Chapter Text
What is the definition of a haunting?
It begins in the gut: a solid, sinking weight, iron-heavy, leaden and crushing. It starts at the fine hairs on the nape of your neck: rising in the air, goosebumps shivering over your skin. Most importantly, it originates in your brain: a not-quite presence, just on the tipping edge of silence. A faint disturbance in the air.
It also begins like this: the farmstead Phil built with his own two hands squats between rolling hills, dusted with poppies. Summer has settled with fluttery hesitance over their home, sunlight melting against oak planks. Their roof leaks– cracks between boards, wind whistling in their gaps– but autumn is a long way off, not yet simmering on the horizon. The storm has not rolled in.
It begins like this: Phil is happy. Between three children, the house is alive– only the quiet places in Phil's heart still long for solitude, exploration, discovery. Past centuries of appreciation for the joy in building great and wondrous things are of little importance now; if a soft voice sighs out its longing, he quashes it, until it's overcome with Tommy's laughter, Wilbur's singing, Techno's companionship.
It begins like this: between one day and the next, an intruder appears in their house. It begins like this: their home, between rolling hills and poppies, is now haunted.
"Wha–" Phil mumbles, staggering back to wakefulness as a rush of cool air paints itself along his side. It's replaced by the telltale heat of a tiny body wriggling under the covers, pressing up against him ankle to shoulder. Phil pries his eyes open just in time for a mop of moon-bleached hair to disappear under the covers. "Tommy?"
The bundle under his blankets shivers, once. "Hi," Tommy says, small and uncertain. So unlike his usual childish bluster; despite the cobwebbed sleep still clinging to Phil's mind, alarm bells begin to ring. In the year that Tommy's lived with them, never once has he crawled into Phil's bed before.
Phil forces himself to wake faster. "What's wrong, bud?" he asks, angling himself to the side for a better glance. Only the tips of Tommy's curly hair peek out from under his bedspread; the rest of him is nothing more than a lump, an outline in the slivers of moonlight that peer in from the window.
For a moment, Tommy doesn't answer, and Phil's heart clenches around a surge of irrational nerves. Then, soft enough that it's lost to the darkness: "There's something in my room."
The vice around Phil's heart eases by a thread. "Like what?" he asks, cocking his head. Shadows, he thinks without permission. Tommy is an imaginative kid– the play of shadows against the wall could have frightened him while he lay restless and awake. It's not out of the question that he might've glimpsed something that isn't actually there.
Tommy shivers again, a violent roll of his body that chatters against Phil's side. "Dunno," he mumbles, petulant. "Didn't really– I didn't see it, but it was–" he breaks off. After a second, the bedspread lowers, revealing one pale, gleaming eye. It narrows at Phil, as if picking up on his thoughts. "It was there," he insists, voice pitching up on the last syllable. "Felt like– like– it was just there, okay?"
"Okay," Phil agrees, soft, and shifts again until he can prop himself up on his elbow. His other arm comes around to tug Tommy closer, rubbing absent circles along his back. "Okay, mate, I believe you. Can you tell me anything about it?"
Tommy shakes his head, ducking it to bump against Phil's chest. Through the swimming concern, a flicker of warmth burns to life– this is an unprecedented amount of vulnerability from Tommy, who's always so eager to prove he can take care of himself. It's… well, it's cute. That he's coming to Phil for something on his own means that the trust they've been building has, at last, started paying off.
Or– Phil’s lips tug down, brows drawing tight– it means Tommy is very, very scared.
"Toms?" Phil prompts after a beat.
"Said I dunno," Tommy grumbles into his shirt. "But it was really–" he cuts off again, but the sentence continues in Phil’s mind as if Tommy had continued speaking: scary.
"Okay," Phil soothes, running his hand along Tommy's back– up and down, a soft, gentle motion. Tommy snuggles closer, still shuddering in fits and spurts; the darkness around them consumes all sound, until the only thing that registers is the quiet thump of Phil’s own heart, and Tommy’s stuttered breathing.
"Want me to go check it out?" Phil asks.
Tommy stiffens. The covers lower even further, until he’s peering up at Phil, doubt pooling in his eyes. A curl of hair flops into them– it's getting long; his uncanny resemblance to Phil grows stronger each and every day. He'll be due for a cut soon. "Are you sure?"
