Silbury Hill, our steps in perfect synchronisation.
"You think it was Alistair?"
"He had a house here a while ago…I didn't expect him to return to the same one, though."
"A while ago being a century ago?"
"Well, yes."
"Wouldn't someone have noticed a house in the middle of a forest? Especially around here?"
"Avebury is so full of haunted houses nobody would really take note of an extra one. It probably made the records somewhere, anyway," Carlisle shrugged, looking the door up and down. Ivy clung tightly to the frame and handle, holding the door shut. It looked like it hadn't been disturbed for decades.
"Looks like we're going up," he evaluated, before swiftly scaling a nearby tree. I shot up after him, and sat behind him on a strong branch, searching for a window we could enter without arousing suspicion or annoying our host. This would be difficult, seeing as all the windows were painted black and nailed shut, and most of them boarded up.
Carlisle frowned for a moment, but then leapt lightly onto the roof and danced across the shingles to the chimney. I followed him, though not quite as graceful, and looked down the daunting black tunnel. A chill ran down my spine.
"I'm claustrophobic," I squeaked. I had not rigorously tested this theory, but I certainly did not like the idea of squeezing down that.
"Don't worry, I'll go first and help you down," Carlisle promised. With that, he disappeared into the blackness.
"Come on, Esme," he called back after a few seconds. I forced myself over the ledge and into that hot, tight space. Dry, bitter soot dust blew around me as I moved, but I held my breath and ignored it. I forced myself to continue down the painfully long, terribly dark corridor towards Carlisle's voice, until finally the walls widened out and I fell flat on my face into the ashes of the fireplace.
Ashes. I hated the very thought. I sprung to my feet and shot away. Suddenly, I collided with a tall, dark-haired stranger.
"You brought company?" he asked Carlisle.
"This is my wife, Esme," Carlisle introduced. "Esme, this is my…er, close acquaintance Alistair."
"Pleasure," Alistair drawled, backing away from me with a crinkled nose, as if I smelt bad. To be fair, I probably did, but I doubted that was his primary concern. "If you wouldn't mind, there's a shower upstairs. I'd prefer it if you would try and avoid getting soot all over my house."
"Of course," I agreed, though soot would not look out of place in this wreck of a house. I carefully proceeded up the rickety stairs, looking over the furniture in view. It's not like the house was a complete no-hoper; it just needed a good spring clean. A really good clean. The lights, though beautiful ornaments, were dimmed by a thick collection of dust and insect parts on the inside of the globe covering. The curtains and carpet were beautiful pieces, and though the moths had been cleared out, the material was still fraying and falling apart. Some of the furniture showed signs of termites, too. It would be easy to fix, though some pieces would have to be replaced. In six months, I could have this place restored to its original grandeur. But it didn't seem like Alistair would have me around for six minutes, let alone six months.
I slipped off my soot and ash-covered clothes and turned on the shower. The bathroom was dark, damp and mildewy. The shower door hung on one hinge, and the cold tap was completely stuck – I stopped myself just before I pulled it right off. I turned on the hot tap instead, only to find that the water smelt like copper and rust, and it was freezing cold. No doubt the copper heating pipes needed replacement. I sighed. At least it got the job done, right?
I stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. I blindly pulled one off the rack and proceeded to wipe the water off my face, only to feel the scratch of an embroidered monogram against my cheek. I paused, then slowly pulled the towel away to a readable distance.
Bethanie, was scrawled across the corner in a curly, feminine font. Alistair had clearly never let a woman touch this house – at least not this bathroom. It must have been from previous tenants.
"I still think you could have handled that a little more graciously," Carlisle remarked downstairs.
"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm sure you weren't expecting the warmest of welcomes," Alistair retorted. "You know I'm not one for company."
"You could have at least pretended – she's never even met you!"
"You didn't think to give her a little background?! By the way, when did it occur to you to come traipsing into my house with a WOMAN!"
"Excuse me, but that 'woman' is my wife, and I would appreciate it if you treated her with a little more respect. She doesn't know about Bethanie and Celia, no, but I didn't exactly get time to explain. We're in a rather desperate position…"
I tuned out of Carlisle's speech about why we were here, and proceeded to quickly dry myself and then search for something to wear, at least while I beat the soot out of all my clothes. I crept from the bathroom into a nearby bedroom. At least, it seemed to have been a bedroom once: there was a built-in closet, and compacted patches of carpet that suggested the four legs of a queen-sized single bed. This room was cleaner and lit better than the others I had seen so far: apparently it had been used recently. All around the walls, pictures and newspaper articles of various conspiracies were pinned or stuck up. I recognised articles as old as the Gunpower Plot, from 1605 – the very first Guy Fawkes night, you could say. President Kennedy's murder was prominent too, as was the more recent attack on the Twin Towers. I backed up, surprised, and bumped into a bookshelf. A heap of encyclopaedias, newspaper magazine and essay journals and conspiracy theorist books collapsed all around me.
"Oh dear," I mumbled to myself, quickly rearranging what I could before fleeing into the next room before I disturbed any more of Alistair's things; if an out of place book was going to be the difference between his helping and not helping us, I was not about to intentionally be the one responsible for said misplacement.
This was a beautiful room. It was dusty, of course, and the textiles quite worn, but it was large and comfortable. There was a long wardrobe with mirrored doors on one wall, which faced two large windows. These were boarded up, unfortunately, but between them there was a huge four-poster bed with satin sheets. Beside the bed, there was a crib– small and pink and neat. 'Celia' was painted across the front of the crib in the same font as the monogram on the towel. Bethanie and Celia? The ones Carlisle had been talking about?
I crept across the floorboards and looked into the crib. There was an old yellow mattress, browned in some places and terribly dusty. There was a little stuffed horse. And there was a photograph, half buried in grime. My curiosity got the best of me for a moment and I picked it up. Through the dirt, I could see Alistair's face. He had laughter lines at his eyes, and though his expression was stiff, as they were wont to be in old photographs like this one, I could see the hint of a smile beneath the surface. He had one hand on the shoulder of a thin, gaunt-looking woman. She was pale, but not quite as pale as he was. There was blush in her cheeks, which from years of experience I doubted was natural, especially given the materials they had to work with back in those days. She was human.
A shiver ran down my spine, and I felt like I was being watched. Quickly, furtively, my eyes dropped to the little girl standing between them. She appeared perhaps five years old. Her cheerful eyes looked startlingly like Renesmee's. Could it be..?
The door creaked and I dropped the photograph. It wafted a few inches before Alistair snatched it out of the air. I pulled back, fearing that he would lash out, but my feet did not move and he did not yell. His eyes were fixed on the photograph, haunted by longing.
"The Volturi didn't know about them," he explained, in a bitter tone twisted with sadness, pain and rage. "Not from my thoughts. By the time I met Aro, I knew how to hide my secrets from him. We were betrayed. I put my greatest trust in a close friend, and because of my foolishness, I lost my wife and child."
"I'm sorry, Alistair," I apologised, bowing my head. "I had no idea B-"
"Do not speak of them!" Alistair barked. I shut my mouth immediately. Like lightening, Carlisle was at my side. Alistair's eyes narrowed and his voice became low and menacing.
"You two have one hour to sort yourselves out, and then she is getting out of my house."