Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Alright, go for it,” Martin smiled from behind his phone.

One Jon Blackwood (née Sims) was trying to hide his laugh in the name of academia, as he slowly walked towards the camera filming him, every so often glancing towards the pebbled shore of the lake the two were beside. They were in a dip in the highlands of Scotland, between just few enough trees that it could not be called a forest and the vast blue water that stretched out further than they could see from their position. Unlike how any other group leader would dress for the occasion, Jon was cloaked in at least two jumpers that were too big for him, and a thick coat, shielding him from the cold, Scottish weather. Like any other group leader dressing for this kind of occasion, the collar of a Hawaiian shirt poked out from beneath.

“Welcome to This Is, Perchance, Sinister. Today, me and my colleague-”

“Colleague?!”

“-Husband are visiting a place of legend, holding quite possibly the most famous myth in the whole world. So, in our debut episode, we have until it gets too dark to investigate… The Loch Ness Monster.”

“Okay and cut. I’m not deleting any of that.”

It had been three days into their honeymoon when Jon found it, hidden away at the bottom of one of their suitcases. When Daisy had offered them the keys to her ex-safe-house in the Scottish Highlands, both Jon and Martin had gratefully accepted the offer (as someone was afraid of flying, otherwise Jon would have currently been fulfilling his dream of visiting Point Pleasant, in West Virginia, United States of America – in case there was any confusion) to go and search for the cows that Martin adored so much.

Jon had been in search of one of his now-husband’s jumpers, a dark fuchsia one with purple cuffs that Jon himself had packed, since the one he had stolen for the beginning of their honeymoon had to be washed as the two of them were caught in a rain shower during the previous evening, something the Met Office had not predicted. As he pulled away several dress shirts that had once been neatly folded, he noticed the material of something else. Something he did not remember either himself or Martin owning, as the stark contrast of it against their other clothes was what made it catch Jon’s eye in the first place. But as it was dragged out, a smirk appeared on Jon’s face, one of recognition, and he turned away with it still in hand.

He didn’t have to walk far to find Martin where he had been left, washing up the plates and cutlery from their lunch, Marigolds deep beneath the suds from the water. Before making his presence known, Jon bit his lip in concentration – the last time he had sneaked up on Martin when he was washing up, his husband had gotten his own back by flicking water at him while accidentally scaring their cats. His last few steps of approach were audible due to this, which was quite difficult considering they were muffled by thick woollen socks, but it was enough that Martin noticed.

“Oh, there you are,” he smiled, turning to see Jon almost drowning in another one of his jumpers, and holding a very loud Hawaiian shirt. Very specifically, the one Jon had worn from Tim’s birthday.

Jon held up the garment, with an amused expression: “I didn’t know there were warm, sunny beaches in Scotland.”

“It’s Summer?” Martin tried, placing the last fork on the drying rack, before emptying the washing up bowl and pulling off the yellow Marigolds with a snap (while successfully holding back an impression from The Rocky Horror Picture Show - if they had been pink, there would have been no getting out of it).

“We’re in Scotland.”

Martin chuckled at Jon’s retort and took the shirt from his hands. “Well, since we’re up here in the Highlands anyway, I thought we might have a nice day out somewhere.”

Jon quickly recognised how cryptic Martin was attempting to be and narrowed his eyes at the Hawaiian shirt. After a few seconds, still not having figured it out from the very vague clue of what Jon guessed as ‘Tim’, he gave up. “And where would tha- wait.” He stopped mid-question, his eyes widening at the thought as they turned up to Martin’s. “You’re- you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, are you?”

“What?” Martin answered, pressing a kiss to Jon’s forehead, “That we should go into town, find a pub doing karaoke night and stay there until four AM?”

Jon folded his arms, not rolling the sleeves up for dramatic emphasis despite them flapping to his sides, as he watched the corners of Martin’s mouth begin to curl upwards.

“Or, if you’re opposed to that, we could go in search of one of the world’s most famous cryptids tomorrow?”

If Martin hadn’t insisted on renting a car after their train journey to Scotland, they would have regretted it very deeply that next morning as the lack of trains close to their destination would have required them to do far more walking than either of them would have deemed appropriate. Martin himself would have also regretted it for another reason: it would have ruined his chances of catching Jon fall asleep while trying to read map directions aloud. (No, his geography skills had not improved since the two last checked, but at least it was going to be memorable.)

The car journey of four hours from Daisy’s definitely-not-a-safe-house-why-would-you-think-that meant that an early start was to be had, and it had been a very, very long time since Jon had willingly awoken from his slumber before six in the morning. Martin, though not much better himself, had savoured watching his husband be dragged out of bed with his fluffy locks going in every direction, squinting through the daylight as he sipped at his cup of tea while Martin filled a flask with hot water, extra jumpers, and grabbed the woollen blanket from the not-a-safe-house’s sofa to put in the car boot.

It wasn’t unusual for Jon to be so quiet so early, and it would take for him to come back from his shower to snatch up the jumper that Martin had worn yesterday (he utterly refused to wear a clean one, despite protests), pull it down over his head, to finally speak in a very soft voice, “Please?” as he held out his hairbrush and a bobble.

