Chapter Text
One.
The trees are still naked, skeletal by the sides of the winding country road as Blaine drives the borrowed SUV further and further upstate. The temperature has been mild over the past week, but there are still random piles of dirty, half-melted snow here and there in the ditches and fields and amongst the trees.
Blaine slows to a crawl, heeding the signs as he navigates the car around a particularly treacherous bend in the road, Brittany flopping to one side in the backseat behind him. “That's what those handles are for,” she says, and Artie heaves a sigh from the passenger seat and crosses his arms over his chest.
Blaine is tempted to remind him that it was his idea, after all, this trip, that he had reiterated over and over at increasing levels of enthusiasm and desperation that he needed to come up here to film his documentary project, and that he needed Blaine's help. He couldn't be left at the mercy of Brittany and her frighteningly absentminded driving, or to her nonsensical conversation, and please would Blaine save him from all of that. And Blaine had eventually caved, though he'd secretly wanted to from the start. The need to avoid the city and his brother's pestering him to visit was at the forefront of his mind.
To be fair, Artie had gotten the idea for his documentary from Brittany herself, though he had jumped on board almost immediately. This confused Blaine initially. Artie seems exasperated by Brittany most of the time, and ghosts and hauntings are a little out there for someone like Artie who has a very scientific way of going about things. He'd lost his confusion when Artie had taken him aside and explained that he intended to debunk the ghost story with his project, not give it any weight. Blaine is pretty sure that Artie did not share this intel with Brittany, who has been gifting them with stories of her ghostly adventures and fantastic Ouija board skills since they left the city hours before.
Brittany is an odd girl who lives in Artie's building and is a student at the New York Academy of Dance. Artie told Blaine that he had once dated her, but she doesn't seem to remember having done so, so Blaine isn't quite sure what to think. He's not quite sure what to think of Brittany in general most of the time, especially when she begins telling him for the dozenth time that she is a powerful psychic medium who is sensitive to the spirit world and has the ability to call them forth from the abyss. Whatever that means.
“Artie, you're gonna be so glad you've got me with you. Maybe you'll be the first ever director to catch a real, live ghost on film. You'll be like Ghost Busters only cuter and more like a robot.”
Blaine has to hold back a smile when he catches Artie's eye roll in his peripheral vision. “I can't believe I had sex with her,” Artie says. He's quiet, but not quiet enough that Brittany doesn't overhear.
“We had sex?” she asks. Blaine can make out her furrowed brow in the rear view mirror. “Was it on the astral plane?”
Artie half turns to glance over his shoulder to where she is leaning forward over the console. “No, pretty sure it was on this one,” he says, all seriousness, and Blaine has to bite his lip this time to keep from breaking into laughter.
They stop for gas on the outskirts of a small town. As Blaine fills up the tank, he watches Brittany lift Artie from the passenger seat and into his chair with amazing ease and wheel him into the store. They are an odd pair to be sure, but as Blaine had settled into his life in New York, they had quickly become his favourites.
He met Artie at Tisch, where he was recruiting acting students to appear in a short film he was working on for one of his classes at the film school he attended in Brooklyn. They had hit it off immediately and become fast friends, Blaine starring in the last three of Artie's projects, that ranged from science fiction to comedy to some sort of art film that Blaine still doesn't really get. But he doesn't mind. It's good experience for him and he likes working with Artie. He'd ended up moving in with him at the end of his first year, and subsequently met Brittany.
Just as he's sliding the nozzle back into the slot on the side of the gas pump, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
Cooper is written across the screen of his phone when he pulls it out and Blaine is tempted to ignore the call. He's tempted, but common courtesy appeals to his better nature and he slides his finger across the screen with a sigh and holds the phone to his ear.
“Hey, Coop,” he says. It comes out sounding tired, but at least not as annoyed as he actually feels.
“Blainey! How's my baby brother?”
“I'm fine. A bit tired, but fine.”
“Good, good,” Cooper says, sounding far off and muffled and like he paid little attention to Blaine's answer. “So, you never got back to me about those spring break plans, Squirt. You were supposed to let me know if you could come out here to sunny LA and visit. I want to show you everything. I promise you'll never want to leave, and I found you the perfect agent, Blainey. A great guy—”
“Cooper, I told you I'm not moving in with you. I'm finishing school and staying in New York.”
“Blaine, school is—”
“A waste of time. I know that's what you think, Coop, but I'm actually enjoying it and finding it very useful. And I'm not interested in doing what you do. The stage—”
Cooper interrupts with a rude noise and Blaine clenches his jaw. “Theatre is dead, Blaine. How many times have I told you that? I know you love to sing, but maybe you could work that into a film role here and there. Or even a commercial franchise the way I have. Come on, I've found you an agent, Blainey.”
