Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I would love to go back to the old house,” Charlotte sings along with the car stereo. “As if.” She comments quietly to herself, seeing the irony of the song due to her situation. She smiles faintly as the long-awaited suburban neighborhood comes into view, the voice filling up the car fading from hers to Morrissey’s as she turns her focus to driving straight ahead to the end of the road. Her emerald green Nissan Figaro glides along the streets in a retro flashback, the cream and sage metal flying past houses like the waking breaths of déjà vu. Charlotte wouldn’t know this, not quite yet, but that odd feeling of being pulled back in time was entirely relevant to what she was about to experience. But completely unaware, Charlotte DuBois calmly pulls into the driveway of her new country house with a too-satisfied grin and too-big dreams.

She steps out of the car with excitement despite dreading having to lug in the things she had kept in her backseat rather than tossing them in the mover’s truck. Charlotte skips back, then back some more, just to see the grand condition of the place: The Torte Country House. Bone-white wood paneling accented by oak-framed windows and arches, stormy blue-gray shingles texturing the roof in little rolling hills. The glass in the front door appears frosted, though whether that’s by design or due to dust Charlotte doesn’t know. Either way, she doesn’t care – this house could be a burning pile of driftwood and she would still love it more than any place she could own in the city. She shudders at the sheer thought of being brought back to the gray-skied urban landscape she started in. Regrettably, Charlotte wonders with anxiety when her mother will try to call next. She’s come to fear any calls from unknown numbers.

Charlotte soon ushers away the moving truck after she’s dragged all of the boxes inside (most of them dispersed neatly about the house into their respective rooms) and is blown away when she sees the interior of the country house. It’s old-fashioned, sure, having been vacant since the 80s, but it’s vast and homey. Though she swears she feels a gust of breeze that almost has a voice. A crackling, unintelligible whispering in her ear. Words only nearly audible, but when you strain to hear them…

Charlotte disregards it. Why should she care about the sudden blanket of eeriness trying to make its way over her shoulders? She’s away from the city and – more importantly – her family, meaning she can finally relax. She strides into the living room and plants herself firmly on the lengthy, subtle-argyle sofa, eying the similarly patterned armchairs and the luxurious chaise lounge that form the rest of the semicircle of furniture in the room. It seems she’s just about to begin unpacking one of the many tightly-packed boxes of books (admittedly quite a few of them comics) sat on the creaking coffee table in front of the couch when she hears two separate rings: one of them originating from her cellphone, the other from the front door. Far too anxious to see what’s on her phone, Charlotte stands and steps cautiously towards the entrance of the house. She’s clueless as to who could be at her door: Charlotte has literally only been in the neighborhood for less than half of a day. Just as she reaches for the doorknob, the ringing from her phone comes again: a haunting ding that only makes her sick. Charlotte stills at the knob. Peeks through the peephole and sees… no one there. Not a person, not a package, not an animal. The porch – though currently dim with the afternoon light washed over it – is totally clear. She cracks the door open to check, and there’s not a single sign of any disturbances to the front yard. “Old house,” She mumbles to no one in particular and chuckles weakly.

Despite using little force, the door slams loudly – as if it’s outside a vacuum – when Charlotte closes it. Charlotte continues to disregard it along with all the other things trying so desperately to irk her. She shuts it down without a second thought and returns to the sofa, then silences her phone and doesn’t even bother checking who the text message is from. Charlotte settles back into where she was, feeling silence come over her again as she unseals the cardboard container with a boxcutter. The first book she picks up is Portrait of a Lady on Fire.

It’s not much later that, come over by exhaustion, Charlotte trudges down the hall to her bedroom and nearly collapses onto the sheets. She manages the strength to dig through her backpack to find the set of brightly-colored coral wool pajamas and put them on. She makes a final stride around the room – drawing the curtains, plugging in her electronics, turning off the lights – before falling back into bed. Charlotte can’t help but feel a cold dissatisfaction in the purpling night air.

Charlotte’s morning routine is incredibly structured. So attached, she manages to stick to it even now. She had studied the floorplan of the Torte House vigorously and stalked the photos attached to the listing as well as made the two-hour drive to visit the Torte House twice in person prior to moving in, making her look and feel as though she’d already lived here for years. She already has physical and mental lists of what she plans to change about the place, ranging from replacing the wallpaper to buying specific sets of dinnerware she had chosen months before. Charlotte contemplates all of this along with job applications while she brushes and flosses her teeth, splitting her attention skillfully. The thing in the back of her mind is meeting her neighbors; at the moment, she couldn’t care a whole lot less.

