Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air hung still around Wick House on the misty January evening. It was quiet. Too quiet. Especially too quiet for a house full of unseen inhabitants - and we’re not talking about spiders. In many of the rooms in the house, there were ghosts lingering, all silent. In the kitchen, the ghosts of a yeti-like creature and a rockstar sat by the counters, the normally hungry and warm atmosphere turned cold. In the old area where laundry used to be done, a small troupe of circus performers - two acrobats, a trapeze artist and a ribbon dancer - all huddled together. They had silenced their bickering to come together in sorrow. Stood in the corner was a thief, arms folded and leaning against the wall. Their face showed apathy, but you could still tell that they were upset, their eyes being a dead giveaway. On the first floor, in the bar area, a group of ghosts all gathered to drink. The two owners of the bar, a pirate, the bartender, a scout leader, and the other two performers sat scattered on the bar and table. No songs were to be performed tonight. This was a night that required solemn remembrance. Up in the dust-covered attic, a group of friends, including one man stuck in the air vents, his eyes barely visible as he peeked through the grates, all sat quietly as they anticipated the news. Even in the lake, the lady haunting it floated across the water’s surface in reflection. The entire house was united in mourning, but the centre of it was in the master bedroom.

A young woman with pink flowing hair lay in that bed, asleep. Her breathing was laboured and slow - it was clear that she didn’t have long left. Surrounding her bed, overlooking the event and waiting for it to happen, was a selection of ghosts, tasked with the heavy burden of watching for when she passed. Dorian, usually part of the group at the bar, stood at the foot of the double bed, directly in the centre. While his face remained stoic like usual, you could clearly see sadness in his eyes. Dorian had been the bouncer for the house since the 1920s, a title he held well into his death. As such, with him keeping watch all the time, he had witnessed many deaths at this establishment, but it never got any easier to watch. Standing next to Dorian was a 1700s dandy, dressed in the most pristine outfit of his time. Despite the visible bruises across his body, he made sure to keep prim and proper as the previous owner of the house - Lord Jonathan Wick, descendant of the Wick lineage and part of the family the very house was named after. However, most people just called him Jon, or a more unfavourable nickname that had a lot to do with the events of his death. On the furthest to the right of the bed was the Victorian-era poet, Diana Drabble. Known for her poems that encapsulated events of her life through erratic imagery and incessant use of metaphors, she was renowned in her day, but obscure nowadays. Still, she held onto that title with an iron grip from the day she died, a blood-covered gun wound evidence of that.

On the other side of Dorian, an entirely different display of deaths was visible. Nervously running their fingers through their hair was one of the more infamous cases of death at the house. Back when the house served as a hotel from 1954 to 1997, the brutal murder suffered at the hands of this humble sex worker was the final nail in the coffin to get the hotel shut down for good. Ben-Hwa was their name, a walking scandal, so they say. Proudly offering their services and not aligning to any gender to appeal to both sides, they were infamous among anybody looking for a service. Just when they ran into the wrong person, their stylish catsuit and feather boa would forever be stained with blood as it barely hid a stab wound driven deep into their heart. While Ben-Hwa remained bitter about the whole incident, they didn’t often bring it up, and kept up their regular sultry persona, much to the amusement or disdain of their peers. A pair of performers contrasted Diana on the opposite side of the bed. Curt and Rod, two comedians that were once known for dishing out the deadliest roasts around. So deadly, in fact, that it would drive a comedian that couldn’t take a joke to enact their revenge in the most drastic way possible. The torn curtains wrapped tightly around Curt’s neck and the bruises across Rod didn’t leave much to the imagination.

This varied display of ghosts observed the sleeping woman closely, noticing how her breaths drew more and more shallow as the sun set more. She had been incredibly ill all her life, it was only a matter of time before it got to this.
“It shouldn’t be long now.” Dorian said, his voice quiet. He ran his thumb over the watch on his wrist, gently ticking away.
“She lived as best a life as she could have.” Diana mentioned, shaking her head slightly.
“Well, there are worse ways to go.” Ben-Hwa added, causing various noises of agreement to be made between the observers.
“Well, this is it-“
“You’re telling me!”
“You can say that again.”
Suddenly, Jon cut through the conversation, announcing, “Quiet! It’s happening.”
The woman’s breathing had finally stopped.