Blaine leans against the warmth of the SUV and shuts his eyes. Cooper has been insufferable over the past year, trying to finagle Blaine into moving out to LA with him, promises of film roles and TV pilots and untold men on his lips. He'd even called when drunk in the middle of the night to sing It's Raining Men into the phone until Blaine had gotten fed up and hung up on him. He'd gone to visit Cooper the summer before moving to New York for college, and he is well aware of the truth: Cooper likes to live beyond his means and he needs help paying the bills. Help with the bills and a free assistant, which Blaine had all but become during that summer visit.
“I can't anyway, Coop,” he says finally. “I'm spending my break helping a film school friend make a documentary in Upstate New York. I'm there now, actually. We've just stopped to fuel up and take another look at our map.”
“Oh.” Cooper's voice has dimmed with the news. “Well, a documentary is good. Are you lending your voice to tell the tale? We could practise together. You could use help sounding solemn, you know.”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I'm basically just driving him up here and helping with equipment and things. No voice overs required. I figured it would give me a chance to relax and maybe take some photographs. I haven't done that in so long, and Mom and Dad got me an amazing camera for Christmas last year.”
Cooper sighs into the phone and Blaine feels guilty, though he knows he shouldn't. Any predicament that Cooper has got himself into is far from his fault, and though he loves his brother, he needs to figure things out on his own. It's not Blaine's job to be his keeper.
“Okay, Blainey. Well, maybe we'll see each other this summer then.”
“Of course, Coop. I'd love to see you, you know that. California, it's just not feasible for me right now. I'm busy, and I'd only wind up being more tired when I got back than I was before I left. We'd have way too much fun.”
Cooper sounds bright again when he responds. “We would indeed, little brother. The Andersons take on LA? The town would never recover!”
A small smile curves up Blaine's lips just as Artie wheels himself over, a tray of drinks balanced on his lap.
“I've got to go, Coop. My friends are finished inside and it's time to get a move on. I'll talk to you soon, okay?”
“Sure thing, Blainey. Love ya.”
“I love you, too, Coop. Bye.”
He feels more content as he ends the call and slips his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. He hates fighting with his brother, and things have been tense lately.
“Hey, Artie,” Blaine greets. “Ready to get back on the road?”
“Actually, Brittany started talking to the people inside and apparently we missed the entrance a couple of miles back. But no worries, because these people have stories, Blaine. They sound like a bunch of loons, but I gotta get this stuff on film. Help me with my camera?”
And so they end up in the field next to the store, Artie behind the camera, interviewing a man who owns the place.
“No one from town wants to deliver out there anymore,” the man is saying. “My cousin, Paul, he went out there to work on the electricity last summer, and he won't even speak of the place. They should have left that house to rot after the last of the Dresdens died. No good can come of it. You kids shouldn't go up there. The tourists come and go, hoping for a good story to tell their buddies at home, but they only see things they never want to repeat. I'm telling you.”
“What sorts of things do they see, sir?” Artie asks, all politeness, but it's plain to see that he doesn't believe the man.
“Blood and screams and that poor girl what was killed up there all those years ago. Now Jack Dresden, he got off on the murder charge — the maid, she said he'd been running up the stairs and not down after she went over the roof. But the maid, she worked for the Dresdens, didn't she? That's no proof, I say. The people in town said the same. And after it was all said and done, Jack Dresden went nutty, wound up in the booby hatch, didn't he? They said it wasn't murder, but something funny happened there that night, and that house hasn't been silent since. Not even when it was left vacant for damn near thirty years.”
Back in the car, Artie turns to Blaine with an evil grin spread across his face. “Dis gon be good,” he says, rubbing his hands together.
“What's a booby hatch?” Brittany asks, snapping on her seat belt. “And are we gonna solve the mystery?”
Blaine meets her eye in the rear view mirror and smiles, shrugging, then turns the key in the ignition. Artie starts talking about fake traps and light projections and voice recordings to scare the tourists and how he's going to uncover it all, and Blaine suddenly feels as though he's wandered into an episode of Scooby Doo. And he figures, since he's driving, that must make him Fred. Artie is obviously Velma, and Brittany... she gets to be both Shaggy and Scooby, he supposes. Now, if only he had a Daphne...
Clearly he is exhausted from the long drive and needs a good night's rest.
