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.

She giggled softly, hoping to reassure him. "Trust me, my guests can look after themselves," she assured him. "Besides, it's almost midnight. Everyone I should have spoken to, I have. Right now, I'm enjoying your company. And as you can see ....laughter I can provide." She smiled, gesturing to the happy crowd of friends enjoying the party through the doorway that led to the main rooms. "Love might be a little more tricky."

For the first time since appearing at the party, he found himself smiling. "Yes, well, that is the tricky part, isn't it?" he asked, seemingly in agreement. "You have not lived here long. What do you think of the old house, so far?" he asked, taking a sip of his newly-refilled drink, savoring it slowly this time around.

That smile certainly got Kit's attention. It lit up his entire face, turning what was a solemn expression into something light and warm, even if it was only for a moment. She caught herself blushing, concentrating on what he was saying so she didn't make a fool of herself. "It's a beautiful house," she nodded, looking around once again. "All the detailing is amazing to me. I work with wood, so I'm going to work on restoring some of the carvings if I can. It's a very big house for just one person to live in, though it never feels empty. The plumbing needs looking at, but apparently that's all paid for." She shrugged, still bemused by the bequest itself. "I do very much like it here."

"Yes, I've seen some of your work," he said, before realizing how that might sound. It was a simple statement of fact that anyone who knew of her and her work might have said. He followed her gaze to the woodwork and other details of the room. It was only the kitchen and yet there was a sort of old-fashioned charm about it. "The house was built with a woman in mind," he added, once again hinting that he knew something about the house and its history.

"Really?" Kit looked surprised - most of the people who knew her work had either bought it, or recommended her to someone else. "I didn't think anyone around here had actually come across anything I've done. I haven't been in circulation for very long, admittedly." She laughed at her own description of herself, finally remembering to pour herself a drink as they talked. "A woman?" she repeated, sharp mind making an intuitive leap. "That woman wouldn't be hanging in my living room, would she?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. She was the first lady of the house," he replied. "Unfortunately, she did not live here long." He was frowning again, almost as if the story touched him far deeper than it should have, for just a story.

"Well, I hope she died, because if anyone built a house like this for me, I would marry him and have his babies even if he had severe syphilis and elephantitis," Kit replied, without thinking, not understanding his frown but deeply distrustful of anyone who didn't appreciate how much love and effort went into creating such a wonderful building as this one.

He seemed lost in thought - or maybe memory - for a moment, jerking his head up at her remark. Whatever look of amusement he'd worn on his face a little while ago, it was gone. She had no way of knowing how her unthinking remark hit so close to home. "She died, yes, but not here," he said, tossing back what remained of the whiskey in his glass. "If you will excuse me..." he said, with an odd tilt of his head. "It was a pleasure to meet you." He turned on a heel before she could protest and headed out of the kitchen.

Startled by his abrupt ending of the conversation, Kit only managed a string of incoherent sounds as he walked out of the kitchen, leaning back against the counter with a thump. "Great, just great," she muttered to herself. "As always, the wonderful art of foot in mouth is still my biggest claim to fame." She wasn't allowed to mope for long - friends came looking for her soon after, and though she kept her eyes open for any sign of Randal, she didn't see him again during the party.

It was nearly 4 o'clock by the time her guests were finally ushered out of the house, some promising to return the next day and help with the clean up. Kit waved off the last of them with a pleasantly inebriated smile, shutting the door and locking it securely before turning back to the house itself. It was a mess, yes, but she wasn't cleaning up tonight. Aware that she was just drunk enough to be a nuisance to herself, she made her way carefully along the hall and into the living room, her thoughts wandering back to the new acquaintance she had made, and certain speculations that had been forming all evening about what exactly he'd been hiding under that costume.

And there he was, almost as if he'd been waiting for her, sitting as quiet as death on the couch and gazing up at that hateful portrait - one he wished had never been hung there at all.

The last thing she had expected was to see the man whose physical attributes she'd been contemplating sitting on her couch as she swung herself around by the doorframe. Kit let out a distinct squeak of shock, tripped backwards over a discarded pouffe, and went down in a sprawl of arms and legs. Let's just say that when wearing a mini dress, thong, and stockings, the last place you want to end up is on your back with your legs in the air.