“Oh, I hope she stays.” Diana mentioned excitedly.
“Five bucks says she stays.” Rod whispered to Curt. He pondered for a minute, before nodding and agreeing, “Deal.”
White auras surrounded the woman, conjuring her spirit and causing it to float above her body gracefully. She opened her eyes, revealing them to be a light brown in colour, looking quite confused and shocked to see a group of people stood below her.
“…Who are you people?” she asked, her voice echoing.
“I am the ghost of Jonathan Wick, the grandchild of the founder of this very house.” Jon announced.
“We are ghosts. We have not been able to pass on to the afterlife, destined to remain in the place we died for reasons unknown…” Diana explained.

As Diana explained this, a certain anxiety gripped them all. With how many deaths this group had seen, not all of them stayed. Many of them immediately shot up to the afterlife, and most of the time, it happened during one of them explaining the concept of being a ghost. However, this woman didn’t immediately shoot up. She just said, “Oh. Okay,” and floated down gracefully, her white aura disappearing, her ghostly form perched on the end of the bed. Her white nightgown flowed to the wooden floors, her hair slightly messy, looking like she had just rolled out of bed.
“Well, it was getting quite lonely around here.” she shrugged. She glanced over the array of dead people standing in front of her, and introduced herself, “I’m Betty, by the way.” She got up and let the observers introduce themselves too, each one quite enthusiastic to have a new friend. Ben-Hwa even – with permission from Betty, of course – gave a light kiss to her hand.

“Well, what’s going to happen to my house?” Betty asked curiously.
“Honestly, I don’t think any of us can say.” Jon replied. “I mean, with you dying alone and childless, this place is up for anybody to take.”
“Alright, you could make it sound a little nicer, mate.” Dorian sneered.
“I’m just being honest.” Jon retorted.
“Let’s not worry about what’s going to happen to your house. Let me show you around. I’m sure that the others would love to meet you.” Dorian guided Betty to the door, placing his hand on her shoulder.
“Oh, are there more people? How exciting.” Betty remarked as she was guided through the door. The ghosts remaining in the bedroom couldn’t help but feel joy. It was always nice to have someone to join them. They stood in excited silence, before it was broken by Rod whispering to Curt, “You owe me five bucks.”

Chapter Text

Two days after Betty passed away, the house was up for grabs. Before putting it on the market, the solicitors had to check and see if there were any relatives to give the house to – since Betty died so young, she didn’t get the chance to write a will, so the things she amassed in life were left undetermined. Upon looking at Betty’s family tree, there was only one relative left alive to give the house to – a very distant cousin known as Aoife Morriston. As luck would have it, Aoife was in desperate need of a house. After getting degrees in art and customer service (for some reason, that degree was required when choosing an art degree), and while they were able to secure a job in as an online customer service worker, they didn’t last long due to their role immediately being taken over by AI. Bummer. And doing art commissions could only get them so far, so they were currently in job limbo. On top of this, they were living in a glorified box of an apartment that needed repairs up the wazoo. So, you can imagine Aoife’s surprise when they got a phone call saying they had inherited a manor house.

The call came late in the evening. Aoife sat on their bed, laptop resting on their leg as they scrolled through housing websites. For how dire their situation was, Aoife still made sure to look presentable, they had standards. Their hair was short and dark, brushed downwards, save for a thin braid that ran down their shoulder. Their clothes were all quite baggy, including a graphic tee with the emblem of an obscure rock band, a faded red hoodie and dark blue jeans. They were also covered with accessories galore – necklaces of all different lengths, bracelets that ran up their arm that almost cut off their circulation, and every finger had a ring on it, sometimes clacking against the keyboard of their laptop. They enjoyed dressing this way, but as much as they hated to admit it, it sort of reflected their current situation – grungy.

