The Last Haunting

  Niels could get used to this: Mel, in his home. They were always in the Dells, always at Mel’s place, but here…Here they were in Falkhus, lost in each other, unbothered by responsibilities. 

  Free.

  Niels had a plan. It involved guitars and no clothes, but when Mel stood up, he put his shirt on. Niels fake-scowled and pressed his lips against the soft, salty flesh where Mel’s shoulder met his neck. “I prefer this bare,” he murmured.

  Mel acquiesced, even as he half-protested, “For you, or for the world?” He tossed his shirt casually across Niels’ bed. “Can I have the rest of my tour?”

  Niels guessed that was reasonable, now that they’d finished their tour of each other’s bodies. He nodded. “I actually wanted to show you…We have some old—like literally ancient—guitars down in the basement.” He took a deep breath, aware of how much it would sting if Mel declined his offer. “If…I mean, I could teach you. If you wanted.”

  He waited.

  Mel kissed him, a hand on the nape of his neck and another on his lower back, pressing them together with the kind of deliberacy that drove Niels wild. Mel stepped away. “Please teach me.”

  Before they found more excuses to stall this tour indefinitely, Niels dragged Mel by the hand, down the cellar stairs and deep into the catacombs beneath Falkhus. He’d grown up thinking it was an eight hundred-year-old house, but recently learned it was made—magically—to seem eight hundred. The idea of a magic castle granted a place like the catacombs infinite possibility. Magic was here, not death.

  Well, death might be here, but magic was here too. Anything could be down here with them. He leaned toward Mel. “Sorry about the catacombs.”

  Mel shrugged, indifferent outside his curiosity. “Are they haunted?”

  “Super spooky.”

  Mel hesitated. One of his elegant fingers rested against the bass relief carving of a rabbit on one of the stone vault doors. “I’ve never seen a graveyard before.”

  The fae didn’t have graves because they didn’t typically die. When they did die, they burned their dead to be sure no one could revive and inhabit their bodies. The place where Mel’s dad had burned to death was a slab of obsidian in the middle of a desert scrub pine forest deep in the rift valley below the palace. It got scorchingly hot most of the year and never felt particularly hallowed, although people visited it often enough.

  To never have a place to fully connect with your own past…It must have been strange. Niels studied his pensive expression. “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  “Well.” Niels patted the heavy stone seal of one of the vaults. “This kind doesn’t do the ‘yard’ part, but plenty of graves.”

  Now that Niels knew he didn’t have Danish ancestors, and his whole home was a fake of magic invention, he wondered who—if anyone—occupied those vaults. 

  Mel’s hand rested over another bass relief carving that described the occupant. “Why do they only list the best traits? Why not include a flaw or two?”

  Mel didn’t know the earth practice of not speaking ill of the dead, which seemed to span most cultures that Niels knew of. In Elesara, you could say Drey may have died to protect the Dells, but he was an arrogant prick and yet somehow had the confidence of a wilted dandelion. If Niels tried saying something like that at home, his mor would smack him with a pot holder and expect him to somehow hear her lecture while she did it. That man gave his life for your ungrateful self! The least you could do is be respectful!

  Niels tried one out, using the grave with the bass relief fishing pole. “Giani Poulsen—loud farter and rude guest. Like that?”

  It brought laughter into Mel’s face, deep into the glint of his eyes. “What about a twisted fault? Giana Poulsen—” That was Niels’ mor. “—Beloved, if not overbearing, mor.”

  “I’m telling her you said that,” Niels teased. They both knew he wouldn’t. Any negative content that reached his mor’s ears about either of them usually involved several days of discussion to reassure her everything was fine and no one actually thought these things about her.

  Discussion, in this case, meant a slue of white lies for the sake of keeping the peace. Niels was so sick of it. Better to say nothing at all than have to backtrack on honest words because she read into them the wrong way.

  He touched the name on the nearest crypt: Giani Poulsen. That was supposedly his mor’s younger brother, who had died drowning. Who was he really, though? Was he just some family member that had drowned? A figment of Eddie’s imagination? Could Giani and his story have belonged to the land, and Eddie unconsciously incorporated him—seamlessly—into the past of this home?

  “He died so young,” Niels murmured. “But now I don’t know…Who was he really?”

  Mel patted his grave, his tone more lighthearted. “And yet no mention of mischief. This says he was adventurous and loyal.”

  “Mischief: drowning,” Niels summarized. “He adventured his way right into a watery death.”

  If the story was true, it was deeply tragic. It just…didn’t ring true anymore. Eddie had made this place. Giani’s name and fate were more likely a clue than anything else.

  “Do you think his body is inside?” Mel said. “He could have a second life.”