He hadn't meant to startle her, or maybe he had. He'd been sitting there for some time, waiting for the gaggle of guests to leave so that he could have a little peace and quiet again, despite his desire for the house to be filled with love and laughter. It was a bit much to take when one had become so accustomed to quiet and solitude. Startled, he disappeared into thin air only to reappear beside her, without having walked across the room. He was about to help her up when he caught a glimpse of her underthings and turned his back to give her some semblance of modesty. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh god ..." Pleasantly drunk and now with her own personal horizon askew, Kit missed the important part of that in favor of scrambling to tuck what she could of her skirt between her legs. Thankfully the dress didn't slide completely down, but she was certainly showing off more cleavage now. Laughing at her own clumsiness, she waved a hand at him. "No, it's fine," she promised him. "Help me up."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," he replied, his back still turned to her. He had to remind himself that it was just a costume party, and that women did not normally go around clad in barely anything - or so he thought. It had been a long time since he'd got more than a glimpse of current fashion trends.

She laughed, lying back with a breathless sigh. "Well, you either help me up, or I'm staying down here," she pointed out. "I may be a little bit drunk." Understatement of the year goes to Katrina Clarke - she was far beyond a little bit drunk.

"Nothing good ever comes of that," he said in that dry tone of his. "Are you properly clothed?" he asked, refusing to turn back around until she assured him of that.

"I don't know, some of the best nights of my life were made better with alcohol," she countered, clearly a happy drunk rather than a maudlin one. His question made her giggle as she looked down at herself. "Well, you can't see my panties."

There was a fierceness to the little woman in his arms he had no doubt never even imagined a woman to be capable of containing, much less sharing with so much passion. Inhibitions were taking a backseat, thanks to the alcohol; she hadn't once questioned how he had managed to stay behind after everyone else had left. She didn't care how he had done it, only that he had, and now he had kissed her, it was going to be difficult to put that genie back in its bottle.

Difficult for her, perhaps. For him, it was a matter of good breeding and a different set of rules. He was from another time, another era - a time when you didn't kiss a girl on the first date, much less sleep with her on the first meeting, and while she was not exactly a stranger to him, he was to her, not to mention the fact that she was under the influence of alcohol and didn't know what she was doing. "Kit," he said, forcibly pulling himself away from her grasp. "This isn't right." Though it sure felt right, so right, he didn't want it to end.

It was so easy to fall from want and desire to the acute burning feeling that came with rejection and embarrassment. Even drunk, Kit recognised the no, sharply pulling her arms away from him as he moved to extricate himself. Her cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment at having thrown herself at him so obviously, her eyes looking everywhere but at him. "I'm sorry." she apologised, tucking her arms about herself once again. "I, um ....I already locked the doors, I should probably walk you out before I make an even bigger fool of myself."

He sighed, recognizing the hurt in her eyes. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. It was a mistake. I didn't mean to hurt you. I never meant to hurt you or hurt anyone." He stepped back, as if he was afraid to be too close to her. What in blazes was he doing here" He only had a few hours of humanity left, a few hours before he returned to the unending loneliness that was his existence. "You don't need to walk me out. I know the way."

"But I need to lock the door behind you," she pointed out, feeling shy as the alcohol burned away under the heat of her own foolishness. "You didn't hurt me, Randal. I'm sorry for my behavior, and I hope I haven't damaged any chance of really getting to know you at a later date." How could she tell him that had been her first kiss in three years, and easily the most wonderful of her life"

He stepped forward, charmed by her sudden shyness and moved by her apology. He reached for her hand, in awe of the simple warmth of her touch, mortal flesh to mortal flesh. He felt the mortal burn of tears at the back of his eyes and a painful tightening in his chest, familiar and yet unfamiliar. "You've done nothing wrong. It is I who should be apologizing." He pressed her hand to his lips, lingering there for a moment as if he wanted to commit the moment to memory. "Thank you for tonight." Whatever had or hadn't happened between them, it seemed to have meant a lot to the young man.

Her eyes followed him closely as he took her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles, and quite suddenly, she realised she was on the verge of tears. He seemed so sad suddenly. "Randal, what?s wrong?" she asked him softly. "I want to help, if I can."

He smiled, though there was sadness in the smile. Sadness and regret. How he wished he could give her what she wanted, but that would only make things harder for them both. She hardly knew him, and if he did, she'd only think he was part of some strange nightmare, just as he had so many years ago. "You have helped more than you can ever know." He reluctantly let her hand go and stepped back again, glancing momentarily at the grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the room - one he'd bought himself and arranged to have brought here, once up a happier time, long, long ago. "I would like to visit you from time to time, if I may. If you would allow me that. Your grandmother knew me. We had many long talks together."

