Halloween Night, 2014
Hastings, England
The best things in life are free, or so they say. They're not usually referring to four-bedroomed, Grade-Two listed Victorian houses when they say it, though. But that was exactly what had happened to Katrina Clarke - Kit to her friends. Around a month ago, following her grandmother's funeral, she had been contacted by the family's solicitor and informed that she had been given a bequest in the will. That bequest being ....this beautiful Victorian red brick house, with all maintenance and utility bills paid each month out of the old woman's estate, conditional upon the house never being left to stand empty for more than a year and never being sold on during Katrina's own lifetime.
It was a gift she was utterly staggered by, and despite the odd rumors surrounding the place, she certainly wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Ignoring her friends' laughing warnings about the rumored ghost, and her own faint misgivings spurred on by a memory from her childhood, she had moved herself in at the first available opportunity. The first night had been difficult - she had stayed here before, when she was around six years old, and had a lingering memory of an unknown man watching her from the doorway. But there had been no incidents that first night she took ownership, or any other since.
She had the occasional feeling that she was being watched, usually when she was moving some of the antique furniture around, and there had been a distinct sense of disapproval on the day she had sold the beds and replaced them with beds that didn't creak or groan, and had mattresses that you couldn't play Oranges and Lemons on the springs with your backside installed. She chalked these feelings up to not quite feeling at home yet in the big empty house, dismissing her friends' teases about the supposed ghost and the wild theories they kept coming up with to explain why her grandmother had left Katrina the house in the first place.
A haunted house, real or not, was the perfect venue for a Halloween party, however, and it didn't take much to talk Kit into throwing a costumed house-warming on the spookiest night of the year. For the first time in decades, the old house was alive with people, music, and a lot of laughter, as ghouls, zombies, witches, and every other costume you could name partied to celebrate Kit's remarkable good fortune.
The house was alive with people and laughter for the first time in many long years, just as it once was, long ago, before anyone could remember. There were few remnants left of those days, but for a few pieces of antique furniture and an old portrait that hung of some lovely, but unknown woman that hung in a place of honor. The story went that each time anyone had tried to move it, some accident or other befell them which was attributed to the ghost that haunted the place, and after a few failed attempts, the portrait was left in place and never touched again. If anyone were to dig into the history of the old house, they'd find a story there, but the old lady who had made her home there had long since made peace with the ghost, or at least, found a way to live amicably within these walls without offending it.
"So who is she?" a cheerfully tipsy Jedi asked Kit, managing to catch her on her way past to gesture wildly toward the portrait that hung above the fireplace in the main living room.
Kit, her witch's hat still somehow settled at a jaunty angle on her head, looked up at the picture with a roll of her eyes. "No idea," she told her friend with a grin. "It's been hanging there for years! I sort of like it, though - not her, she's got a face like a bitter lemon - but the background and the detail. I don't spend much time in here, anyway!" She dissolved into giggles, possibly alcohol fueled, but more likely just spurred on by the prevalent silliness running through the house.
"She was the mistress of the house," a decidedly male voice broke in, almost as if appearing out of nowhere. He had a distinct voice one would never forget once they'd heard it - deep, yet soft, and with a decidedly proper, almost old-fashioned, lilt to his way of speaking. Unlike the people dressed as ghouls and zombies and witches that crowded the house, he was dressed in period costume, in what appeared to be some sort of military uniform, complete with brimmed hat bearing some sort of insignia on the front of it. "Her name was Isabelle. Isabelle Nichols." Whoever this stranger was, he seemed to know a lot more about the house than its current or even previous owner.
Surprised, witch and Jedi turned around to look at the unexpected interrupter. Kit felt her jaw drop, hastily closing her mouth before she could embarrass herself too much. She didn't have the faintest idea who he was, but he was gorgeous. He also seemed to be ever so slightly out of place at the party, despite the effort he'd made with his outfit.