Not wanting to lose any time, Charlotte immediately changes and walks down the hall to the kitchen after finishing her makeup. She stands, looking around the place at the old tile and cabinets – plus the painfully empty refrigerator – and begins typing up two lists of renovations and groceries on her phone. Once that’s done, she retrieves her backpack and methodically packs in her laptop (in a case and a protective sleeve, of course), her keys, and her wallet. She then opens the maps app on her phone and gets directions to the nearest coffee shop: which so happens to be an extension of a general store called Mint’s Goods. Charlotte strides out the door to her car and starts it up, directing herself to the general store with a nearly practiced ease.

As is expected, the storefront is decorated in shades of a crisp mint green. When Charlotte enters, she can immediately tell that the place is far more multipurpose than she would have thought: she spots sliding doors to a grocery store, a flower shop, and – this makes her raise a brow – a delicatessen just at a glance. She suddenly feels like she’s in an airport and the cold creeps over her again. Looking around more thoroughly, she sees the coffee shop: quaintly named Pick-Me-Up. Charlotte strides in gracefully.

The shop is decorated just like the storefront, furniture washed in mint & turquoise and contrasted by accents of cream and brown scattered around the interior. The place is surprisingly packed with quite a few people – early birds like Charlotte – and the only table open is one that is actively being approached by an astonishingly grumpy man with a head of brown curls who seems to be Charlotte’s age. He’s dressed sloppily in a plaid dress shirt lazily tucked into his beige slacks and seems incredibly annoyed. He rapidly downs his coffee like his life depends on it; by the look of his eyebags, it actually might. Charlotte makes twists and turns through the shop to reach the table first – she’s social, of course, but she really doesn’t want to share her first morning in town with this downer – and despite her best efforts sets her bag on the table just as the man slams his coffee down on it. Neither of them waste time with a staredown, not really seeing the use in arguing this early in the day. Charlotte settles into the seat and pushes her hair back. The unnamed thundercloud takes an obnoxious slurp of his coffee.

“Nice morning, isn’t it?” Charlotte says, trying to make the best of being here.

“...Yeah. Really nice.” The man replies tentatively. Charlotte swears he brightens up at her inconsequential question. Or maybe it’s just the coffee. “You’re in the Torte House, right?” He asks confidently.

“Sure am. How could you tell? Was it the lights being on for the first time in 40 years that clued you in?”

“Oh, no. I just saw your car. That house has lights on all the time.”

“Wait, what?” Charlotte feels surprise shoot through her. “Why would it have the lights on?”

“Ghosts.” The man answers, totally deadpan. The only thing that tells Charlotte he’s joking is the light smirk that creeps onto his face. She chuckles softly.

“Aha, yeah,” She reaches into her backpack to collect her laptop. “Good thing I don’t believe in ghosts, then, huh?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” He responds, still joking. “Watch out for any porcelain you own. Hear the ghost in there can be real aggressive.”

“Porcelain? I’ll keep an eye out, then.” Charlotte settles her device on the table and reaches over the surface to outstretch a hand. “You’re funny, man. What’s your name?”

“Marvin,” He replies, shaking her hand with a grip simultaneously firm and weak. “Yours?”

“Dr. Charlotte DuBois.” She smirks and lets him go.

“Doctor, wow.” He says, genuinely impressed. “My w–ex-wife used to work in radiology. I mean, she is now. She had to take a while off when we had Jason.” Marvin babbles on, suddenly open. That coffee seemed to have really helped. “That’s sweet,” Charlotte responds, intrigued. “Where does she work – your ex-wife?”

“Oh, just near here at the Farrell Clinic. Why, are you looking for a job?”

“I am, actually,” Charlotte replies weakly.

“Hey. If she’ll hear me out, I can put in a good word for you? I might not have to, though, since I’d guess she’s already working on a batch of miscellaneous pastries to gift you.”

“Seriously? A radiologist and a baker – sounds like the brand of efficiency I subscribe to.”

Marvin laughs heartily in response, his gaze still heavy but the rest of him perked up. “We’ll see how she likes you, Doctor Charlotte.” She smiles in reply and finally opens her laptop, seeing the man stand up to throw away his coffee. She does spare a look in his direction as he stops to talk to a man strolling in – dressed in what Charlotte is coming to know as the brand colors of Mint’s Goods – with an increasingly reddening face. She can tell exactly who and what Marvin is from the charged look that he shares with the worker and tries desperately to contain her (justifiable) excitement. As Marvin strolls out the door and the staff member strides in, Charlotte returns to her job hunt – though she’s not sure she’ll need to rely on it for much longer.