The room was incredibly dark, the glow from the laptop screen being the only form of illumination. An empty cup of instant noodles with a plastic fork sticking out of it sat on the bedside table – that night’s dinner. Normally, Aoife loved them, but they had been eating them for so long that the powdery broth and copious amounts of MSG almost made them feel sick. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and they’d rather not starve, so they forced it down nonetheless. Aoife’s eyes started to grow weary as their finger lazily pressed the downwards arrow key. The nice-looking places were way out of their price range, and the cheap places looked worse than Aoife’s current place of residence. It was a conundrum. An exceptionally humdrum conundrum. One that Aoife was starting to get tired of. However, they were snapped out of their trance of boredom when their phone screen illuminated and a rock song started playing (their ringtone, of course). Aoife didn’t recognise the number on the screen, which put them off a bit, but it didn’t outwardly say that it was a scam. Aoife didn’t even know what they would want with them, but it had been a boring day, so what the hell.

“Excuse me, is this Aoife Morriston?” an old-sounding male voice could be heard on the other end.
“That’s me.” Aoife responded.
“Perfect. I’m calling about a house.” the voice mentioned.
“Well, a house looks like it’s out of my price range at the moment, but yeah. Shoot. Give me your pitch.” Aoife prompted, glazing their eyes over the laptop screen at the prices of houses.
“Oh, the house isn’t for sale.” the voice stated. Aoife paused for a second, before frustratedly asking, “…Then why are you even calling me?”
“Sorry, I feel like you need an explanation. I’m a solicitor from Freeman and Co, and I’m calling to inform you that you have inherited a house.” the solicitor explained. Aoife went quiet. They almost dropped their phone. In Aoife’s stunned silence, the solicitor could be heard saying, “Mx Morriston? Are you still there?”

“So, she was my cousin?” Aoife asked, raising an eyebrow. The solicitor’s office was incredibly fancy, looking like the part of her old high school where all the Math and English classrooms were. They couldn’t help but feel a little bit intimidated.
“An incredibly distant cousin, but a cousin nonetheless. That’s you there.” the solicitor said, pointing at a family tree.
“What happened to her?” Aoife questioned.
“She died quite young, unfortunately. She had been quite sickly all her life, and while she was mostly self-sufficient, her health declined as time went on, and… well, you know how it ends.” the solicitor explained, before producing a few photos from his desk. “That’s her there. Lady Betty Reverie.”
“Woah, Lady? Sounds fancy.” Aoife remarked, glancing at the picture. She did look quite pretty, especially in the elaborate gown she had worn for the picture. Aoife eyed over the other pictures, stopping on a picture of a manor house with Betty stood in front of it. They joked, “That’s not the house, isn’t it?”

“It is, actually. Wick House.”

If this were a cartoon, Aoife’s jaw would have hit the floor. They let out a choked laugh and mentioned, their voice slightly shaky, “You know, when you said I inherited a house, I was expecting a sweet little detached dealy. You know, not a whole manor.”
“I know, it is quite a big surprise. Ideally, with this kind of house we’d be looking for resale value-“ the solicitor began to explain, but Aoife cut him off by saying, “Can I not just keep it?”
Taken aback, the solicitor stammered, “W-well, I suppose you could, but the house is in a serious state of disrepair, it will take a lot to restore it to a properly liveable state-“
“Nothing I can’t do. I’ve had to take on a lot of DIY projects in my time due to lazy landlords, you know how it is. And some of those, I didn’t even have to ask my dad for help. Plus, I think it’s better if I keep it in the family. I think it’s what she would have wanted.” Aoife explained confidently, before asking a bit more timidly, “Um… what… what was her name again?”
“Betty.” the solicitor said.
“Betty.” Aoife repeated, this time with finger guns.

“Well, like I say, this is your house.” the solicitor resumed, regaining his composure. “The house has a lot of history behind it, it’s acted as so many different things, like a hotel, a manor house… but I’ve got to warn you about something.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re about to tell me that it’s haunted or something.” Aoife dismissed, doing appropriate finger-wiggling when talking about the potential of spooks.
“Well, I don’t want to indulge in rumours of the supernatural, but you should probably know about there has been a history of death and freak accidents on the grounds.” the solicitor warned.
“Tch. Yeah, just because it’s old and spooky and needs a touch up and has a past means nothing to me.” Aoife scoffed. “As long as I’m not on the floor with a broken neck, I’ll do just fine.”