Martin lightly chuckled, glancing at the kitchen clock while he rolled up the cuffs of his sleeves. They had time. “Of course, love.”

He would never tire of being allowed to brush Jon’s hair. Especially knowing how much Jon struggled with touch if it wasn’t someone he was close to. And if he purposefully messed up two or three times, Jon didn’t seem to mind. With the finally press of a kiss to Jon’s forehead as Martin leant over him, the two accepted that they needed to, in Martin’s words, get a shift on and begin boarding the rented Peugeot - Martin pausing only to quickly run inside to grab the weighted cats (a wedding gift, the three personalised to look like the now-Blackwoods’ own white, ginger, and Siamese cats - specifically for times like these when Tim and Sasha were babysitting them) that had been left slumped on their bed, so that Jon could hold them if he needed to.

Jon beamed as Martin returned with the weighted toys, letting Martin place the three in his lap. “Ah, thank you,” he beamed, huddling them closer.

Martin hummed and lent in to meet Jon’s lips with his own. “Anything for you,” he nearly purred. “Right then, shall we?” Jon nodded with a smile, picking up the old road map that they had found under the sink, alongside a single, dusty toolbox that both were reluctant to open (either over the reminder that it was Daisy’s, or for the thought of tetanus).

As Martin situated himself in front of the steering wheel, clipping in the seat belt, he bit his lip as he noticed the way Jon was squinting at the map pages, flicking through them one at a time to scour over them. Jon caught his eye a moment later, “Okay, maybe once I’ve found the pages on Scotland?”

Three hours, 57 minutes, and 38  39 seconds later…

It was difficult not to notice as they approached the legend that was Loch Ness, or at least it wasn’t for Martin. Jon, on the other hand, had fallen asleep a mere (*checks the car clock*) two hours and 38 minutes ago, as he uttered the words “Turn… left…” with a yawn, and then nothing. Just the gentle snores that made Martin’s heart flutter like it had so many times before. He would never tire of this ridiculous, little man, he thought to himself, pulling into one of the scarce parking spaces available.

For such a widely known location, it was almost strange that it still presented itself as a hidden gem of the Scottish Highlands, as though it had never been touched by the fickle nature of time and tourists. From the singular café and pub in sight, it was clear that without the tourist trade they wouldn’t have survived the takeover by the big-brands. Martin only wished that this were more common. Still, he didn’t want his husband to miss the quiet, peaceful street before other tourists flooded in, so he very tentatively tapped at Jon’s shoulder.

“Jon, love,” he whispered, watching as his head slowly rose above the blanket that Jon had hidden himself under, “We’re here.”

After a brief snuffle, Jon glared in the direction of the windscreen, then he softened at the realisation and fixed his glasses from their lopsided position. “Oh,” he glanced between Martin and the view outside. “Sorry, I didn’t realise I’d nodded off,” Jon sheepishly admitted, removing the items from his lap so that he could stand from the car with a large stretch (and on this occasion, Martin refrained from going, “Ooh, big stretch,” as one would go with a beloved family pet).

Even in the Summer months, Scotland was still miles colder than that-there London, making it completely acceptable for Jon to keep Martin’s his jumper on in the chill of the morning, with a distant bell tower chiming for 11AM.

“We finally made it,” Martin spoke as he retrieved Jon’s coat from the car boot, holding it out for his husband to thread his arms through.

Jon smiled up at him, “That we did. The others are going to be so jealous when they find out.”

“Oh, speaking of,” Martin continued, “Which of us should do the introduction for ‘Perhaps It’s Haunted’?” as Jon looped his arm through Martin’s.

It took a few moments for Jon to remember that they’d been talking about doing their own little parody of the mini-series their friends once created (after a particularly embarrassing ten minutes attempting to hide in his then-boyfriend’s flat) - after all, it’s what their friends would have wanted.

“Are we going to call it ‘Perhaps It’s Haunted’? I was just thinking of maybe changing the title to make it our own?” Jon suggested, as they stared out across the vast (not Vast. Probably. Right? …oh god, Simon no!) expanse of the Loch in the valley, beneath a clear blue sky with no signs of oncoming showers at all. Perfect.

Martin nodded in agreement, “That’s a really good idea. Something like… ‘Maybe It’s Spooky’?” He held in a chuckle, watching Jon glare up at him.

“We’ll workshop it.”

“Will we now?”

“Yes,” Jon decided, then looked back to the waters. “So, where first?”

Last night, before Martin had very forcibly told Jon that he really needed to go to bed, otherwise he would be too tired to enjoy their day out, Jon had gone about researching what they could do there, which included an exhibition on the history of the Loch Ness Monster and various excavations to find the creature themself. This had then sent him down a rather Wikipedia-flavoured rabbit-hole, concerning the most famous of the photographs, and every which way they had been debunked. All the way from the earliest tale from Saint Columba in 565 AD, to the Loch Ness Muppet of 1977. That was when Martin had to bring out the big guns, and took off his jumper. Barely four seconds later, Jon had put his phone down long enough to claim the jumper as his own, and Martin had swooped the phone away for safe keeping.

