Chapter Text
Witch, witch, oh witch o’ the wood,
How does your cauldron boil?
With evil words 'n ghostly lords,
Still screaming fearful chords.
Witch, witch, oh witch o’ the wood,
How does your cottage stand?
With faded bones 'n stollen combs,
Kept up by blackened stones.
Witch, witch, oh witch o’ the wood,
How does your smile stay?
With stolen lips 'n sable whips,
To hide my old face’s chips.
There is a black house on Garden Street that everyone knows is bad news. No one can agree on the details—haunted by a sad ghost who wails in despair every night, owned by a fearsome witch that curses anyone who bothers her domain, resided by a shadow creature, possibly undead, who steals and wears the faces of their victims—but everyone knows to leave alone whatever dwells there. Lán Jǐngyí lives down the street from the house, just a five-minute walk up the rarely traveled, broken sidewalk that leads to the lonely black house, and he is not scared of it.
He is not.
Don’t listen to whatever lies Lán Sīzhuī says, he’s not scared of a stupid house on a stupid hill. He’s not. He repeats that to himself as he marches up the hill, a gaggle of his classmates watching him and the looming black house with morbid glee. It’s the last day of school, so everyone is drunk on their temporary freedom. Lán Sīzhuī stands in front of them all, his face pale with worry as he watches his best friend and cousin hesitate a foot away from the black metal fence that surrounds the house like a thorned border. Lán Jǐngyí has never been this close to the house before, and he looks with dreadful fascination at the overgrown garden that stretches between the dark house and the sharp metal fence.
Every plant is black—the moss that replaces the grass, the large ferns, the spiky bushes, even the round fruit that drips from the twisted branches of the tree that hunches over the left corner of the garden. Everything from the gate on is pitch as the night sky, including the rocks in the gravel path leading up to the leaning porch. Except for the red hydrangeas that choke the wooden panels of the house, so dark and red Lán Jǐngyí half expects them to start dripping blood. He’s transfixed by the terrible beauty of it all. Then someone in the peanut gallery he’d attracted yells something and he’s jolted from his entranced reverie.
“I’m not afraid,” he whispers to himself as he lifts a shaking hand to unlatch the gate. The metal is cold.
“It’s just a house. I’m not scared. I’m not…”
The gate opens with a creak. The feeling that he shouldn’t be here overwhelms his chest like an ice cold wave.
“...afraid.”
He takes a step forward onto the gravel, half his body easing past the fenced line and into the twisted paradise that blooms under the overcast sky. Another step, and the fear Lán Jǐngyí has been desperately trying to ignore grips his throat with a choking grasp.
Leave, the mottled fruit tree says.
Turn back, the ferns murmur.
You don’t belong here, the moss whispers.
That one hurts the most, and Lán Jǐngyí flinches back before he even realizes what he’s doing.
Lán Jǐngyí is almost sixteen and he has wondered since he was eight if the nurses had made a mistake and switched him at the hospital. He is a Lán, a family name that comes with heavy expectations and he has failed every one. Láns are known for their strict discipline and behavioral rules. His house has a list of several hundred rules displayed with humble pride, cherry-picked from the original thousands his ancestors used to follow. His four siblings are all aiming to be doctors, lawyers, and engineers like their parents and uncles; even his two younger sisters hold more promise than him as they tinker with LEGO MINDSTORMS and other kid-friendly robotics at only eight and six. He’d tried to build one with them once, but messed up so bad his sisters both (gently) told him to stop. Lán family reunions are more solemn than funerals, but Lán Jǐngyí can’t stay quiet or still for longer than twenty minutes—he’s counted.
Lán Jǐngyí has broken every single family rule at least once, both the unspoken and spoken. He is loud, brash, impulsive, and defiant. He would rather chop off his leg than study medicine, and his grades are so average he wouldn’t get into any pre-med program if he tried. Lán Jǐngyí is the least-Lán to have ever been born, and he knows it. Oh, how he knows it. He’s never been jealous of Lán Sīzhuī, who is a model-perfect Lán despite being adopted, but sometimes he wishes he was more like him.
You don’t belong here, the moss whispers, and Lán Jǐngyí’s heart replies, I know; I don’t belong anywhere.