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, Betty took it upon herself to make herself more familiar with the other ghosts around the house. There were a lot more ghosts haunting her than she expected, which did rattle her a slight bit – people had been watching her ever since she moved here. But they all seemed friendly enough, and they insisted they gave her as much privacy as they could when she couldn’t see them. Dorian guided Betty to every room of the house where the ghosts hung out, including the lake, and she gave a warm introduction each time. There were a couple of frostier people (that was even taken literally a couple of times), but most were excited to have a fresh face around to get to know. Betty was the first ghost to stay since the séance incident in 2010, so her not shooting up to the afterlife was notable in itself. As Dorian guided her around, she got to know the various deceased inhabitants of Wick House.

The oldest of the bunch went by the name Freddy. A monster of a man, much taller than all the other ghosts, covered head to toe in thick hair that resembled fur, and covered in animal skin as clothing. Curiously, his skin and hair had all turned an icy blue colour – it didn’t take a genius to figure out how he died. However, despite his abominable appearance, he was more than happy to say hello to Betty. His vocabulary was surprisingly advanced for someone from an age where verbal communication was limited. It was supposed that being dead for so long and being surrounded by humans would give him a bit of a leg up in learning how to speak English. The other person that hung around in the kitchen primarily was somebody who Betty actually recognised. Miranda (of Miranda y los Mijas) was a prolific rockstar of the 1970s, and she was known primarily for two things – her music, and the way she died. The story went that when she was staying at Wick House (back when it was a hotel) while she was on tour, she was approached by a fan who caught severe Miranda-Mania, who chased her out to the balcony on the top floor, and while she wasn’t looking, Miranda fell over the railing and hit the gravel floor underneath. Despite the wild story, Betty preferred to focus on Miranda’s music rather than the fact she was living in the place where she died.
“My dad was a fan of yours. Owned all of your vinyls.” Betty mentioned.

The bar was teeming with patrons, all celebrating and drinking heartily now that they knew they were having a new addition. Betty was immediately greeted by Volt, the owner of the establishment. He seemed welcoming and jolly, briefly taking over Dorian’s position as Betty’s guide to the bar. Volt was overjoyed to see a new patron, and had an air of cool enthusiasm around him. He introduced the bar as the Electric Shock Speakeasy, running strong since the 1920s. With his arm outstretched, he gave the liberty of introducing the most common patrons – Beverly, the bartender, Johnny Splash (not to be confused with Jonathan Wick), a frequent performer that had a passion for singing, and Rainey, another performer who knew the best dance moves of the time. All of them greeted Betty with a warm smile, and Beverly even offered a cherry cocktail for Betty, on the house.
“I didn’t know we could drink when we’re dead.” Betty remarked, marvelling at the fact that she could pick up the glass.
“Well, I’ve just had the ability to create these drinks ever since I died. Keeps me busy, at least.” Beverly shrugged, her palm pressed to the bar.
Volt had one more person to introduce – a solitary gentleman sat on his own with a whiskey sour in his hand. Volt introduced him as Eddie, the co-owner of the speakeasy. He seemed a lot more withdrawn than Volt, only giving a quick glance and wave at Betty before turning his gaze back to the table. For being the two owners, they seemed to contrast each other quite a bit. Still, most of the people seemed nice, so Betty didn’t pay too much heed to it.

There were two people that Volt didn’t introduce. Volt explained that since quite a few of them died at the same time, they had grown quite close over the years and spent most of their time in the bar. Volt didn’t mention how they died, but Betty could see burn marks on both Volt and Eddie, so, despite not wanting to assume, a few ideas started to form about what happened. The rest of the ghosts made occasional appearances at the Electric Shock, and, on this random night, two patrons stood out from the rest. Guzzling down a pint and sweeping his arm across his mouth to clear away any leftover beer was a pirate, an honest-to God pirate. From the long, messy, unkempt hair and beard, the scruffy yet elaborate clothes, and the broken iron shackles around his wrists, it was clear that this was a pirate. When Betty approached him, he gave a glare when she asked what his name was.
“I don’t think I need an introduction.” he stated.
“I’m sorry, I just want to know your name.” Betty replied, locking her finger’s together.
“The nerve! The gall! You haven’t even heard of Captain Jacques Perroit?! Ye gods, what history books have you been reading from?!” Jacques ranted.