"I'd like that," Kit nodded, a shy flicker of a smile touching her face, daring to push her luck just once more. "Are you sure you don't want to help me into bed" I promise, it wouldn't have to mean anything, not if you don't want it to."

The smile softened, though the sadness was still there. "What I want and what is wise and proper are two very different things." He breathed a small sigh and tugged at the hem of his jacket to straighten it - an old habit. "If you don't mind, I'd like to just sit here for a while. I'll let myself out."

She bit her lip, chancing her arm just a little further. "Can't wise and proper take a night off on occasion?" she asked him quietly. "This isn't the Middle Ages, Randal. I'm not going to be stoned to death for acting on what is a very powerful impulse, and you're not going to be forced to marry me because of it." She stopped herself before it could turn into a quiet plea. She liked him, but she wasn't going to embarrass herself even further by begging him to sleep with her.

If he owed her anything, it was honesty, but he wasn't yet ready to be completely honest. "I'm afraid it's more complicated than that," he told her, though he wasn't saying why. "I....I'm not what I seem," he added, a strange choice of words - not he wasn't who he seemed, but wasn't what he seemed.

She raised a brow, considering his phrasing thoughtfully. "Well ....I'm dressed as a witch, and I'm very close to begging here," she pointed out. "I'm not what I seem, either. I promise you, I don't proposition every man I meet. I-I ....I tend not to notice men these days. I don't care what you are. You're special, that's what matters."

Oh, he was special all right. What would she say when she found out he was already dead" He glanced at the clock again and then at the window, a look of mild panic on his face - fear, dread, something slightly intangible but hovering there just under the surface. "I don't have much time. Can we-can we just sit here together a while?"

As determined as the little woman in front of him seemed to be, she also knew when to stop pushing. Disappointed, but no longer as frightfully embarrassed as she had been, she nodded, offering him a faint smile. "Of course," she assured him softly, not sure what was upsetting him so much, but not wanting to send him away in a bad state. She held out her hand to him, moving carefully toward the couch. Her mind might be clearer now, but her feet were still drunk.

"No," he said, as if suddenly changing his mind. "Not here." Not with that portrait watching them from above the mantel. "Show me your studio. I'd like to see your work," he suggested. In all honesty, he'd already been there and seen it, but not with her there to explain it all to him.

The request surprised her a little. She didn't recall mentioning that she kept a studio in the house, but then, any one of her friends could have told him if he had asked. She had been known to disappear in there for hours on end. "All right." Reversing her course, she led him across the hall and into what had been her grandmother's dining room.

Her first job on moving in had been to convert the space into a studio to work in, and it was now filled with the accoutrements of her trade. It smelled of wood shavings, the tools lined carefully up in their racks on the wall. A large piece of half-worked teak stood in the center of the room; half of it bore the rough beginnings of the relief she was carving into it, the other half was still smooth, dressed with the pencil drawing she had laid there to guide her strokes.

"The war happened," he said, something in the way he said it that might make her think he knew more of this story than he let on, that he had some intimate knowledge of it or was in some way part of it. "The Great War, they called it. The War to End All Wars."

For some reason, just the way he said it brought a thick lump to her throat, somehow keenly aware of the loss and horror of that apocalyptic conflict at the very beginning of the 20th century. She'd studied it in school, of course, but she could only remember one thing from those studies in any great detail. "They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old; age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them."

"Yes," he said, turning to look at her, a little surprised that she should recite such words as that, surprised someone of this day and age even remembered it. "But not all those who went away to war died in battle. Some tragedies happened right here at home." He shrugged as though it was unimportant, though that couldn't be further from the truth. "It was....horrific, but then, all wars are," he continued after a moment, turning back to face the fading night. "The man went away to war, as was his duty. He watched as comrade after comrade, friend after friend, was killed in battle....or worse." He could have gone into detail, but he at least spared her that. He closed his eyes, as if he could see it all taking place there in his mind, like watching a movie that was on replay in his head, day after day, night after night. "Sometimes, he almost wished he'd died with them, but that was not to be his fate."

