Chapter Text
1.
You pushed past the hefty, double doors, collapsing inside and onto the sprawled, tattered rug in a rush to escape the rain. You coughed, sputtering, running hands through your wet hair. The sound of rain and thunder were shut out as the doors to the dark-wood mansion swung closed. It creaked, coming to a close. Finally, you thought to yourself, somewhere safe. Away from the incessant weather and creatures of the night.
You and 'friends' had insisted on ghost hunting on Halloween, but after you got separated and it started to rain, you gave up the adventure. Not that you wanted to go hunting anyway. Your idea, that you'd suggested, was watching a scary movie at home. Now, here you were in a strange mansion, alone and soaked. Shivering and cold.
When you raised your head slightly, you found yourself in a large lobby. The floor was cold, tiled with red and yellow. The walls were lined with dim candles and tapestries, too dark to make out any clear image though. The air smelt and tasted of light smoke and burning wax.
Around you were a variety of doorways, seemingly leading to corridors and rich parlour rooms. In the darkness, you could still make out the shimmering decor of glass vases and display cabinets. None of this caught your curiosity though, at least nothing caught you more than the faint sound of a grand piano. It was soft, vaguely coherent. But you could make it out over the pelting rain- and man was it sweet.
The song rang out a familiar tune, a classic piano piece. Mozart? Beethoven? All the same to you really. The point was, it was delightful and you had to know where it was coming from. “Hello?” You called out, “anyone there? Sorry for the intrusion!”
You took your jacket off, drying your hair on the inside of it then resting it on the end of the stairs railing. The banisters were dusty and cobweb ridden, but you only realised this after you placed your hand on them. You wiped your sweaty and dirty palms on your trousers. You winced, ascending the grand stairs all the way to their third floor; that's where the music seemed to be coming from. The floorboards of the stairs and the second landing creaked occasionally making you curl in on yourself, their sound echoing down the empty ways.
“Hello?” You called out once again.
Your hands followed the intricate carvings in the wall texture, you clung close, peering around corners and heading down long, dreary hallways.
“Is it alright if I stay here until the rain stops?”
Lightning struck, bright flashes erupted from the stained windows and illuminated the long, empty hall. The only door from there was another set of dark double doors which you were sure were the final barrier to that gorgeous piano music, like gates to heaven after a long set of stairs.
You paced slowly and carefully, approaching with such caution. With the time, you gazed at the tall glass either side; the misshapen and miscoloured image of the storm roared as though clawing at you from the rigorous outside world. Thunder struck, lightning flashed. You pulled your gaze away.
Finally, your hands rested on the cold metal door handles,
“Excuse me, is someone here?” you called out a final time.
The music halted.
All fell still.
...
Your heart began to race, hands shaking and sweaty. A poisonous hesitation coursed through your blood, chilling you pale and cold.
Well. You had to introduce yourself to this homeowner someday. You took a deep breath, swallowing your fear as you pushed through another set of double doors.
The scene that greeted you, was dimly lit as was everything else in this fortress. Candles, yellow and red oozed warmly in collections. They hung from the ceiling and piled in corners. Dangerously close were stacks and clusters of papers. Music sheets and aging notes. It was a round room with tall windows circling it, the clutter framed this observatory. That ever raging storm eyed you from beyond the cobweb littered window arches.
Then, for just a mere second, the clouds would part. Moonlight beamed through. Elegant, calm.
It shone down upon the grand piano at the end of the room.
The keys struck. In sudden, dramatic sequence.
A man was hunched over the mighty instrument, raven-black and glimmering neat in contrast to the junk-filled parlour.
He lifted his head slightly, making the smallest attempt to look your way with his deep, brown eyes.
Neither of you said a thing.
Slowly, you watched his pale hands begin to move. They drifted across the keys in slow, tantalising motion.
His black hair was messy and unkempt; stressed, grey strands flared out without pattern. Like his slender hands, his face was pale. His skin was deathly pale. Those eyes that bore into you for just a haunting second held dark circles from late nights- strong line of crimson lined his under-eyes. The shine of his round glasses hid his face away when he turned from you.
Then he struck the keys again.
“Quiet. Would you please?”
His voice was soft. It was alluring, distant, laced with a sour disdain.