“The boat trip isn’t until 12, so we could go and have a wander around that exhibition until then? I think it’s that building on the corner, with the massive ‘Loch Ness Centre & Exhibition’ sign,” Martin pointed to the Jacobean-y-style place a moment’s walk away.

“It might be that one, yes,” Jon raised an eyebrow, but Martin could tell that as he woke up more, Jon was starting to buzz with excitement despite his demeanour.

They began closing in on the centre, and everything it had to hold, though Martin pursed his lips at home clearly Jon was pulling him along. How lucky he was to be married to this silly, little, not-quite-so-stuck-up, academic.

“Hey, we didn’t decide who was doing the introduction to Loch Ness,” Martin recalled, opening the door for Jon to step through first, which was not easy given that neither were for going through single file.

Jon hmphed, as they entered the doors to the exhibition centre. “Well, I’m not doing it.”

“You know what, that was a lot better than I was expecting,” Martin commented as they left the building, trying not to sound like a walking-talking advert for the place (disclaimer: no cash funds were exchanged for the writing of this fic). “What did you think?”

Jon was torn in two by this question. On the one hand, it had been remarkably accurate and logical in explaining why there could be a Loch Ness Monster because of the ways that they had searched. On the other hand, Jon wanted a Loch Ness Monster.

“It was… very logical,” Jon carefully chose his words.

“Oh, love,” Martin cooed, feeling the stillness beside him.

The façade fell faster than a loosely held slice of buttered toast to the floor, and Jon almost caved enough to admit so out loud, but was slightly afraid that he would sound ungrateful. It was still very interesting, he could never deny that.

“You never know, there could still be something in the Loch other than various species of trout,” he continued before Jon could say anything. “And anyway, the boat ride starts in ten minutes, it sets off only a few minutes from here. Maybe you’ll spot Nessie after all.”

Martin had always been rather spot on with figuring out what people needed to be told to cheer them up, and he had always been quite proud of himself for it. But his husband’s affinity for certain cryptozoological creatures was something that should not be messed with, despite Jon’s fascination with their histories and how they came to the public’s knowledge.

He was right - Jon all but immediately perked up at the suggestion. “Maybe,” he echoed, then spotted the sign that Martin had previously gestured towards. The standing sign, declaring this (with an arrow) the way to the ‘Jacobite Maverick, £26 each’. It was a large, pristinely white boat, with a large number of monitors close to the centre of the deck, and a few crew members busying themselves around.

(And if the Eye were here, it would have informed them that the Jacobite Maverick was built in 2018, a custom designed Catamaran with a 200 seat capacity and minimum of three crew members. It is 21.34 metres in length, equipped with onboard sonars and TV screens, disabled access, free wi-fi, parking, toilets onboard, has food and drink available, and is dog-friendly. As would a quick Google of the ‘Meet The Boats’ section of jacobite.co.uk…)

Given that it was the beginning of the holiday months, the pair of them were surprised that there were very few people on the boat. Hopefully this was just because it was a quiet day, rather than it being a crap ride. But it did mean that it would be quiet enough for both Jon and Martin, and they could enjoy it more. The others in the queue consisted of a young mother and father, with their two small daughters, and to other gentlemen who were sticking together closely enough that they were likely a couple too. Unusually dressed, one with long, dark, grey-streaked hair (very similar to Jon’s) with his black leather coat, dark purple shirt, and boots; the other blond, completely in pastels.

“Ready, love?” Martin asked, looking back to Jon who had briefly let go of his arm, and was now holding a small pair of binoculars that Martin had never seen before in his life. They certainly hadn’t been packed, and surely Martin would have noticed if Jon had been carrying them around with him. And if Jon had found them at the I’m-telling-you-it-is-not-a-safe-house, Martin dread to think why Daisy owned them.

“Ready,” Jon beamed, waiting for Martin to pay for the tickets with Institute money that Sasha had transferred for them.

As the two were the last to board, the young gentleman who had allowed them on removed the ramp from the dock to the boat, and the overhead speakers came to life as Jon and Martin took their seats by the side.

“Today’s cruise will be two-hours long, and you’ll experience a breathtaking journey along Thomas Telford’s famous Caledonian Canal and, of course, across the legendary waters of Loch Ness. Enjoy the stunning scenery of the Great Glen, and panoramic views of Aldourie Castle, Bona Lighthouse and the spectacular Urquhart Castle. We’ll be covering the colourful history of the Loch, not forgetting some stories about the world’s shyest monster.”

The cruise began, gently rocking its inhabitants as it drifted off, scouring the Loch’s clear waters.

“Have you ever been on a boat before?” Jon asked his husband, watching the depths around them as best he could without leaning over the edge.

Martin thought back. He must have, mustn’t he? Then again, there were never any holidays as a child that he remembered well enough, but they can’t have been far from home. “I don’t think so, you?”

“Yes, only once though. Georgie dragged me on one when we were at university,” Jon laughed at the memory. “They found out I’d never been on one, and decided that we would be having a trip to the seaside the following Saturday. I believe they still have photographs, somewhere.”

“Was that when you were still in your singing space-pirate phase?”

“...Yes.”

Oh, Martin was definitely texting Georgie about that later.

