Chapter Text
The water’s hot. It bubbles, gurgles, in the kettle. Heat rises to his eyelashes and he blinks it away. His face is way too close to it, leaned forward with arms wide on the edge of the counter. The angle of the grip strains the springy tendons in his wrists and he sighs. A spot on his lower back aches.
“Arthur?”
“Hm?” It takes a substantial amount of energy to hum back, and even then his voice almost cracks.
The voice in his head takes a moment to respond. Its silence is crisp; he can almost taste it in the back of his throat. After all this time, he hasn’t figured out if he relishes in it or despises it carnally. The silence, that is.
“You don’t have to.”
It comes out more desperate than the voice probably wanted it to and Arthur smirks. He grabs a mug from the cupboard and lazily goes through the motions of making his morning tea. Something winter-y, he decides. He goes through what’s left of his tea packets, smelling each one, deciding not to ask for help this time. Apple and cinnamon it was.
“Why not?” He remembers to answer after a moment too long and earns a low grumble that travels to the bones in the back of his skull.
“Because you had your ass handed to you yesterday?”
Brief snapshots of him hurtling through a glass window replay in his mind. Thankfully it was on the ground floor. He shifts the weight onto his other leg to alleviate the dull pain in his back. At least the glass cuts weren’t too bad. His suit didn’t fare much better, however.
“I’m fine, John. It was an investigative mistake on my part, I can bear the consequences. Am I angling this right?” His grip on the kettle handle is tight.
“Bit to the left. There.”
Arthur pours the water and breathes in the vapor. It wafts up to his eyes again and he wishes he could see, but only for a second. Do not dwell.
“On our part, you mean. Mistaking a polter for a funnel? Rookie mistake.”
“It was weirdly cold in there, alright? Besides, I’d rather just take another case now. Right the wrong and all that.” The chair scrapes against the floor when he pulls it out, then creaks as he sits down. He takes a sip of the tea and it glides down his throat in a burning rivulet.
“What else is there to do, anyway?”
The way he says it is too melancholic and he immediately shakes his head before John can interject.
“The woman that’s coming over later, what was her name?”
“Robyn Wells.”
“Right. Wrote she’s been hearing a song in one of the rooms on her estate. The same song and the sound of someone crying, over and over. Apparently every night for the past month.”
“Residual.”
He takes another sip. “Most likely.”
“If it is, I don’t have to worry about you smashing through another window, at least.”
A dormant part of him wants to be snappy, to bite back with dull teeth. He was supposed to see the damn thing, after all. Instead, he rolls his shoulders and raises the mug.
“Never say never, John.”
“I’m serious, take a day off. Your cuts haven’t healed yet, for Christ’s sake.”
“Is this an indirect way of asking for a day off for yourself?”
“No, it’s me– Forget it.” His voice lowers into a rumble.
“Come on,” Arthur leans forward just slightly, as if talking to someone at the other end of the table, “say it, you twat.”
“Bite me.”
“You’re getting snarkier by the day, my dreadful friend.”
“I wonder where I got it from.”
“Fine, then I’ll say it.” He leans back, crossing his legs with a wince. “John, I care for you. After this case is over, we can.. I don’t know, take a trip down to the seaside. Eat some lobster, or something.”
There’s a brief silence. A gust of wind shakes the window panes and the room smells slightly of dust. He should clean up before the client comes.
“Fine. Don’t overdo it. For both our sakes.”
“You got it.”
They sit at the kitchen table, marinating in the mutual agreement. There’s a soft tapping coming from outside and Arthur jerks his head towards the sound, towards where he knows the window is.
“It’s raining.”
He doesn’t say anything back and lets his mind wander, listening to the drops patter against the glass.
“And I do care for you too, Arthur.”
When Miss Wells arrived, the tiny flat was spotless. Arthur called her Missus and was politely corrected. Now, she stands in the quaint living room, analysing the bookshelf on the far wall. Arthur doesn’t read. Not anymore. On bad days, he lets John pick a book and then listens to him read instead, until he falls asleep. He imagines cursive printed in white in the void in front of him and drifts off.
Miss Wells saunters over to the old armchair, her heels clicking in a staccato until she lowers herself into the seat. It squeaks, as most things in the flat do.
Earlier, John had given her a look-over.
“She’s a young woman, probably in her late twenties. Her hair is curly, dark and short and her eyes are snow blue. She’s wearing gloves, a simple white blazer with a tie, dark pants along with a red coat. The color is vibrant, Arthur. Her gaze is kind and there’s a smile on her lips, but something’s clearly bothering her.”
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Lester, I’ve heard many things about you.”
Her voice is deeper than Arthur had expected it to be. American.
“Please, call me Arthur. I hope you’ve only heard good things, then.”