“Jacques.” Dorian scowled, standing behind Betty in a protective stance.
“Ugh. Well, I suppose if I’m going to be seeing you around, then put her there.” Jacques reluctantly held his hand out to Betty for a handshake, but, much to Betty’s surprise, the limb just fell off. With an exasperated grunt, he leaned down to pick up his disembodied arm. As he screwed it back into his shoulder, he explained, “Hung, drawn and quartered. Biggest bane of my existence.” With the arm firmly back in place, Betty gently shook his hand, nervous it was going to pop out again. After that fiasco, Betty was perfectly fine with the other ghost having all of her limbs attached to her and being incredibly friendly. She introduced herself as “Scout Leader Beau, leader of Troop 85, always looking for adventure.” However, the jarring thing about her was that an arrow had cleanly gone through her neck at an angle. The area where the feather would be had been snapped off, and the orange scarf around her neck had some light bloodstains around it. Despite how jarring it looked, Beau seemed to be no worse for wear, enthusiastic and raring to go.

After Betty finished up her cocktail, Betty said her goodbyes to the speakeasy for now and headed out the door with Dorian not too far behind.
“They seem lovely.” Betty remarked as she ambled down the corridor.
“Yeah. I’m part of the group that Volt mentioned – I was their bouncer back when we were alive – so I can vouch for them.” Dorian said, his walking very calculated and bouncer-esque. He really fit the bill. He mentioned as they walked on the creaky wooden floors of the corridor, “Also, don’t mind Jacques. You know, with him being a pirate and all, he tends to be a bit aggressive. He causes you any trouble, you say my name and I’ll be right there.”
“Honestly, I was more unsettled by his arm falling off.” Betty replied. The weird fleshy noise it made as it slipped out his shoulder resonated in her head.
“That too.” Dorian nodded. “Well, let’s not get wrapped up on that. We’re only halfway there.”
“There’s more? Goodness me.” Betty remarked.
“Oh, yeah. It’s a little crowded round here.” Dorian added. “Did you know that there used to be a circus on these grounds?”

Chapter Text

Between 1865 and 1870, there was a circus put in place on the fields surrounding Wick House. A large, sprawling tent of wonders, with the manor house serving as a stunning backdrop to it all. People gathered from hither and yon to witness the spectacular, the silly, and the suspense. The stars of the show? Washford and Drysdale, the acrobatic double act, achieving feats often regarded as impossible that would make Death shake his fist in anger that they had evaded their grasp once again. However, the circus wasn’t always amazing. In the background, trouble brewed behind the curtains. When the renowned trapeze artist, Dirk Deveraux, and the ribbon dancer, Harper Wickes, suddenly disappeared, it was swept under the rug. And, eventually, Washford and Drysdale’s ambition ended up being their hubris, with them attempting the most dangerous feats of all. Flaming rings, waters filled with hungry piranhas, tied up in chains that needed to be unlocked with their mouth in under ten seconds, and, the most dangerous of all – no safety net. It was this impossible task that would end up being truly impossible, and the circus was promptly shut down following the incident.

Nowadays, the ghosts of Harper, Dirk, Washford and Drysdale ended up staying on the grounds, making themselves comfy in the area where servants would clean the clothes. Harper and Dirk were, suffice to say, insufferable. They constantly bickered about who caused their deaths, moping about how they “never should have tried to make a break for it”. Washford and Drysdale had a rocky relationship themselves, souring after their deaths. It seemed like one day, they were totally in love with each other, then they weren’t speaking to each other the next day. However, when Betty arrived in the laundry room, their squabbles were silenced to greet Betty. On their own, they all seemed like lovely people. It was just them being together that caused tension. Stood in the corner of the room was another figure, striding up to Betty and cutting through the fresh argument that was brewing between Harper and Dirk. They introduced themselves as Bobby Pinn, thief extraordinaire. They were dressed in all black and had their hair pinned back, but multiple parts of their clothes were torn and they were covered in bits of dust and plaster. Before Betty left, they thanked her for patching up that hole in the floor, saying it “brought them a lot of closure.”