  It would solve the mystery of who he was and what really happened to him. Niels hesitated. If they did this, would it be what Giani wanted? Would it be good?

  What if Giani was a threat, and Eddie had immured him down here for good reason?

  What if he didn’t exist at all?

  They needed to investigate more before they made any drastic decisions. “Let’s just revive a guitar. We can worry about dead uncles later.”

  Mel nodded and touched the last tomb in the bank of sealed vaults. “This one is interesting. Weston James. I didn’t realize that was a common name here.”

  It wasn’t. 

  “Coincidence, I suspect,” Mel said.

  “You think so?” Niels didn’t. “That’s not…Like, if it was Westgaard or something, I could see it. But Weston? That’s English.” And Weston was one of the most powerful people in Elesara, a sort of understated military genius and assistant to Konrad, former king, veritable god…

  And here was a grave in Falkhus, a grave made by the god, with Weston’s name on it. 

  That was more than a little ominous.

  “Intriguing,” was all Mel said. He continued down the stone hall toward the music room. “I am here for the instruments.”

  “Mm,” Niels said, watching him walk. He loved the way Dells clothes gave away glimpses of the curvature of Mel’s hips, of his ass, of his thighs. “I’m here for the instrument, too.”

  Mel laughed as they slipped into the instrument room. Niels was about to pull him close and kiss him against the wall, but he froze when he saw the state of the room. Usually pristine, the boards and instruments were covered in dust and cobwebs. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades.

  Startled, too, Mel said, “How long since you’ve played here?”

  “Not this long. It’s like spiders took it over. Was Hamish here?”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out,” Mel hummed, examining a child-size violin covered in horror movie sized spider webs. He glanced at the corner of the room and then turned to Niels. “Where do the stairs go?”

  “Stairs?” This room didn’t have stairs.

  But when Mel pointed to the corner, there it was: a dark and drafty staircase that descended to the bowels of god only knew where. 

  Niels groaned. His home wasn’t home anymore, with all these changes. “Eddie or VJ left us a present.” He looked at Mel, imagining the underclothed and incredibly erotic guitar lesson he had planned. He looked at the stairs, imagining the probable death that lay at the bottom. He couldn’t just have a sensual guitar lesson with the stairs gaping at him the whole time, holding all kinds of dark potential.

  “Music lesson?” he said, even though he already knew what Mel would choose. “Or danger stairs.”

  “Danger stairs,” Mel said, and he stepped into the dark passage. At first, the stone stairway wound around like you would expect ancient European castle stairs to do. The only difference here was the stairs, which weren’t time-worn by hundreds of years of historic footprints. The stones were square-cut and looked brand new.

  Eventually, after two or three spiral loops, they leveled off onto a webby landing. Niels had just finished clearing the spider webs from his hair, and checking to make sure his phone battery could support some long-term flashlight use, when a thunderous sound roared up the stairwell. He gripped Mel’s arm. “What the fuck is that?”

  Mel smiled, his face aglow in his firelight, because of course he was using fire magic to light his path instead of a flashlight. “Afraid of a sound?” he teased.

  “Afraid of a sound’s source.” Something had made that rumbling roar. 

  “My Dragon love is afraid,” Mel said, and Niels couldn’t tell if he was pensive or mocking. Probably, it was both. “You must not trust your abilities yet.” He looked pointedly at Niels’ phone flashlight.

  “Maybe I don’t trust yours,” Niels fired back.

  Mel only laughed and tugged them deeper into the darkness.

  They reached another landing, with a room off to the side. Where the instrument room upstairs had been a hodgepodge of guitars and other string instruments, plus various ancient iterations of Eddie’s drum sets, this was a vast library of instruments. Shelf after shelf of musical devices on display, behind banks of enormous instruments too big to fit on shelves.

  It was a treasure trove. 

  It was impossible. Most of these instruments didn’t even exist, at least not anywhere Niels had visited.

  “When you said you had instruments,” Mel said after a long whistle. “This is incredible, Niels.” He picked up something that looked like a squat pigskin bongo with bells hung from the rivets that held the skin in place. “This drum is common in the Dells.”

  “Ja,” Niels said. “But where did all this come from?” Why was it in his childhood home? What purpose did Eddie—or VJ—have in changing the house to hold this cathedral underground music library?

  “History?” Mel guessed.

  In the distance, a shadow danced away from the flickering flames and slammed into the side of a gong, sending a low, resonant call through the room. Beside Niels, a snare drum rattled from the sound.

  Niels leaned closer to Mel for comfort. “What kinds of things do you think live down here?”

  “Spiders,” Mel mused. “Rats. Probably mice, if the rats haven’t eaten them all.”

  Niels almost laughed and almost scowled. His face came out a contorted mess he was glad no one could see.