The ongoing commentary from the boat’s captain wasn’t too loud, so it was easy to sit and enjoy the sights before them, and Martin was particularly doing so as Jon kept interjecting with little facts and tidbits as they passed different castles, or another story about a sighting was being told (“And that is why it became known as the ‘Loch Ness Muppet’.” “Anthony Shiels was a magician and claimed to be a psychic, what did they honestly expect?”). Their honeymoon had been lovely, staying all the way up here, so far from the bustling streets of London. The fact it was just the two of them had been odd to begin with, and both had missed their friends from time-to-time, perhaps that was why they were here. Because that’s what the Archival crew would have done, and if the others found out that Jon and Martin could have visited and didn’t, they could be disappointed. It was all worth it. At the thought of this, Martin reached for his phone and started taking pictures for when they returned.

“-please get away from the side, dear. I don’t want you falling,” they heard the blond man from before tell his partner (presumably?), and glanced over, as Jon lowered his binoculars, to see that the partner in question was leaning far over the side - something that may spark ideas in Jon’s mind, and Martin would have to stop.

The man stepped back at the request, and sent large puppy eyes in his partner’s direction. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Just wondering if they might have a kraken around here.”

“A kraken?”

Martin closed his eyes and took a heavy sigh at the sound of his husband’s interruption, concerned they may be about to be scolded for eavesdropping. Jon was utterly bewildered as to why anyone would expect a kraken up all the way in the middle of the Scottish Highlands, but he had to know for himself. Neither would sleep that night if they didn’t ask.

“Jon,” Martin groaned at first, then noticed how the blond’s eyes lit up at the prospect of a conversation, the pair walking over.

“No, no, it’s alright,” he grinned, the other man going quiet. “You just have a thing about them, don’t you, love?” He carefully nodded. “So, what brings you two up here?”

Lifting his left hand to show his silver ring, Jon, clearly in a good enough mood to willingly converse with strangers, answered, “We’re on our honeymoon. A friend lent us her property, and we thought it would be a nice day out. Yourselves?”

“Oh, congratulations,” the man beamed, as though he genuinely meant it and wasn’t just saying what was conversationally expected of him. “We do a lot of travelling, us and a few friends, but we were stopping in the area for a bit and realised neither of us had ever been before. It just seemed like we should.” Despite how much he tried to be subtle, the man’s partner tugged on his sleeve, making it very obvious he wanted to leave. “Anyway, we’ll leave you two to it. Congratulations, again.”

Each smiled, one more awkward than the other, and stepped back to where they had been watching the Loch from moments ago.

It didn’t occur straight away, however Jon began to realise that Martin hadn’t spoken in quite some time. Now, while this was not unusual - he wasn’t a particularly extroverted person, never had been - Jon found it odd that he was also barely in arm’s reach, staring with furrowed brows into his phone, where he had, until recently, been taking photos of the landscape (and Jon when he wasn’t looking - sorting out his new home screen).

“Martin? Are you alright?” Jon nestled to his husband’s side, unable to see what Martin was looking at.

“Hm?” he vaguely replied, then looked down and smiled. “Oh, sorry. Yes, yes. I think so. I just- look, I was taking some pictures to show our friends when we get back.”

“Right?” He didn’t like where this was going.

Martin gulped, and began to look nervous. “Well, I- er, I think I must be imagining it, but I want you to look at this and tell me if you can see that shadow in the water.”

He passed his phone over, however Jon was too concerned with Martin’s strong reaction to look at the photo until it was inches from his eyes.

“You bastard.”

As Martin burst into a cackling laughter, startling one or two other passengers on the trip, Jon looked between his husband and the photo of the Loch - that Martin had simply drawn over with the editing settings, to show a cartoon, turquoise creature, half submerged with two humps, a ginger beard, and given a red hat, with a black bobble on.

But even Jon couldn’t stay annoyed for very long, seeing the pure joy it had given Martin. “How dare you lead me on like that,” Jon attempted to scowl, failing as he too chuckled. “I take it you’re going to do that to the others as well.”

“Abso-blooming-lutely. You know, that might genuinely be my highlight of our honeymoon.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

And in truth, it was Jon’s too.

After the boat tour ended, with unfortunately only Martin’s sighting of the mythical creature themselves for evidence, the pair retreated back to the café in town, grabbing an outside table so as to enjoy their surroundings.

Martin had immediately set himself the task of ordering and retrieving two afternoon teas, while Jon texted Sasha to ask after the cats. From where Martin stood inside, he could see his husband through the front window, beaming at what would be pictures to prove that their girls were doing just fine, so much so that Martin almost missed the lady asking for his order.

“Sir? Sir?” she prompted.

“Huh? Oh, sorry, I was distracted,” Martin apologised, thankful he at least wasn’t holding up a queue, and she smiled back.

“Ach, don’t worry about it, pet. Now, what can I get for you?”

He tapped on the plastic menu on top of the counter and held out a twenty-pound note, “Just two afternoon teas, please.”

She nodded, tapping at the cashier as she took the note. “Of course. I’ll bring it out to you when it’s ready.” Just as Martin had been about to thank her, she continued, passing him the change. She looked out of the window to where Jon was stealing the coat Martin left on his chair. “You two been together long?”