Beside him, Kit frowned. There was something deeply personal about the way he was narrating this tale, something painful in his voice as he spoke. Was this man he was talking about, the man who had built this beautiful house ....was Randal related to him in some way"

"He wrote to his wife as often as he could, telling her how much he missed her, how he couldn't wait to come home to her, but he did not share with her the horrors of war. No, he wanted to spare her that pain as any man would. He could not be sure if his letters ever reached her, though he hoped that they did. Her letters came frequently at first, but dwindled as time marched on. He blamed it on the war. Somehow her letters were getting lost. Perhaps they had him mixed up with someone else. Perhaps they had gone somewhere else." He was deep in the telling of it now, letting the story roll off his tongue and out of his heart, almost like he had lived it.

There was that personal note of pain once again, audible in his voice, visible in the line of his shoulders. Kit didn't know quite why he should feel all this so deeply, but she could appreciate that the story held some meaning for him. Silently, she slid her hand into his, offering unspeaking support and thanks for his retelling.

"Some days, the memory of her was all that kept him going. One day, he, too, became a statistic of war. Shot, wounded, but not fortunate enough to have been killed. They sent him home, of course, after his body had healed, but wounds of the heart and the soul, those take much longer to heal." He was so lost in the story that he was just barely aware of her hand sliding into his, anchoring him in this day and age, not allowing him to get too lost in the horror of the story that was his own past.

"He thought going home would make it all better, but the horror followed him here, to this place," he said, turning to look at her a moment, as if to reinforce his words. "When he returned, he found out the reason for the lack of letters. His wife - the woman in the portrait - she had met someone else, someone who had not gone off to war, someone who did not carry the horrors of it in their heart and their head. Someone who did not wake screaming in the middle of the night or wander the house looking for respite from the many ghosts that haunted his dreams. Perhaps it was better that way. He would have never been able to make her happy, so he let her go."

He shrugged his uniformed shoulders again before going on. "He had survived the horrors of war, but he could not survive this final betrayal, and one night, after a particularly horrific nightmare, he took his own life and was thereafter cursed to haunt the halls of this house, never to know peace or love or happiness again, unto eternity."

"Oh ....oh, my goodness ..." Kit shuddered as he told the story, finally recognising it too late as a version of the ghost story she had been told by various friends over the last couple of weeks. She had not heard the detail about the wife before, feeling an instant hatred for the face hanging on her living room wall. "How could she have done that?" she murmured, shocked and angered. Even if it was only a story, there was something despicable about a woman who would just leave without a word, knowing that her husband was injured and suffering and on his way home. Her fingers tightened in Randal's. "How do you know all this" Is this house really haunted?"

He turned toward her, the look on his face one of sadness and grief. "You will find out soon enough, but I will tell you this....You have nothing to fear from the ghost. He has never harmed anyone, and he will never cause you harm. He watches over this place and all those within its walls, damned as he is. You may pray for his soul, for all the good it will do him. I only tell you this so that you understand, so that you do not fear. There is nothing to fear here, not for you. There never was."

He had lost her, the gently reassuring warning in his words just enough to confuse her even further. "Randal, I don't understand," she admitted beneath her frown. "If this house is haunted, then ....then why am I here" Surely my grandmother knew, and if there really is a ghost, then obviously my mother does. But why would I be the one who ended up in the house" It doesn't make sense."

"Perhaps your grandmother felt you were the only one who could give the ghost peace. He appeared to you once when you were small, and you weren't afraid until your mother intervened. I really don't know, Kit. I only know that so long as you live under this roof, you are safe here. Safer, perhaps, than anywhere else." He turned to look out the window again, knowing his time was growing very short. "I don't have much more time," he told her, an odd thing to say.

"Now I'm very confused," she laughed softly, shaking her head gently. "You keep saying that, as though something awful is going to happen when this time runs out." She sighed, looking through the window at the gentle twilight that preceded dawn. "And I really should go to bed. Cleaning up is going to take forever if I'm half-asleep still."

Not something awful - just something inevitable. "I'll be going then," he told her, just realizing her hand was still held in his. He hesitated a moment, as if unsure of himself, and then leaned forward to touch his lips to her cheek, spontaneously and ever-so-gently, as though she might break.

She blushed as his lips brushed her cheek, a little opportunist moment turning her head to catch his lips with her own before he could pull away entirely. "I feel like you're not going to come back," she whispered, and there was clear regret in her for such a thought. She wanted to know him better, somehow.