Dorian led the way deeper into the house, making his way to the attic – a place that Betty didn’t bother checking out when she was alive. She was aware of what happened in there. A séance gone wrong, claimed headlines. Four young adults found dead in the attic of Wick House, with snuffed out candles and markings on the floor visible at the scene of the death. Betty wasn’t a big believer in the supernatural when she was alive (those expectations were quickly destroyed upon her death), but the story shook her to her very core, enough to keep her away. Plus, attics were just plain spooky. And full of spiders. And maybe rats. As Dorian pushed the door open, making an obnoxiously loud creak echo through the hallway, four ghosts were revealed. It was quite a contrast of humans – two dressed in all black, one in a goth style, the other clad in leather, and two dressed in bright colours, one wearing patterns all across his clothes, the other wearing accessories galore. The one dressed in leather introduced herself as Sophia, and proclaimed herself as leader of the attic.
“Nothing happens up here without my say-so. Understand?” she commanded. Instinctively, Betty felt inclined to nod enthusiastically and totally not because she was intimidated by the woman standing in front of her.

The rest of the group introduced themselves – the one dressed in a goth style was Memoria, the one with all the patterns was Parker, and the one with all the accessories was Holly. None of them were as demanding as Sophia, and they all seemed quite amicable (even if Parker’s eyes made him look a little bit unhinged).
“You feel free to come up here anytime. It’s always nice to have a break from the ordinary up here.” Memoria invited.
“Yeah, I’ve been looking for a new chess partner!” Parker added. “You… do know how to play chess, right?” Betty shook her head. Parker’s eyes lit up as he exclaimed, “Yes! Someone I can explain the rules of chess to!”
Betty gave a light chuckle. Just as she turned to leave, a random voice called out, “Hello,” which made Betty nearly jump out of her own skin. She frantically looked around to find the source, eventually noticing a pair of eyes peeking through the air vent, alongside a pair of hands resting through the grates.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there, ha…” Betty said, trying to brush off her initial shock.
“Hello, I’m… Hector.” he introduced himself, coyly looking away.
“Now, what are you doing in the air vents?” Betty asked.
“You don’t want to know. Nobody should know.” Hector bluntly replied, shaking his head. Betty glanced to the others in the attic to see if they knew, but they just gave shrugs and shaken heads in response.
“I’ll take your word for it.” Betty remarked.
“Don’t mind me. I promise I won’t be too much of a bother to you.” Hector promised, but before Betty could reply, he had already skulked back into the air ducts. This was clearly a sign that it was time to leave.

The last stop was the lake outside of the grounds. The sun had completely dipped over the horizon, and the first stars were starting to peek through the sky. The air was chilly, but the mist had cleared up quite a bit. As Betty and Dorian sat by the lake, resting on the grass, a lady started to rise up out of the water. Her hair flowed down her back and her dress slinked behind her in a long train. She was drenched in water, yet she still looked elegant. Betty. Her eyes wide, declared, “I know you! You’re the Lady of the Lake!”
“Is that my title then?” The lady gave an amused chuckle. “Well, I prefer to be called River. Or Lady Oxbow. Either goes.”
“Oh, well, um, nice to finally meet you. I’m Betty.” Betty greeted, standing up and giving a curtsey with her nightgown. River reciprocated, beads of water dripping off the hem of her skirt.

“So, are you always going to be in the lake?” Betty asked.
“Often. I do make rare appearances in the house, but I often stay in here since I have a tendency to track water in the house. Really had a bad draw with my ghost ability.” River explained. “But, if you ever want to speak to me, you know where I’ll be most of the time.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Betty said, bowing slightly. Dorian gave a bow to River before he and Betty started walking back to the house, hearing the water slosh about as River glided back into the lake.
“And that’s everybody. I know it’s a lot, but-“ Dorian began, before getting cut off by Betty, remarking, “It’s really no issue. Everyone seems really sweet here. I think we’ll get along well.”
“…Well, that’s brill.” Dorian gave a small smile. “Is there anything you want to do?”
Betty pondered for a moment, before answering, “ You know, I want to go back to bed. I’m exhausted.”
Dorian laughed quickly, before agreeing, “Come on, I’ll find you a bed that doesn’t have a dead you in it.”