"Great costume, mate," the unnamed Jedi complimented him, and made his escape, plunging into the dancers nearest him and leaving Kit to blush in embarrassment as she glanced up at the portrait once again.
"It's nice to know someone remembers her, at least," she shrugged. "I don't think we've met - I'm Kit." She offered the stranger her hand in a friendly manner, blue eyes bright with interest.
"Perhaps," he replied, with mild interest as he gazed up at the portrait, before turning to face her again. He seemed to hesitate a moment as she offered her hand, as if he was unsure whether or not to take it. "Randal," he said as he closed one hand about hers, offering no last name or explanation as to who he was or why he was here, uninvited or not. "My sincere condolences on your grandmother's passing. She was a kind and noble soul."
She squeezed his hand, her own callused from years of working with wood, chisels, and knives. "Thank you," she smiled in answer to his condolences. "It's odd that you knew her. I'm sure I've never met you before, and I used to come here a lot. I'm not saying you're lying, not at all," she rushed to make clear, blushing once again as she made a pig's ear of the conversation. She sighed, laughing at herself. "Would you like a drink, Randal?"
He only smiled at her statement, no explanation asked of or offered. There was that moment of brief hesitation again when she offered him a drink. "Yes, thank you. I think I would." It had, after all, been a very long time since he'd been able to enjoy such things as food and drink, and it would be a damned shame to waste such a rare opportunity as this.
Showing off sweet dimples in her cheeks, Kit smiled, gesturing for him to join her. "Then come with me." Despite her distinct lack of height, even in the heeled boots she wore, she somehow managed to pick her way through the disparate groups of people partying happily to locate the kitchen. It was quieter in here, only one or two people lingering to grab themselves something to drink before they rejoined the party. Kit glanced over her shoulder, hoping she hadn't lost Randal in the crush. "What tickles your fancy?"
At a few inches taller than six feet, he towered over the petite young woman, garnering not only looks but whispers by a few other guests as they passed through the crowd. He stood out like a sore thumb in his military uniform, and no one seemed to have a clue who he was or where he'd come from. "Tickles my fancy?" he echoed, as if he was unfamiliar with the phrase and had to take a moment to sort it out. "I've always been rather fond of brandy," he replied, as though he expected that to be one of the choices offered.
It was a gift she was utterly staggered by, and despite the odd rumors surrounding the place, she certainly wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Ignoring her friends' laughing warnings about the rumored ghost, and her own faint misgivings spurred on by a memory from her childhood, she had moved herself in at the first available opportunity. The first night had been difficult - she had stayed here before, when she was around six years old, and had a lingering memory of an unknown man watching her from the doorway. But there had been no incidents that first night she took ownership, or any other since.
She had the occasional feeling that she was being watched, usually when she was moving some of the antique furniture around, and there had been a distinct sense of disapproval on the day she had sold the beds and replaced them with beds that didn't creak or groan, and had mattresses that you couldn't play Oranges and Lemons on the springs with your backside installed. She chalked these feelings up to not quite feeling at home yet in the big empty house, dismissing her friends' teases about the supposed ghost and the wild theories they kept coming up with to explain why her grandmother had left Katrina the house in the first place.
A haunted house, real or not, was the perfect venue for a Halloween party, however, and it didn't take much to talk Kit into throwing a costumed house-warming on the spookiest night of the year. For the first time in decades, the old house was alive with people, music, and a lot of laughter, as ghouls, zombies, witches, and every other costume you could name partied to celebrate Kit's remarkable good fortune.
The house was alive with people and laughter for the first time in many long years, just as it once was, long ago, before anyone could remember. There were few remnants left of those days, but for a few pieces of antique furniture and an old portrait that hung of some lovely, but unknown woman that hung in a place of honor. The story went that each time anyone had tried to move it, some accident or other befell them which was attributed to the ghost that haunted the place, and after a few failed attempts, the portrait was left in place and never touched again. If anyone were to dig into the history of the old house, they'd find a story there, but the old lady who had made her home there had long since made peace with the ghost, or at least, found a way to live amicably within these walls without offending it.