When Charlotte is back at home having been rejuvenated by a cup of coffee, she’s hard at work unpacking the stacks of boxes in her room filled with posters, pillows, and packing peanuts. She’s in the middle of slicing open another cardboard package with the blade of her boxcutter when a familiar ding comes by at the door. Charlotte rolls her eyes at first, seeing it as the same simple malfunction in the house as last night. She hardly bothers when the ringing comes again and only gets up to see who’s so persistent when she hears a feminine voice calling faintly from outside. “Sorry if you’re not at home! I don’t know why I’m, um, talking if you’re out!...I’ll be back later!” The voice speaks to what it thinks is no one, but Charlotte is already rushing to the door and straightening out her patterned periwinkle blouse when it calls.

“Hi!” She blurts out when she swings the front door open. Standing on the porch is a woman in a stylish yellow-and-white striped cardigan over a delightful banana floral dress carrying a tray wrapped in tin foil. Short, dark brown curls just tickle her shoulders and bounce as she whips her head back around to face Charlotte. Her face is slightly creased with age, the remaining lines of motherly worry just ghosting on her face. “I’m really sorry! I thought you ringing the door was, uh… Nevermind. It was just something that happened yesterday.” Charlotte excuses, smiling guiltily.

“That’s not your fault at all, really! I just came by to give you these, given you just moved in,” The woman pushes the tray towards Charlotte with a wilting smile. “I’m really sorry if they’re cold.” She says humbly.

“Thank you so much!” Charlotte exclaims, peeling the tin foil up to see a tray of chocolate oatmeal cookies. Their delicious aroma instantly wafts towards her and Charlotte grins. “This is too sweet.” She remarks.

“Oh, do you not like chocolate? I apologize, it’s just what I bake for every new neighbo–” The woman begins to ramble before Charlotte interjects. “No, no! I just meant the gesture. I’m Dr. Charlotte DuBois. Lovely to meet you.” She adjusts the tray in her palm and outstretches a hand. The woman’s palm is cold and soft as it meets Charlotte’s. “Trina,” She says softly. “Weisenbachfeld. It’s a mouthful, I know.”

Charlotte contemplates whether to comment or not, but in the slightly awkward silence that dots the space between the women, she decides to ask straight-up. “You wouldn’t happen to know Marvin, would you?” She cringes internally just as she speaks. Not a great conversation starter, she thinks, if this is his ex-wife. “Oh, um. I do,” Trina coughs. She doesn’t appear to deflate, simply tensing up. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing important! I ran into him this morning and he let me know you worked at the Farrell Clinic – is that right?”

“Indeed I do.” She responds curtly. “You did say you were a Dr. Charlotte DuBois, so I assume you’re looking for work? Oh, and don’t take that as an insult!” Trina tacks on the end with a slight flush of her cheeks. “Really, I’d be happy to look into things for you.” She soothes.

“I would owe you my life,” Charlotte jokes, pleased with the course this conversation has taken. “And know I’m not pressuring you or anything – you literally just met me. I get it.” She grins.

Trina opens her mouth to speak with a faint smile when Charlotte sees her expression go instantly grim.

“Trina? Is something wrong?”

“What.” She says, unfocused.

“Your expression just got, uh, really weird.”

“W-What?” Trina yelps, more genuinely.

“Look, is there something wrong?” Charlotte leans back into the house for a second, scanning the dining room and kitchen behind her.

“Nothing. Gosh, I’m sorry. I should be going home, shouldn’t I? Just a few more things to wrap up before lunch,” Trina says in a hurry, a disingenuous smile automatically plastering itself onto her face. Her brows tent with worry and a strange navy kind of darkness seems to glaze her eyes. “Enjoy the cookies!” She exclaims, clacking her way down the porch steps and into her car with her sweet cream wedges. Charlotte stays in the doorway and looks in disturbed awe as Trina drives away. She turns back around. There’s nothing changed in the house, nothing out of order from what she can see. All she can smell is a sort of damp clay smell and all she can hear is the crackling breaths of wind coming in from the open back door–wait, what?

The back door that leads to the alfresco from the dining room is just ajar, the frosted glass panes shifted to the side. Charlotte rushes to slam the tray of cookies down on the dining table and slam the door shut. She makes sure to lock it this time. The first thing that she thinks of as her mind wanders distractedly carrying the pastries to the kitchen is a reminder of Marvin. “Ghosts,” he had said – Charlotte rolls her eyes. But she does raise a curious, fretting brow when she opens the kitchen drawers to find layers of cracked china and bent forks. She supposes she’ll just… eat from the tray.

She had studied the floorplan, prepared for renovations and structured the place in her mind to scientific standards – but Charlotte definitely had not looked into the past of this house. It’s fine, she tells herself; There’s still half the day left to distract herself. She pulls down her sleeves when she feels the breeze again and is left shyly confused with no idea where it’s coming from.