"Whatever it is, I can handle it," Phil assures him, honesty pouring from his throat. "I can go check right now, and I'll be back in a second–"
"No!" Tommy yelps, shooting up from his place at Phil's side. That little curl of hair sways with the motion. "Don't lea– I'll go with you," he corrects, stumbling over the words.
"You sure, bud?" It's Phil's turn to confirm, concern rounding out the words and rooting in his chest. "You seemed pretty scared–"
"'m not scared," Tommy snaps, interrupting him. His brow wrinkles into an impressive scowl. "Scared is for– for babies."
Phil sighs, just a puff of breath that evaporates into the summer night around them. This is a familiar argument, and the words dredge themselves up before he’s even aware of them. "That's not true, Tommy," he says, gentle but firm. "Anyone can be scared. I can get scared. Everyone gets frightened sometimes– it's not a weakness."
Tommy’s scowl deepens, sharp and full of uncertainty. Shadows collide against his face as he turns away, dappling his cheeks in silver and black. He says nothing– just fidgets with the edge of Phil's blanket, fingers tearing at bare threads.
This is a battle often fought, often lost. It’s too late to try and converse in circles; Phil sighs again, then lifts up his edge of the bedspread, sliding out from under the covers. The floor is cool under his bare feet, and an involuntary frisson shivers up his spine.
It’s enough to jerk Tommy back into looking at him; in the darkness his eyes are vulnerable, wide and shining. "Where are you going?" he demands, voice shrill.
"I'm gonna make sure there's nothing in your room," Phil explains, patient. "And if there is, I'm gonna get rid of it."
"But–" Tommy stops, biting his lip. His voice drops to a thin, shaky whisper. "But what if it gets you?"
"It won't get me." Phil smiles at him, forcing confident encouragement into his voice. "But you're welcome to be my back up, if you want."
Tommy scrambles off the bed so fast he blurs in the moonlight. "Okay," he says, nerves singing through his voice; when Phil steps around the side of the bed to stand next to him, Tommy reaches up and takes his hand. "Okay, I-I'll show you. Let's go."
Their walk down the hall is silent, sidestepping creaky boards that might alert everyone in the house that someone is awake. In reality, it takes maybe less than half a minute to arrive at Tommy’s room; despite this, Tommy pauses every few seconds, eyes wide and searching in the gloom– transforming a thirty-second trip into what might take centuries. Phil squeezes his hand each time he stops, both encouragement and admonishment, and the trip resumes, until they’re both standing outside his door.
Tommy’s door is painted deep, forest green, though it’s difficult to make out in the current darkness. Nothing appears out of the ordinary– it's just a green door, laced with shadow. Tommy, however, shudders, straying closer to his leg until he's pressed against it.
"It's in there," Tommy whispers, shuffling until he’s half behind Phil. "I can feel it."
And maybe it's imagination, or a father’s intuition, but the strange, warped energy Phil often associates with endermen teleportation pulses soft behind the door. It tickles the hair on the back of his arms, lifts it from the nape of his neck; curls, humming, around his sternum, cool and spectral. Ephemeral mist on a warm summer’s night.
Phil frowns, a twitch of his lips as the mental alarm bells grow louder. "Stay behind me, okay?" he murmurs to Tommy. Then, reaching out with a gentle twist of the doorknob, he swings it open.
Nothing.
At least, nothing visible. But the energy still lingers, settling thin and restless underneath his skin. It buzzes below the curtains Phil had installed a few weeks earlier, and treads with silken cat-feet across the floorboards. Phil narrows his eyes, glancing around the room with taut shoulders. Should've brought a lantern, he thinks, rueful.
Behind him, Tommy sucks in a startled breath. "It's there," he repeats, stubborn and insistent. "It– it's been watching me, I know it has. Fucking weirdo."
"C'mon, mate, let's not swear," Phil says, which is hypocritical coming from him, but sue him– Tommy is six, and a six year old saying the fuck word is a little disturbing, no matter how many times he gets away with it.
Tommy’s mulish silence speaks for itself. Witching hour is far too late for Phil to press about bad habits, though, so he lets it drift back into the night. Instead, he takes a full step inside the room, Tommy scuttling at his heels, and sets his hands on his hips.
"Alright, you little shit," he snaps at the air– and immediately winces. So much for discouraging Tommy’s swearing. "Get out of my kid's room. Quit freaking him out, or I'm getting the broom."