“I..” you looked around in panic, “I didn't say anything? I mean, I know I was yelling earlier but just now I wasn't-"
“your breathing.” That sleek tone fizzled into a hiss, “it's distracting me.” You covered your mouth in embarrassment, you hadn't been breathing that loudly- right? “What could you possibly want?”
You slowly lowered your hands with shaky breath, “Just.. wondering if I could stay here- until this storm passes. That's all.” you carried on meekly, “I won't bother you; you won't even know I'm here!"
He shifted his body around, facing you. His long black trenchcoat flared out as he spun.
He eyed you with annoyance and a twinge of confusion, “You live here.”
“Pardon?”
There was another pause, until he spoke again, “You're the housekeeper, aren't you? You've got a room and everything, if this is another one of your jokes I'm not amused,” he began to turn away again, “I told you not to interrupt me when I'm busy.”
"I'm sorry, I think you misheard me or-"
"Misheard? I shouldn't have to hear you at all right now."
"But I'm not- we dont-"
"Quit distracting me!" He waved you off without looking at you, "leave before I drag you out myself!"
You took a step back, startled. Well... you certainly didn't want that.
You didn't feel like talking to that asshole anymore anyway. He hid himself behind the large collar of his coat as you turned heel and left, leaving back down the tall hallway. The giant doors swung to a close behind you. For a guy wearing glasses, he sure was blind- who mistakes a complete stranger for their housekeeper? He didn't even give you a second to hear you out.
From the state of the mansion, you doubted this place had a housekeeper to begin with.
This mistake at least bought you a bit of time out the rain, you decided you'd make the most out of this. You'd never been in a building so fancy, perhaps this would be a fun experience. You wandered aimlessly looking for a spare bedroom, preferably the room of the supposed housekeeper. But, none of the rooms were labelled.
Your curious hands traced over passing countertops and windowsills. Resting everywhere were notes and old papers, just like the ones around the piano.
Alot of them were ripped, burnt, ruined, scrunched. And curiously, with nothing better to do, you unravelled them for a gander. It was mostly music sheets, impossibly frantic and deathly difficult. No human could possibly decipher or play any of this!
What caught you were the brash annotations around the staves.
"Horrible!" With a scraggily arrow drawn towards a scribbled out section.
"Sounds like total shit! GET BETTER!" With indication of a broken pen as half a sheet was drenched in splattered ink.
This was the kind of stuff you'd imagine a bully from a movie to write. It was insanely pessimistic, dramatic, it almost made you feel bad about yourself. With that in mind, you picked up as many of these as possible on you way and did that rotten homeowner a favour by tossing it in a bin. If they were important, he wouldn't have left them lying about.
The last paper you picked up, you turned it around in your hands. "Reynolds" it was signed at the bottom. Poor Reynolds. Having their worked endlessly critiqued. Surely it didn't actually sound that bad, whoever was writing all this "criticism" definitely just had it out for them. You balled it up and tossed it away with the rest.
You wandered through galleries, kitchens, pantries, a ridiculously large dining hall, before eventually arriving in a red lounge. You were met with silk cushions and velvet sofas, immediately you found a seat and sunk into the vintage furniture with aching feet.
What a wreck. This was surely the strangest experience you'd had in a long while, it'd make a good story to tell at parties though!
…if you went to parties. You never got invited out a lot. You didn't mind, you enjoyed the quiet life. You didn't need other people, right?
Other people were just like that wierdo housekeeper. Mean, cold, with no reason. You couldn't decipher it. There was no understanding social interactions. Try as you might, you couldn't force yourself to be the social butterfly you'd always wanted to be; to fit in with other people. They always made it look so easy. Their confidence, their humour, their energy: even if you copied it to the atom you'd still get treated differently, like you were doing it all wrong. Miraculously you'd assembled a small team of friends to get you by these past few years, through vaguely similar interests and lucky seating arrangements. They weren't antagonistic towards your awkward nature, but they weren't encouraging either. Just sort of there, because you'd asked.
Where were they now? Were they looking for you?
..
You couldn't bare to have that question answered.
You watched the clock through half-lidded eyes. It read 11 o'clock. Well, that was surely an eventful halloween. You awaited the ticking, tick tick ticking, that usually came with clocks. But it never arrived. Maybe it was just a nice quiet clock… in its silence, you drifted off to sleep, melting into the soft pillows and rich, velvet cushions.
Your still-wet hair draped over the furniture.