The garden hushes at his response. Then, the hydrangeas.
Come closer, they croon. You could belong here. They are young, like you, and are often wrong. We’ve been here longer, we’ve seen more. You could belong, if you try. You need only knock.
His shoes crunch the gravel path as he walks up to the lopsided porch. Now that he’s so close, the wood no longer looks as black. He can see tints of red and purple shimmering in the dark grains, so dark it almost seems like a trick. But it is there. Lán Jǐngyí steps a foot onto the wood stair and it creaks. The dare was only to touch the porch and come running back. Everything pauses, holding their breath as he keeps one foot in front of the other until the black wood door looms in front of him.
Go on, the hydrangeas coax.
He knocks once.
The door opens a sliver. He’s cold, he realizes as warm air whooshes out from inside the house and kisses the goosebumps on his outstretched arm. A shiver runs down his spine. The house groans, and the door swings open. Lán Jǐngyí, against all reason, steps inside. The door clicks shut behind him, and the house sighs.
The inside of the house is significantly lighter than the outside. Lán Jǐngyí doesn’t know what he was expecting when he walked in, but it wasn’t this. He stands in a quaint mudroom, a polished wood bench, nearly red in color, with handmade pillows pushed against one wall with a myriad of shoes stuffed underneath. Hanging above the bench on hooks are coats and scarves and bags, all varying in color and style. There’s a basket full of house slippers at the end. A pair of dirty gardening gloves lay thrown on the brick tiled floor next to the doormat that is littered with dried pine leaves and mud patches. On the other side of the bench is a full-size mirror in a glossy black frame that contrasts against the light gray plaster walls. Beneath it is a small console table littered with mail and a porcelain bowl full of keys. Lán Jǐngyí looks at his reflection, and for a moment swears he can see the cracks in the plaster wall through the mirror. Beyond the mudroom, all Lán Jǐngyí can see is a metal spiral staircase and hints of more rooms beyond it.
The bare, dark wood ceiling creaks with footsteps, causing the lantern hanging on a metal chain to sway above his head. He glances at the mirror again only to see nothing at all, the surface now an endless black that morphs the edges of the frame. Lán Jǐngyí steps back, foot crunching on the plastic mat. Slippered feet descend the spiral staircase, the metal singing from the speed of their movement. Before Lán Jǐngyí can even get a hand on the door handle, the person strides up to him with quiet but powerful strides.
They wear a long satin dressing gown in bright red, tied hastily around their waist. Beneath it is a pair of ankle-length black culottes and their flat, bare chest. Their long black hair is dripping wet and plastered to their head; Lán Jǐngyí has obviously caught them at the wrong time. They are eerily beautiful, sharp in the shoulders and arms but soft in the hips and waist in a way that only accentuates their height. Long lashes frame their bright silver eyes that sit above sharp cheekbones and a soft jaw, their nose slightly pointed and lips rosy red. Though they are pretty, there is something inexplicably wrong with them.
What are you doing in my house? they ask, voice mellow and slightly raspy, but their red lips don’t part.
The hair on the back of his neck stands up as he realizes their face is immovable, as though carved from stone. A ghostly, nearly imperceptible layer covers their face like an ill-fitting mask. It shimmers a faint red as it shifts the way their face should be moving. The limpid eyes narrow at him in suspicion as their physical eyes stay wide and unblinking. Yet despite this truly unnerving revelation, Lán Jǐngyí isn’t scared of them. He can’t feel scared, not when some part of him he never knew was tense relaxes in their presence, not when the feeling of home-safe-belonging warms his chest. He knows this person, trusts this person, despite never meeting them before today.
You could belong here, the hydrangeas say, and he believes them.
“Hi,” he says, voice already breathless. “My name is Lán Jǐngyí, and the hydrangeas told me to knock.”
The stranger pauses, both sets of eyes staring at him for a long moment. They tilt their head to one side, their physical form moving just a tad slower than their ghostly overlay. It is strange, watching someone lag in real life. Lán Sīzhuī is never going to believe this.
The hydrangeas told you to knock? they ask.
Lán Jǐngyí nods.