“Just married, actually. It’s our honeymoon,” he blushed, lifting his left hand to show the silver band on it.

“Ooh, congratulations,” the lady grinned as she took out two cups and saucers, “We don’t get a lot of honeymoon-ers, but I can see the appeal.”

“It’s for him, really. Loves a good cryptid,” Martin chuckled, recalling how excited Jon had been when he suggested it.

The lady turned back as she filled the teapots with hot water, “He’s a very lucky person.”

Martin finally made his way out to where Jon had been not-so-patiently waiting, close to running in with any old excuse that wasn’t the cat photos he was shoving into Martin’s face the second he sat down. Martin smiled at the picture, taken by Sasha, of Tim, Daisy, and Basira asleep on her settee and floor, each with their own lumps of fluff and purrs laying at bizarre angles across the three of their friends. Thankfully, Sasha’s pet budgie was being kept in a separate ‘cat free’ area.

“The girls are doing alright then?” Martin asked, watching as Jon took his phone back, his eyes still lit up as he basked over it.

Jon nodded, not looking up. “Sasha says their energy levels even shattered Tim today. At least we’ve got a new method to tire him out now.”

His husband grinned, as Jon put his phone down and reached over the table to take Martin’s hand in his own. “Oh, speaking of them,” Martin began, “Since we did the whole ‘This Is, Perchance, Sinister’, do you reckon they’ll do their own version of ‘Fucking Prove It’?”

Jon thought for a moment. “Maybe. Wait, they never showed us the finalé of their second series, did they?”

A few months ago, ‘Perhaps It’s Haunted’ had been given a second series, as the four creators suddenly decided that going around empty buildings at night and shouting into the darkness was an ideal way of spending their time. They had opted for three episodes this time around, but when Jon and Martin thought back to it, they had always made such a fuss over the airing of their videos, and it had only happened twice.

“What?” Martin stopped. “No… they didn’t, did they? Hadn’t they been really excited about their finalé, too? Kept saying how surprised we were going to be?”

They had. Tim’s Hawaiian shirts had made him look more like a highlighted blur, running around in preparation, Sasha kept doing small claps, Melanie and Georgie even chose to remove themselves from the room when anyone else was there, as they would have burst out with secret information. Jon and Martin even remembered the evening that they went on their final investigation - and then nothing.

Not a peep.

It all went quiet.

They went out on a Friday, and that weekend, no one heard from Tim, Sasha, Melanie, or Georgie. At the time, Martin had to be convinced not to do a welfare check in person, Daisy went round instead. Said that they were all alive and physically alright, but each had a far-off look about them, with Melanie more jittery than normal. That Monday, Jon and Martin saw it for themselves. Daisy wasn’t wrong. Something had happened, and it took Martin many rounds of tea (and the good biscuits) to get them on a reasonable track again. A few weeks later, Jon had attempted to question Georgie, but they visibly panicked, and changed the subject.

Hm.

It was probably nothing.

“Two afternoon teas?” broke them out of their thoughts.

The cashier held out a large tray, and gently slid it onto the table they occupied, as clasped hands parted. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you boys,” she spoke with a wink, and left as Jon and Martin thanked her.

With the pouring of teas, Martin remarked, passing Jon’s cup over, “It was strange.”

“Hm,” Jon hummed as he sipped his (not Martin-standard, but adequate) beverage. “It was. I wonder if we’ll ever find out whatever happened to ‘Perhaps It’s Haunted’?”

( A few months ago )

Perhaps It’s Haunted

Definitely Sasha (12:07): Guys

Timothy Bi-con Stoker (12:08): thats my line!

Martin, God of Tea has left the chat

Timothy Bi-con Stoker added Martin, God of Tea to Perhaps It’s Haunted

Timothy Bi-con Stoker (12:08): aww cmon marto

What The Georgie (12:08): wait

What The Georgie (12:08): why are we on the PIH chat?

Basira (12:09): I thought this ended

Melanie Fuc-King-Barker (12:09): thats because it did

Definitely Sasha (12:09): That’s because season one did

Timothy Bi-con Stoker (12:09): which is why were announcing…

Just Daisy (12:09): no

Martin, God of Tea (12:10): im not feeding jon more wine so you can have another series of fucking prove it

Timothy Bi-con Stoker (12:10): ‘Perhaps It’s Haunted: Season Two’

Timothy Bi-con Stoker (12:10): idk just give him espressos then and see what happens

What The Georgie (12:11): ah no that doesn’t work anymore

Martin, God of Tea (12:11): sorry, what?

Definitely Sasha (12:11): See, Tim even wrote it properly. So you know we’re serious about this.

Timothy Bi-con Stoker (12:12): oh hey we didn’t add jon to the chat

Martin, God of Tea (12:12): oh no

Timothy Bi-con Stoker added Jon to Perhaps It’s Haunted

Jon (12:17): What fresh hell is this?

Jon (12:17): Is this why Martin just tackled my phone from me and held it out of my reach?

Martin, God of Tea (12:18): run. just run.

Jon (12:18): I’m sitting right next to you.