It isn't any wonder they missed the sign to Dresden Hollows when they passed by the first time. It is small and nondescript, the font difficult to make out. It's a long, bumpy way in from the main road, over a tall hill and down into a valley that Blaine thinks will be very beautiful once the trees have all budded and the flowers bloomed. For now it is tarnished by the winter, brown and sleeping, the only specks of colour that of the sky and the numerous evergreens. Even the water of the small, private lake seems drained of its blue.
They come upon the house slowly. The estate is immense, sprawling across acres, the house itself large and stone and foreboding. There are tennis courts and stables and low, brick buildings that once must have housed animals but are now crumbling into disrepair. The house, however, looks strong and well kept. Blaine remembers reading on the website that it had more than twenty suites of rooms, as well as a ballroom, an enormous dining room the size of a New York City restaurant, and an indoor pool.
There are a dozen people on staff, some of whom live right on site, others who travel in from the nearby town. The place is exclusive — only welcoming ten guests at a time, and boasting a long waiting list. Blaine wonders again how Brittany managed to procure them three spots in that esteemed ten, and on such unbelievably short notice. Sometimes he thinks that maybe she is as magical as she claims to be.
He pulls up in front and turns off the engine. They are greeted by a large guy about their age, sporting a leather jacket and a mohawk. “Noah Puckerman,” the guys says. “You can call me Puck. I'll get your stuff and take it to your rooms for ya. And I'll get your truck into the garage before it starts to rain.”
Blaine looks up at the clear, blue sky before giving Puck a quizzical look. He shrugs his shoulder and holds his hand out for the keys. “Always happens, guy,” he says. “Always.”
Blaine hands them over and helps Brittany get Artie's chair out of the back, and they're soon on their way inside.
Blaine looks up at the impressive façade of the main house. It's staggering in size up close— all grey stone and mortar that looks as though it's been arranged by hand. There are black, wrought iron lattices around the numerous windows and lining the widow's walk on the roof of the house. The double front doors are made of some heavy, dark wood and there is an old fashioned bell hanging to the right of them. Blaine looks at the bell and is about to ask Artie if he thinks they should ring it, when Brittany gets an excited look on her face and pushes through them and opens the doors.
The foyer is beautiful, with marble floors and dark wood and grand chandeliers. There must be several stained glass windows near the entrance that Blaine did not take notice of, for they are casting multicoloured shapes all over the walls and floor and wide, curving staircase.
A tiny woman with short, grey hair approaches them with a broad smile. “Hello,” she greets. “My name is Jan. Welcome to Dresden Hollows.”
They chat with Jan as she checks them in, finding the reservation under Brittany's name in her computer. “Just a word of warning,” she says, watching Artie playing with his cell phone. “Cell service is pretty spotty out here— you have to hike up to the top of the hill to get a clear signal at the best of times. At the worst of them, well, the weather often puts it out completely. We get storms in this valley the likes of which the surrounding towns never see.”
“Due to the ghosts you mean?” Artie asks. She eyes him with a slight smile on her lips.
“Ah, a sceptic. We see many of you at check-in, my dear. Unfortunately, when you leave you tend not to be quite so sceptical anymore.”
“Well I will be more than happy to be convinced,” Artie replies, and Jan laughs wholeheartedly.
She gets the room keys from below her desk and hands one to each of them. They are long and old fashioned like skeleton keys. Blaine finds that his feels heavy in his hand, and he quite likes the weight of it. He slips it into his pocket for safekeeping.
“I've put all of you young people— your group as well as another threesome from the city— all in the west wing of the manor. The older folks I'll be setting up in the east side, and the few staff members who stay on here at the manor are in the back, in the old servants' quarters. That's myself and my wife, Liz, and my two nephews— one of whom you will have just met outside upon your arrival. Then there are the Roses, the mother and daughter chef duo who run our kitchens. They are very good. I snatched them up when the one and only French restaurant in town closed this past Fall. And of course there's Emma.”
Jan motions to her right where a petite woman with large eyes and soft, waving auburn hair now stands. “Emma will show you to your rooms. Please feel free to ring for me or any of the other staff should you need anything at all. We dress for dinner, which will be served promptly at 7:30 in the dining room.”
When they reach the third floor and slide across the metal door of the rickety old elevator, Blaine spots a heavy, wide door with interesting scroll work around the frame. “Where does that lead?” he asks Emma, and she begins shaking her head, he huge eyes growing to impossible size.
“Just to the attic,” she says, still shaking her head. “You don't want to go up there. It's the only part of the house that hasn't been renovated. Dirty messes and dust and spiders.” She visibly shudders and Blaine is about to leave it be, but then he remembers an interesting bit of architecture he'd noticed on the house.