He sits across from her in his own armchair, far enough that most people can’t tell he never quite meets their eyes. If they catch on, he’s slightly visually impaired.
“Of course, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” He can hear the polite smile in her voice.
“Good thing she didn’t hear about your stunt out the window then.”
Arthur Lester smiles back.
“So, Miss Wells, I’ve read what you had sent me and I’m pretty sure I can help you with your...” he glances down, or at least pretends to, at his blank notebook, “Conundrum.”
“Pray tell, Mr.– Arthur.”
“She seems keen. She’s leaning forward in the chair.”
“Before I do, may I ask you to recount these events from the start? I’d just like to hear it directly from you, if it’s not a problem.”
He can hear her lean back again along with a rustle of fabric as she crosses her legs.
“Well, like I wrote, this... thing, started happening about exactly a month ago, when I moved back to Arkham to care for my mother. She lives in an estate just on the outskirts. Never liked the town.”
Arthur nods. He could relate, once.
“Anyways, after a while, usually at night but sometimes even during the day, I’d hear… music. In one of our guest rooms.”
“What kind of music?”
“Piano.”
He winces.
“Of course it is.”
“It’s a somber, almost mournful tune, yet strangely beautiful in a way.” She laughs, breathy. “Probably why I didn’t do anything about it sooner. I enjoyed it, I guess. I’d walk into the room and just… stand there. The music seemed to be around me, like I was in it somehow. It wasn’t loud, mind you– just… there. Like dust and specks of light.”
She breathes in and exhales, as if something had been pressing down on her chest.
“That probably sounds a bit crazy.”
“She seems… embarrassed. She’s fiddling with her hair and sleeves.”
Arthur presses his tongue against his front teeth. “Miss Wells, I assure you, your reaction is perfectly understandable. I wouldn’t mind a music box room of my own, to be honest. It sounds like a pleasant experience. Also, please don’t call yourself crazy.”
“That seemed to put her at ease, she’s smiling sincerely.”
“Thank you.”
He hears her reach over to grab her tea from the coffee table in front of her chair. Mint, this time.
“You said something changed, however.” The pen he’s holding twirls across his lithe fingers. It’s more of a toy than a tool at this point.
“Yes,” she starts, sipping quickly, “the crying started after a few weeks. I could tell something was off with the music but I couldn’t tell what. A few days later I could hear it. The wailing. Like a– a ghoulish violin. It was… is, terrible. After that it just stayed. I couldn’t go into the room anymore, I locked it and kept out of it since.”
“This fact seems to scare her. She’s frowning and holding the mug close to her chest.”
“I see.” Arthur muses, shifting in his seat. That spot still hurt. “Does your mother know about this? Has she been in the room?”
Her voice jumps. “God, no. It would scare her half to death. She didn’t busy herself with the guest rooms anyway. Nothing important ever happened in there to my knowledge, that’s why it’s strange to me that it’s happening in that room specifically.”
“Spirits are finicky, there could be a myriad of reasons. However, there are some particular distinctions.”
“I see.”
“She’s listening intently. Her eyes are wide and curious.”
“There’s this– I’d say phenomenon, where spirits mark time itself, if they’re strong enough. They seize a playback of a past event, a fragment of time imprinted on the environment. Specifically, they're more like… echoes. Echoes of their past, something they experienced and felt strongly about.”
“Fascinating.” She drawls, breathless.
“Yes. The thing is, these spirits aren’t aware of this fact, or that time has passed at all. They’re bound to repeat this pattern over and over, sometimes forever.”
“Jesus. Why does this… marking, even happen?”
Arthur lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “There are many theories. The widely accepted one suggests that strong enough mental impressions during emotionally charged moments could, in theory, cause a residual. Those energies are tucked away into a pocket of time and space, and, if certain conditions are right, could be reactivated, so to speak.”
“Reactivated?”
“You mentioned this all started when you moved back to your mother’s house, is that right?”
“Nice, Arthur.”
“Yes, correct. Do you think I’m responsible for this?” There’s a strain in her voice, like he’d accused her of something dire.
“Responsible? No. The cause? Possibly.” He smirks.
“That’s… I have no idea how I could be, though.”
“Miss Wells, that’s my job to figure out. Besides, these spirits aren’t harmful. They cannot interact with the living world. They might be frightening, sure, but not dangerous.”
There's a sigh of relief from the other side of the room and then the sound of a quick sip.
“Thank God. I just don’t want it there anymore. My mother’s health is declining and I have no time to worry about ghosts in my closets.”
“I understand.”
A moment of silence.
“How do you get rid of it? I never even thought about it, to be honest.”
Arthur shifts in his seat and John shifts behind his eyes. He aims the pen at the blank page and scribbles, a high pyre, or a thick plume of smoke.
The voice in his head growls. Arthur Lester smiles.
“You burn the body.”
“You burn the body.”