Melanie Fuc-King-Barker (12:18): okay i have to know how you got your phone back

Jon (12:19): He tripped.

Martin, God of Tea (12:19): because you tried to scale me!

What The Georgie (12:20): you two are still sitting next to each other, right?

Timothy Bi-con Stoker (12:20): yah but this way we can all be a part of it

Basira (12:20): is there any particular reason you’re bringing PIH back now?

Definitely Sasha (12:20): No

Timothy Bi-con Stoker (12:21): def not

Definitely Sasha (12:21): Not at all

Jon (12:22): Oh, good lord.

Chapter Text

“Yep, go.” Georgie stuck their thumbs up.

In front of a large, breeze-block building, Tim began walking towards Sasha’s phone, as she filmed their latest endeavour. Having dug up the original all-black outfit from the bottom of his wardrobe (and borrowed the coat from Melanie, since giving it up to a local charity shop after their trip to Cornwall), Tim was, as expected, clad in his smartest of clothes, shoes that were not flip flops, and a red Hawaiian shirt - so that everyone knew it was him, and not Jon doing a bad impression.

“Hello, and welcome back to Perhaps It’s Haunted: Season Two. For the premiere of our second series, I’ve brought my team somewhere full to the brim with odd happenings, a poltergeist, and the owner even has his very own cursed painting. So, for the first time this season, we have 24 hours to investigate… Dave’s Disco.”

“Got it.”

Perhaps It’s Haunted

Basira (12:20): is there any particular reason you’re bringing PIH back now?

Definitely Sasha (12:20): No

Timothy Bi-con Stoker (12:21): def not

Definitely Sasha (12:21)

Jon (12:21): Oh, good lord

Basira (12:22): And this wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the very passionate statement giver from yesterday, who owns a roller disco?

Martin, God of Tea (12:22): that bloke with the clearly fake cursed painting?

Definitely Sasha (12:23): We have no idea what you are talking about.

As the quartet of wannabe-ghostbusters pulled up in Tim’s bright red Nissan Micra, Sasha placed the atlas into her lap, and stared up at the monstrosity of architecture before them.

“I can’t believe we never realised this was a roller disco before. How did we miss it?” Tim asked, opening his car door to stand. “It’s almost impressive how ugly it is.”

Melanie followed quickly, still tenderly holding Julian – Tim’s tortoise – between her hands. “I didn’t know you had such big opinions on architecture, Tim-” she had been about to ask when that all started, but the hand that met with her shoulder squeezed twice for ‘be quiet’. “Is it made of breeze block by any chance?”

“It kind of looks like it should have been a bowling alley, or an arcade centre,” Georgie explained.

They weren’t wrong, it was a very rectangular building with very little artistic flare other than the black and neon orange sign above the double-doors, announcing it as ‘Dave’s Disco’. And despite the fact that the owner had closed down the place until tomorrow afternoon, the large, desolate car park didn’t exactly give off the vibes of a popular evening out. Sasha had already given the place a quick search online, after the owner had come into the Institute a few days ago, trying to tell them about a ‘cursed’ painting that clearly was not.

It had been built in the late 1970s, a local businessman who sold it a decade later to the father of the current owner. Given that it was barely fifty-years old, she didn’t have high hopes for the ghost stories, something she believe was mutual between her fellow Shadow Sleuths, but none dared say it (mainly for Tim’s sake, and because it would be them all admitting that the only reason they brought ‘Perhaps It’s Haunted’ back for a second series was so that they could go to a roller disco for free. They were willing to go along with it). And anyway, Sasha had told herself, if ghosts were a thing, then surely there must be some from the mid-2000s, why couldn’t there be any here?

No one managed to get another word in before the owner appeared, all but running towards them – as though he had been pressed up against the glass, watching and waiting.

Mr. Maddox (he had attempted to say they could just call him by his first name, but he was unfortunate enough to have an audience with Jon, who had become used to doing no work all day, so was not thrilled by this stranger) was a tall, gangly man in his early 40s, with almost as much enthusiasm for this as Tim and Sasha combined. He waved as he moved towards them, “Hi, hi! I’m so glad that you came over,” he grinned, holding out for a hand shake that Sasha gingerly took. “Having people from the esteemed Magnus Institute investigating our little business has been such a reassurance that I’m not going crazy.”

Oh yeah. That’s what they had told him.

They were meant to be here completely in a professional capacity.

…

Eh, close enough.

“Of course, Mr. Maddox, thank you for letting us stay overnight,” Tim kept down the bubbles of excitement behind a cover of academia better than anyone could have imagined. “May I call you Dave?”

The owner stared back quizzically. “My name’s not Dave?” With no more than a beat of silence, he continued, “Shall I give you the tour?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Sasha spoke for them, as the fastest to shake off the bafflement. As he turned to open the doors, she carefully set her phone up recording in her top pocket.

Inside the building was far brighter, almost headache inducing with the neon against dark walls. In the centre was a huge skating rink, oval in shape, entirely made up of maple hardwood, varnished perfectly. Not a scratch in sight. The rest of the space was carpeted, clean enough for the earlier guess that it was never busy to be correct; a skate rental and reception section not dissimilar to if it had been a bowling alley; two sets of blue lockers by the door; a small ‘Staff Only’ area marked by a door next to the rink; two vending machines beside this; and a café area opposite the rink, with table and chairs through the rest of the carpeted area.