  In the distance, an organ roared to life. Was that the noise they’d heard earlier at the top of the stairs?

  Of course, the organ was playing Toccata in D. How cliche. 

  “Okay,” Niels summarized. He could deal with a cliche haunting, because at least he knew what it was—something that wanted to scare him, not something that was scary by accident. It was also probably hominid, to be able to play the organ like that. “So. We know Eddie and VJ made this place scary. The question is, why change it? Why scare us?”

  “Perhaps those black tendrils of theirs had some influence,” Mel said. 

  Eddie and VJ both existed in a swell of smoky black tendrils that sometimes vanished into the skin and other times consumed them in darkness so dense you could hardly see their faces.

  Before Niels could respond, something touched his shoulder—something cold and distinctly hand-like. He shivered and leapt away from it shuddering. “What was that?”

  The cold feeling faded. It was just him and Mel again.

  Mel looked around, concerned but oblivious. “What was what?”

  “Someone just touched me.” But was a ghost a someone? “Something. It felt like a hand.”

  Niels was aware his heart was racing and his skin was sparking. This was a moment they would all probably laugh about later. Niels would laugh. Mel would laugh. The ghost was probably already laughing.

  In a chilling voice, Mel said, “We’re not alone, Niels.”

  They stepped closer together, back to back, ready for whatever fight they faced. Probably, they should have run for the stairs and hoped to make it out alive, but both of them were plagued with more curiosity than common sense. They wanted to know what was killing them while they died, not live in the terror of not knowing what had nearly killed them.

  An almost-corporeal face appeared, followed by a body. It was a young guy with brown hair and an angular, Poulsen-y face. Could this be one of the two dead uncles?

  The ghastly figure ran down the hall away from the music library. 

  “Wait!” Niels called after the ghost. Didn’t it at least want to try to kill them?

  The figure vanished through a wall, leaving a wake of angry dust behind it that swirled lazily to the floor. 

  Niels pivoted so he faced Mel again. “That was…a ghost?”

  “I believe so,” Mel said, infuriatingly calm. Niels could hear the frantic worry under his tone, but he had it locked down, had his body fully under control. Niels, meanwhile, was a chaos of sweat, sparks, and shaking hands. Mel added, “This place reminds me of home…of the passages beneath the Lower Dell palace.”

  Oh, good, maybe they were interconnected and they could die in Mel’s personal hell instead of in Niels’ basement.

  Niels opened his mouth to say so, but a different ghost passed through Mel and said, “Boo!” This ghost was taller than the other, with a rounder face and softer features. 

  Niels gaped at Mel. “How can you be so calm?” He pulled out his phone, but the ghost didn’t show up in the picture he tried to take. Instead, he texted Eddie since the photo didn’t work. Hey, asshat. There are dead things in the Falkhus basement. Maybe nix the ghosts?

  The ghost that had flown through Mel slammed into the stone wall beside Niels. He let out a guttural sound and blinked, surprised. “Hey!” he complained.

  “Hey!” Niels snapped. “Here’s an idea: Stop ghosting. It’s fucked up.”

  The ghost looked at himself. He patted his own chest. “What did you do? I’m heavy.” He flopped onto the ground, stirring a cloud of dust. “It’s agony.”

  Niels looked at Mel, at a loss. What had they done? And how? It didn’t matter that he didn’t know. What mattered was that this ghost thought they had the power to do whatever he’d thought they did. “That’s what you get for messing with us.”

  The ghost looked at Niels, a piercing gaze. “I know you,” he said. “Hello, bror.”

  His ghostly companion with the angular face walked into the room and clapped his hands together—to demonstrate they could touch? The two ghosts made eye contact, and the angular-faced one asked the other, “What are we supposed to do now?”

  “Stop haunting people?” Niels suggested. “I know it sounds crazy, but we came down here to play music, not be scared shitless by you.”

  Actually, they’d come down here to incorporate music into intimacy, but that felt like a little bit too much information.

  Eddie transported to Mel’s side and took careful stock of the situation. Niels scrutinized him. He didn’t look like a god. He looked like Eddie. Music and liquor and anxiety, all rolled into one skinny guy with a big personality.

  “Okay,” Eddie said, taking charge of the room. “You guys died in the wrong place. I thought you drowned, but you died in a war.”

The round-face ghost nodded. “We were drowned by the queen.”

  Eddie nodded, his face a mask of sympathy. “Now you’re undrowned, okay? You can…go forth and exist. Outside of the cellar.”

  “And,” Niels added for emphasis. “If you have to play the organ, stop playing Toccata in D.”

  The narrow-faced ghost folded his arms. “Where are we supposed to go?”

  “Forth,” Eddie said.

  The blankness in their expressions made Niels realize something with brutal finality: They were more scared of being alive, than being dead.