For one, stagnant moment, nothing happens. That strange energy thrums on, cycling through the room on tepid butterfly wings, crackling through the atmosphere. Then, in the dead center of a moonbeam, the air ripples– so faint it's next to nothing. Just a shimmer, a fitful flicker of static that raises gooseflesh on his arms. Without warning, the temperature plummets; Phil's breath gusts from his lips in a plume of foggy white.
“Go on, get out,” Phil repeats, a hint of frost dripping from each syllable. Firm and self-assured, power projecting from his voice. Not everything will listen, when you order it around– but Phil has his Lady’s blessing to protect him, and a certain authority with those from Beyond. It’s a rare day when the Angel of Death is not listened to.
This time is no exception. A subtle shift in the air is his only warning before something frigid zips through him, undefinable except for how Phil’s entire body shudders at its passage. Freezing water, cascading over him; Tommy squeaks, a frightened little chirp, then the room settles back into stillness.
Phil closes his eyes, shakes off the dregs of ice still clinging to his bones, and nods to himself, satisfaction humming under his sternum. "That better?" he asks Tommy, who’s peering up at him with wide, startled eyes.
Tommy nods, quick and frantic. "Yeah," he says. Then, worry weaving through the words: "What if it comes back?"
"It won't," Phil says. He doesn’t have to push any confidence into his voice; it’s saturated with it, a tone that brooks no doubt or argument. "But if it does, you come get me again, alright? And I'll make it go away."
Tommy is quiet for a long, hesitant moment. Then he bites his lip. "Can I… can I still sleep in your room tonight?" he asks, tentative.
And despite the late hour, despite how Tommy kicks in his sleep, and despite how Phil will most likely get none himself if he agrees, every inch of his heart melts. "Sure thing, kiddo," he says, leaning down to pull Tommy into his arms. For once, Tommy doesn't protest– just settles his head under Phil's chin with a shaky, tremulous breath.
Phil carries him all the way back to his room, avoiding the creaky floorboards in a deft, familiar dance. He hones his senses sharp for more activity, but the house is empty; not once does that strange crackle of energy return. That’s the end of that, he thinks, setting Tommy back down on the mattress. With distracted motions he pulls the covers back for Tommy to wiggle under first, then drops into bed next to him, exhaustion pressing its weary fingers down his spine. As Lady Death's favored, this isn't the first time a stray soul has wandered into the wrong farmhouse– nor will it be the last. In a few hours, dawn will scrape the horizon; whatever phantom had briefly haunted Tommy's room will be long gone. His brothers will tease him when they wake, Phil will scold while Tommy shrieks, and that will be the end of it.
He's nodding off again when Tommy's muffled voice whispers in his ear. "Phil?"
Phil bites back the urge to groan. "Yeah, Tommy?"
A beat. Then, shaking with nerves: "You said I’m– am I really your kid?"
Oh. Phil’s pulse falters; he turns over, searching for Tommy’s face. Stained silver, his lower lip quivers in the moonlight, just a hair.
Only a year has passed since Tommy began living with them; it’s easy to forget, sometimes, that he hasn't been here forever. Within twelve short months, Tommy has wormed his intrinsic way into their family. Phil can't fathom how they ever lived without him– but in these moments, he's reminded that as impossible as it is, they did. In the grand scheme of things, it hasn't been all that long; of course Tommy would wonder, carrying that uncertainty on every looped stitch of his sleeve.
"Yeah, Toms," Phil breathes, reaching out to run a hand through Tommy's curly hair. Tommy hesitates, then leans into the contact, eyes overbright, glimmering. "Of course you are."
"Oh," Tommy says. Sniffs, awkward and embarrassed. "Okay. I guess."
Phil huffs a fond laugh, soft as a shroud in the darkness. Runs his hand through Tommy's hair again, then bundles him close. "Go to sleep, Tommy," he says, quiet. Around them, the house settles, murmuring halfhearted complaints as wood creaks against wood. "I won't let anything get you."
It drifts between them, a downy, fluttering promise. Phil means it with his entire heart.
By some miracle, he does fall asleep, cut to absent kicks of Tommy’s feet as he dreams. Next morning dawns bright and early to the teasing of his other two sons, and Tommy’s indignant screams, so loud they startle the crows perched outside Phil’s window– just as Phil had predicted.
But despite every assurance, the ghost lingers.