Melanie had since passed the tortoise over to his rightful owner, who was following Mr. Maddox through as he spoke, Tim’s attention focusing more on the rink and its opportunities than the stories being told.

“It was built in the early 1900s,” Sasha wasn’t arguing, but this was certainly going to be a fact-checker of an episode, especially since breeze blocks were invented in the 1930s, “As a gentlemen’s club, until the second world war began and it was shut down, leaving it in a state of disrepair until 1978, when a local businessman bought it.” Well at least this bit was factually correct. “The revamp into what it is today – except the carpets, we had to replace those a few years ago - was completed in 1979, and it was opened to the public. My father bought it about ten years later, and I took over in 2018.”

No one was entirely sure where he had got this story from, yet the way Mr. Maddox spoke, he seemed to believe it himself. Interesting.

“Ghost-wise,” Mr. Maddox moved them towards reception, closing in on the vending machines specifically. Georgie spared a look over as Sasha, who could do nothing more than shrug. “I reckon there’s something messing with the drinks machine. Soup, two sugars – every time.”

They would have to try that later. Even just to know what that tastes like. After all, Martin wasn’t there to stop them.

Tim nodded along, “Hm. A haunted vending machine. Don’t get those every day.”

“No, you don’t,” Mr. Maddox replied. “My wife thinks I’m imagining it, you know. Actually, I reckon we’ve got something strange at home too, but I’m the only one who’s seen it. A strange glowing, blue light from the cupboard under the stairs, then there’s the weird sounds when no one else is in the house, the kids’ toys breaking… sorry, I lost track for a second there.”

“Nothing wrong with that, Mr. Maddox. I don’t suppose there’s anything to do with the rink itself, is there?” Georgie urged him to move on. The sooner he left for the night, the better.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

The group walked to the rink’s pristine floor, the lights above dancing off in different directions. The emptiness was almost sad; a place like this was meant for loud cheer, couples giggling as they fell over, best friends clinging onto each other for dear life as they roll along to bouncy music that encompasses them. Later, Tim told himself. Later.

Mr. Maddox made an arching gesture across the wooden floor, “A lot of people have a tendency to fall over around here. I think we’ve got a poltergeist, myself. My dad once said something about when the place was closed, with the building a safety hazard, a group of teenagers went exploring one day in the 60s. They didn’t, er, all come back out. Point is, I think it’s their ghost being mischievous.”

“People… fall over?” Melanie repeated his words, moving the story away from the urban explorers that Sasha thought she was going to have to do. He definitely said that, right?

He hummed an affirmation. “Yep, then there’s the disco ball.”

Tim, Sasha, and Georgie all glanced towards the ceiling, and, to their surprise, found no disco ball.

“I don’t get it. What disco ball?” Georgie said, now doing their impression of a heron as they spun around, looking all around the room.

“Exactly,” the owner replied. “People always think they see the disco ball reflect out of the corner of their eye, but we’ve not had a disco ball in decades.”

…What?

Christ, Jon was going to love tearing this apart later. (No one was 100% convinced when Martin implied he wasn’t going to restart ‘Fucking Prove It!’ and giving Jon more wine. However, he was curious as to what Georgie meant about espressos not working on Jon ‘anymore’.)

Tim was the first to speak, with no hint of mocking to be found in his voice. “Are you saying that you have the ghost of a disco ball?”

“I’m saying it’s spooky,” Mr. Maddox stared back, wide eyed. Jon was going to be thrilled.

“Right,” Sasha drew out, wondering how that would work at all. “Is that all of the unusual behaviour, then?”

The owner didn’t reply, simply holding up a finger (which was massively helpful for Melanie), as he walked away and over to behind the café’s counter, and lifted out a large rectangular object, covered with a greying sheet. Even as he returned, a small grey cloud of dust could be noted drifting off of the item, as though it had been hidden away in an attic for some time. Ah, this must have been-

“Is that the painting that you brought into the Institute?” Sasha voiced their collective thoughts. It was the right size: an A3 canvas, but the dust shouldn’t have been there if Mr. Maddox had only brought the thing to them a few days ago. Maybe there was something about this place that made everything a little… off.

Mr. Maddox nodded, removing the sheet.

“Yes, the pièce de résistance. I showed it to your boss, but I get the feeling he didn’t believe what I told him.”

The painting itself was atop a light brown canvas, that of a faceless ballerina in a position that they had only ever seen on the ones in wind-up music boxes, known formerly as the ‘fifth position’. Made completely out of white and blue – with the exception of the grey background – her large tutu fluffed outwards, and her hands and feet faded into the background. If someone were to have guessed in a cynical manner, they would have said this was more to do with the artist’s inability to draw these appendages than anything else. It was nothing very impressive.