They don’t normally like strangers. Another thoughtful pause. Very well, Lán Jǐngyí. If Suíbiàn accepts you, then you are welcome here.
“Suíbiàn?” he blurts out, the Mandarin clunky on his tongue. The local Mandarin language school that all the Chinese kids in the area went to on weekends didn’t offer summer courses this year due to staffing issues, and despite his and Lán Sīzhuī’s best efforts to study on their own and with Lán Sīzhuī’s dad they’d inevitably lost practice. “Like, whatever?”
Yes, they say, laughter in their voice. The house is named Suíbiàn. Whatever.
“That’s a dumb name.”
He winces even as the words tumble past his lips. Lán Jǐngyí is well known for his lack of filter. To his surprise, the stranger simply laughs.
Qíngjiě told me the same thing! I think it’s a fine name. They smile at him, and Lán Jǐngyí swears he sees the lips of their stone face twitch. Come inside, Lán Jǐngyí. Let’s have some tea.
They walk deeper into the house without waiting to see if Lán Jǐngyí follows, leading him around the spiral staircase and down several hallways into a small parlor. The room has bright windows with cream curtains and delicate furniture, reminding Lán Jǐngyí of the Regency romance movies Uncle Huàn likes to watch. He sits gingerly on a plush armchair and gawks in bewilderment as an entire spread of afternoon tea and sandwiches appear on the table. The stranger looks just as confused as he does, which is honestly concerning considering it’s their house.
I didn’t know we had this room, they say, their tone light. Normally we just sit in the kitchen. Sorry about all this.
Lán Jǐngyí shakes his head. “No! No, it’s fine. I…” He blushes a little. “I actually kind of like it? It reminds me of my uncle. He’d love all this. We used to watch Pride and Prejudice everytime I slept over at his place before he moved to the city.”
The stranger smiles at him, the red ghostly image warm and sweet contrasted with their stony physical face. They pour the tea and urge Lán Jǐngyí to try the cucumber sandwiches.
I’ve heard from Ā-Níng that they’re the best, they say fondly, but do not move to eat one for themselves. So, Lán Jǐngyí. What brought you to my front door? Most people don’t get past the gate, you know.
“Oh. Well, um. You see, I live just down the road and I’ve always heard a lot of shit—oh fuck, I mean crap—”
They laugh loudly at his fumble, arms lagging as both the ghost figure and the physical body clutch at their stomach. Lán Jǐngyí sheepishly chuckles along with them and hides his embarrassed blush behind his teacup.
Āiyā, Lán Jǐngyí. I’ve heard worse, believe me. I don’t care if you swear or not, and neither does the house.
“Swearing is forbidden,” Lán Jǐngyí responds automatically, and cringes again at his lack of filter.
Oh, they say, tilting their head at him. You’re one of those Láns, huh? Well, Xiǎo Lán, those stuffy rules of yours don’t hold any power here.
Lán Jǐngyí pauses and they give him a reassuring smile.
“Well, uh, anyway. There’s a lot of rumors about this place and most of them are scary—not that I’m scared! Definitely not scared of witches or g-ghosts.”
They bite down a smile at that, but Lán Jǐngyí doesn’t notice as he plows on.
“But Dylan and his stupid group of friends didn’t believe me and dared me to step on the porch and come back to prove it.”
And then the hydrangeas.
“And then the hydrangeas,” Lán Jǐngyí agrees.
Well, I wasn’t expecting any visitors today but I am very glad Suíbiàn let you in. You’re a good kid, Xiǎo Lán.
“Thank you, uh…”
Oh! Did I not introduce myself? How terribly rude of me! Qíngjiě would be so disappointed. My name is Wèi Wúxiàn and I use she/they pronouns. What about you, Xiǎo Lán?
“What?” Lán Jǐngyí says dumbly.
Your pronouns, Wèi Wúxiàn says with amusement.
“Oh.”
Lán Jǐngyí knows what pronouns are and he’s asked other people for theirs, but he’s never had someone ask him. He’s never even thought about his gender before, at least not beyond its ambiguous-yet-overwhelming existence.