“Is that how you access the widow's walk on the roof?” he asks.
She nods her head. “Though I doubt it's safe these days.”
“It's strange, isn't it? A widow's walk on a house that isn't on the coast? I've never heard of it before.”
“Oh, I don't know about that,” Emma says. She gives him a look almost like a warning, then turns aside to show Brittany her room. Blaine stares at the door to the attic, determined that he will ask Jan about it later. He could get some very good shots of the entire valley from the top of the roof.
Blaine's room is cool and spacious. There are several long, narrow windows that reach nearly all the way from ceiling to floor and are hung with dark mustard drapes that match the walls, which are painted a light custard yellow. The furniture is all heavy, dark wood and of an old fashioned make, including a huge four-poster bed that looks soft and inviting. Blaine wants to leap onto it like a child and bury himself in the mountain of throw pillows and sleep until morning, only dinner is being served in a little over an hour and Blaine would never think of being so impolite. Besides, he thinks as his stomach gives a low grumble, it's been hours since he's had something substantial to eat and eating on the go never makes him feel satisfyingly full. So instead of burrowing into the lovely, crisp bed, he locates his bags, which have been placed helpfully in one corner, and sets off into the ensuite bathroom with his toiletries to freshen up.
He's tempted to give himself a fresh shave before dinner, but exhaustion wins out and he places his shaving kit on the marble counter of the vanity for the next morning, before stripping out of his wrinkled clothes and stepping into the shower.
Brittany and Artie are already in the dining room when Blaine arrives, though it doesn't seem as though he is the last, as there are four empty seats along the vast, elegant table. Jan sits at one end, but the other end seat remains vacant. To Jan's immediate right sits Artie, and Brittany next to him. Blaine nods and smiles at Jan before sliding into the seat between Brittany and an old woman with a deeply lined face and what appears to be a tiny dog in a bag on her lap.
“Constance,” she says to him. He's not sure if she's introducing herself or the dog, but he gives his name and a smile nonetheless.
Artie is making conversation with Jan and a small brunette who sits to Jan's left, but Blaine can't spare them more than a meagre glance once he sees who is sitting directly across from him.
He looks like an actor or a model, his face a fine, delicately chiseled structure of sharp edges and soft curves. His hair is artfully swooped upward, a thick mass of light brown shot through with a wide array of colours, darker browns and reds and golds. He has an interesting nose, slightly wide at the base, and almond shaped, twinkling eyes that are a strange bluish grey colour, or maybe even green. “I'm Kurt Hummel,” Blaine hears him say in a soft voice before his full, pink lips curve upwards in a hint of a smile.
“Um... Blaine. Anderson,” Blaine stutters out, and Brittany giggles at him from his side.
“I know, right? He's pretty like a mermaid,” she leans in to whisper, and Blaine feels his face heat up as Kurt Hummel quirks an eyebrow, obviously having overheard.
“That's all of us for tonight then,” Jan says, interrupting before Blaine can become any more embarrassed in front of this gorgeous guy. “My wife, Liz, is still in town, and our final two guests, the Forresters, are not arriving until tomorrow. We're such a small group that I always find it nice if we go around and introduce ourselves on our first night. And yes, before you ask, before I retired into the haunted hotel business, I was, in fact, a school teacher.”
Everyone chuckles and Jan lifts her glass and toasts the group. Blaine fumbles for his wine, nearly upsetting it on the table, and takes a drink with a shaky hand. He can feel eyes on him, and he's pretty sure they're not those of the infamous Dresden Hollows ghosts. He's not quite certain which he would prefer at the moment, since he can't seem to control his own limbs or string together a coherent sentence. He takes a deep, calming breath and looks with polite interest at the brunette to Jan's left, who is beginning the introductions.
“I'm Rachel Berry,” she says. “I'm here from New York City, originally from Ohio, and I'm in my junior year at the New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts, where I study musical theatre. My future plans include someday winning a Tony, an Emmy and an Oscar, and maybe even marketing my own fragrance.”
She stops and gives everyone a wide, toothy show smile, and Blaine feels almost as though he ought to applaud. Jan thanks her and the girl next to her sits up straighter in her chair with a blasé look on her face.