"So who is she?" a cheerfully tipsy Jedi asked Kit, managing to catch her on her way past to gesture wildly toward the portrait that hung above the fireplace in the main living room.
Kit, her witch's hat still somehow settled at a jaunty angle on her head, looked up at the picture with a roll of her eyes. "No idea," she told her friend with a grin. "It's been hanging there for years! I sort of like it, though - not her, she's got a face like a bitter lemon - but the background and the detail. I don't spend much time in here, anyway!" She dissolved into giggles, possibly alcohol fueled, but more likely just spurred on by the prevalent silliness running through the house.
"She was the mistress of the house," a decidedly male voice broke in, almost as if appearing out of nowhere. He had a distinct voice one would never forget once they'd heard it - deep, yet soft, and with a decidedly proper, almost old-fashioned, lilt to his way of speaking. Unlike the people dressed as ghouls and zombies and witches that crowded the house, he was dressed in period costume, in what appeared to be some sort of military uniform, complete with brimmed hat bearing some sort of insignia on the front of it. "Her name was Isabelle. Isabelle Nichols." Whoever this stranger was, he seemed to know a lot more about the house than its current or even previous owner.
Surprised, witch and Jedi turned around to look at the unexpected interrupter. Kit felt her jaw drop, hastily closing her mouth before she could embarrass herself too much. She didn't have the faintest idea who he was, but he was gorgeous. He also seemed to be ever so slightly out of place at the party, despite the effort he'd made with his outfit.
"Great costume, mate," the unnamed Jedi complimented him, and made his escape, plunging into the dancers nearest him and leaving Kit to blush in embarrassment as she glanced up at the portrait once again.
"It's nice to know someone remembers her, at least," she shrugged. "I don't think we've met - I'm Kit." She offered the stranger her hand in a friendly manner, blue eyes bright with interest.
"Perhaps," he replied, with mild interest as he gazed up at the portrait, before turning to face her again. He seemed to hesitate a moment as she offered her hand, as if he was unsure whether or not to take it. "Randal," he said as he closed one hand about hers, offering no last name or explanation as to who he was or why he was here, uninvited or not. "My sincere condolences on your grandmother's passing. She was a kind and noble soul."
She squeezed his hand, her own callused from years of working with wood, chisels, and knives. "Thank you," she smiled in answer to his condolences. "It's odd that you knew her. I'm sure I've never met you before, and I used to come here a lot. I'm not saying you're lying, not at all," she rushed to make clear, blushing once again as she made a pig's ear of the conversation. She sighed, laughing at herself. "Would you like a drink, Randal?"
He only smiled at her statement, no explanation asked of or offered. There was that moment of brief hesitation again when she offered him a drink. "Yes, thank you. I think I would." It had, after all, been a very long time since he'd been able to enjoy such things as food and drink, and it would be a damned shame to waste such a rare opportunity as this.
Showing off sweet dimples in her cheeks, Kit smiled, gesturing for him to join her. "Then come with me." Despite her distinct lack of height, even in the heeled boots she wore, she somehow managed to pick her way through the disparate groups of people partying happily to locate the kitchen. It was quieter in here, only one or two people lingering to grab themselves something to drink before they rejoined the party. Kit glanced over her shoulder, hoping she hadn't lost Randal in the crush. "What tickles your fancy?"
At a few inches taller than six feet, he towered over the petite young woman, garnering not only looks but whispers by a few other guests as they passed through the crowd. He stood out like a sore thumb in his military uniform, and no one seemed to have a clue who he was or where he'd come from. "Tickles my fancy?" he echoed, as if he was unfamiliar with the phrase and had to take a moment to sort it out. "I've always been rather fond of brandy," he replied, as though he expected that to be one of the choices offered.