It’s okay if you don’t know, Wèi Wúxiàn says kindly. Is there one that fits better now than others?
“He/him is fine,” Lán Jǐngyí finally says.
Alright. You just let me know if it changes.
He nods and shoves an entire cucumber sandwich into his mouth to keep from blurting out anything else embarrassing. Lán Jǐngyí eats and Wèi Wúxiàn rambles about the house and their day so far.
Suíbiàn is old and creaky, but we love her for it. Except when I start pacing in my room, then Qíngjiě wishes the floorboards wouldn’t creak so much. We don’t really get newcomers, so I don’t know how she’ll react to you, but when we first moved in here we all kept getting lost. Suíbiàn… She shifts depending on her mood. One time I accidentally broke a window while experimenting and for an entire week I never saw a single window in any room I walked into.
Ā-Níng tried to map out her layout the first week we lived here, but he gave up pretty quickly. I think in that first week alone he made over thirty separate blueprints and none of them were even remotely similar. One day the kitchen is on the ground floor and the next you have to climb six flights of stairs to reach it. And it’s not just the layout, but the rooms themselves that change too. The only ones that stay the same are our personal bedrooms, the kitchen, and the mudroom. Everywhere else the layout and furniture changes depending on the day or week, and if she’s really mad, every hour.
“Doesn’t that become, like, annoying?” Lán Jǐngyí asks through a mouthful of blueberry scone.
Not really. Wèi Wúxiàn shrugs. At first, maybe, but you get used to it. She grows on you. They smile knowingly at Lán Jǐngyí. But I suspect you already know that.
Lán Jǐngyí impulsively wanted to disagree with that, as he did with any assumption made of him, but was startled to find it true. Most adults assumed the worst of Lán Jǐngyí, so he always anticipated having to fight to be seen truly. Even his uncles, who he loves and admires dearly, often misinterpret him at first. Wèi Wúxiàn is the first adult to be right about him, and it is as shocking as it is deeply satisfying.
Well, Xiǎo Lán, it is getting late. I believe you have a friend waiting for you outside.
Lán Jǐngyí looks out the window and blanches as he notices the sunset already bathing the sky in pink and purple.
“Oh, shit! Sīzhuī!”
He shoves two more scones into his mouth (they are seriously so good) and scrambles up from the table. Wèi Wúxiàn’s laugh follows him through the house as he runs to the mudroom, Suíbiàn making the path easy and clear. He shoves on his shoes and haphazardly ties the laces. It’s only when he has a hand on the doorknob that he pauses.
Lán Jǐngyí doesn’t want to leave.
This is the first time in his life that he’s felt accepted and seen by someone other than Lán Sīzhuī. His family loves him, but he will always be the black sheep, the ugly duckling. Being in Suíbiàn and talking with Wèi Wúxiàn is the first time in a long while that Lán Jǐngyí felt not only accepted but appreciated for the way he is, and he doesn’t want to leave.
Don’t be sad, Xiǎo Lán. You’ll come back. Wèi Wúxiàn smiles. The hydrangeas made certain of that. You are always welcome here.
Lán Jǐngyí smiles, wide and unrestrained.
“Yeah. I’ll be back soon.”
He waves goodbye to Wèi Wúxiàn, takes a deep breath, and steps through the doorway. His vision is immediately flooded with bright light and a sensation of spinning makes his stomach lurch to his throat. When Lán Jǐngyí can see straight again and his stomach is calm, he finds himself with one foot on the steps of Suíbiàn’s porch, his shoes as neatly tied as they’d been when he left school that morning. The sun is high in the sky. Confused, Lán Jǐngyí turns around to walk out of the garden and through the gate. Lán Sīzhuī and the group of his classmates are still waiting halfway down the hill. Some of them are hollering at him while others laugh as he makes his way towards them, mind still reeling.
“Only one foot on the porch? Chicken!” someone screams.
Lán Jǐngyí furrows his eyebrows in confusion. One foot? But he…
“Come on, Jǐngyí,” Lán Sīzhuī says. “Let’s go home.”
He looks at his best friend’s kind expression and pushes down all his confusion.
“Yeah. Home,” he says, and his voice nearly breaks.
Home. What a funny word.