“Santana Lopez,” she says. “I came up here with my two roommates because they're obsessed with the ghost of some dead Broadway chick. As if our day to day life doesn't decimate the charts with its insane levels of supreme gay, we're spending spring break ghost hunting for some song and dance broad from the damn stone ages instead of gettin' our tan on somewhere tropical and with lots of bikini-clad ladies I can ogle. As you can see, I'm not incredibly impressed. The only possible bright spot is watching them get so worked up by their ridiculous imaginations that they piss themselves in fright and shriek like preteen girls during a Saw movie marathon. Especially you, Lady Hummel,” she adds, turning to Kurt. “I like it when you shriek. The Oompa Loompa's shrieks I can live without.” She pokes her thumb at Rachel, who rolls her eyes.
“Well I do hope we can change your mind, Santana,” Jan says with an amused smile.
Kurt is so busy glaring down at his roommate that he forgets it's his turn for a second. When he realizes his mistake, his face washes with a lovely pale pink and he flutters his hands adorably. Blaine can't stop from smiling at him, which Kurt notices and returns before speaking.
“Hello, my name is Kurt Hummel,” he greets the table with a little wave. “I also study musical theatre at NYADA with Rachel, and I work part-time at vogue.com. I do admit to being the slightest bit obsessed with the stories of Evelyn Parker, a Broadway actress who died in this house, and that maybe Rachel and I have been on the waiting list to stay here since freshman year.” He grins over at Rachel, who reaches behind Santana's back to grasp his shoulder. Santana rolls her eyes and downs the last of her wine.
The lady next to Blaine skips over the young guy beside Kurt altogether, and introduces him as well as herself. “I'm Constance. That's my grandson, Toby, and he looks after me because he wants my money when I die—”
“Gram,” Toby interrupts, eyes wide.
She waves him away and holds up the bag in her lap. “This here is Woofer. He's my pride and joy. If I could leave all my money to Woofer, I sure as hell would.” And she takes a piece of her dinner roll and feeds it to the tiny dog, who lets out a growl of thanks.
The table is silent for a long moment, and when it seems that Constance is indeed finished speaking, Blaine clears his throat next to her, wondering how exactly he's going to follow that.
“I'm Blaine Anderson. I go to Tisch. I came here with my friends for some peace and quiet and to take some photographs of this gorgeous estate.”
Jan nods kindly at him. “Do you study photography at school, Blaine?”
“Oh, no, it's only a hobby of mine. My grandfather left me his collection of antique cameras when he passed away, and I caught the bug. I'm actually studying drama and music, much like Kurt and Rachel there.”
He catches Kurt's eye and they share another smile just as two people come in through the swinging door from the kitchen and begin serving the soup.
“I'm Brittany,” Blaine hears from next to him, though he continues to watch Kurt. “I'm a medium. And not, like, my dress size, even though that's a medium, too. I mean, like, a psychic medium. I'm very sensitive to the other side and I can tell that this house has at least one spirit, which may or may not be malevolent.”
Kurt's eyebrows shoot up higher and higher as Brittany makes her little speech, until they are resting practically in his hair. Blaine takes a spoonful of soup to avoid the laughter that wants to bubble up out of his throat.
“Artie Abrams, student of film from NYC. I'm here making a documentary about hauntings, and I would super appreciate any help, interviews, information any of you could give me.”
“Of course, Artie,” Jan says, her eyes alight. “I would love to. Let me know whenever you'd like, and I am more than willing to be interviewed.”
“Oh yes,” Rachel agrees. “As long as I'm given full credit for my work, I will sign whatever actors' releases you have for me.”
“Actors' releases,” Santana repeats with a scoff. “As you can already see, Cripps McGee, you're gonna get a real and true account from Miss Babs Streisand wannabe over here.”
“Get thee back, Satan,” Kurt hisses at her and she laughs, leaning over to pinch his cheek. “You'll have to forgive her,” Kurt says. “She was raised in a barn. A very fancy barn with skylights and a pool, but a barn nonetheless.”
“Oh, Prancey, stop trying to be funny,” Santana says with a grin, and reaches across to steal Kurt's glass of wine.
Blaine catches Kurt's eye and winks and is pleased to find that Kurt's face goes pink again.
After the second course, Blaine is feeling pleasantly full and reaches for his yet untouched glass of water. Unlike the others at the table, his is wet with condensation, but when he encloses his fingers around it, he finds that it is not cold to the touch as he had been expecting. In fact, the water inside is tepid when he takes a drink. He places it back down on the table, watching as his finger marks lengthen and drip down the side of the glass. There is no reason for it to be sweating, and yet it is.
He stares at the glass for several moments, and when he looks up, Kurt is watching him. “Mine isn't cold,” he says.
“Neither is mine,” Blaine replies, and Kurt reaches across to rest his fingers against Blaine's glass. He pulls back with a puzzled hum and their finger marks sweat and mingle together.