“It was my late grandmother’s,” Mr. Maddox went on to explain. “Called ‘Echoes’. I don’t know when it was made, she believed it to have been in the late 19^th century, but I’ll tell you the same story she told me. The artist was a teenage girl, fifteen or sixteen, and she mixed some of her own blood into it – although I think you’d be able to tell, given that it’s all blue and white. I was told the girl was found dead in front of it, no idea what got her, but my grandmother told me that sometimes the ballerina moves, and that if you see it, your fate is the same as the artist’s.”

Oh, lovely.

They could see how it would be unnerving, the faceless creature, but there were worse things in Artefact Storage. It wasn’t as though there wasn’t a possibility it was real.

“Well, at least I’m safe,” Melanie rather smugly announced, bringing a smile to the other three ghost hunters.

Mr. Maddox glanced between them all, “Do you want me to leave it out for you, or would you rather I put it back where it was?”

“Might as well keep it out, see if it does anything?” Tim suggested, and was met with small noises of agreement.

The owner carefully placed it on one of the tables around them, purposefully not looking at the painting. “Okay, I think that’s everything. I’ll leave you to it now. Oh, and do help yourselves to food and drink – however, the Slushie machine doesn’t work.” He paused, and emptily staring at the floor, “Not after the incident.”

Before anyone could even think to ask what ‘the incident’ was, Mr. Maddox had shook himself out of it, and was already heading for the exit with a smile to each of them.

What an incredibly trusting man to leave four strangers in his roller disco, with no key, no security. Nothing.

Sasha broke the silence of the four of them trying to figure out if they just hallucinated all of that. “That was weird.”

“Oh, thank God. I thought it was just me,” Georgie breathed a sigh of relief. “Shall we get the stuff from the car?”

“Georgie, do you have Julian?”

Tim had just finished the opening for the premiere of their second series, and had just been digging for something in his car boot. Georgie walked over, proudly lifting Julian’s tiny body towards his owner, and watched as Tim lifted a tiny, knitted tuxedo across his shell.

“Oh, wow. That’s beautiful,” they gasped.

Tim nodded, taking his tortoise back, “It is. I thought he should join us in the fancy dress department, and Martin insisted on making it him our smart little boi. Chose for me.”

They had decided that it was only right to start a new series with fancy dress, because (to quote Melanie) ‘Why the fuck not?’. And since they only had a couple of days’ notice, all of their costumes were ones found in their respective wardrobes, either from Hallowe’ens gone by, or if Tim just owned it anyway. Martin had been so quick with the tuxedo jumper, Tim had wondered if it had been ready for sometimes, perhaps for an upcoming wedding?

“Speaking of,” Sasha interrupted, “Shall we get changed?”

Between the four of them were three large bags, mainly taken up by their new roller skates – or old skates, in Tim’s case. He’d been dying to break these back out for years.

“Here we go,” Georgie grabbed the bags, handing Tim and Sasha theirs. “Tim, you take the mens’ toilets; Sasha, the womens’; and we’ll take the disableds’. Meet back at the rink when we’re ready?”

“Do you think we should get a van?”

Tim spoke out of nowhere, clearly not having listened to Georgie’s instructions, as he had been quietly thinking over this for a few minutes.

Sasha closed the car boot shut. “A van?”

He nodded, “Since we’ve got a second series, and all. We could get a van, put the logo on the side.”

“We don’t have a logo.”

“Then we could make one. Especially if we do more seasons, because I think we could easily do another five,” he reasoned, and the way that Tim’s eyes widened like a puppy’s, mixed with the coincidence of Julian also staring up at her, what was Sasha meant to say? He was her best friend – she carried around cocktail umbrellas specifically for him.

Sasha smiled, “Why don’t we have a proper look about it tomorrow?”

Thinking about it, ‘Perhaps It’s Haunted’ would likely run for many more years. It wasn’t as though anything was going to go so badly wrong that it would put a stop to their ghost hunting forever, right?

It should have been no surprise when Tim showed up in his Jesus costume, complete with the original skates from the day they tried to convince Elias he had tinnitus. It was even better quality than everyone remembered, as he flowed through the tables and chairs, arms outstretched in a Jesus-y way.

“I don’t know why I expected anything less than the Holy Roller, himself,” Sasha exclaimed with a small cheer and clap, ruffling her blue Cookie Monster costume in the process.

He laughed as he looked back at the other three. “Oh, very good. This is why we always win the Institute Hallowe’en costume competitions.”

“How did it take you the longest to get ready?” Melanie asked, sporting her Guy Fieri get-up, and bright orange skates and cradling Julian the fancy tortoise.

Tim flicked the long wig back, “It had to be brushed through properly.” It had taken him a lot of product and combing, and by gosh, did it look good.

“And why did you do that?” Georgie asked the leading question, the smile evident in their voice, as they adjusted the black one piece they had opted for, as the orange pumpkin mask sat atop their head.

“Because I’m worth it.”

“You are, Stoker. You are.”

“HIT IT!”

After Sasha had disabled the security cameras, she had stumbled upon the music system, and where she could plug her phone in.

As the original Y.M.C.A. by The Village People played, Sasha scrambling (and badly so in skates) to line up with the other three, to re-enact the actions as best as possible. Out of the four of them, Tim had the most experience in staying upright on roller-skates, since he had bought his a few years ago now, and since the Elias-incident (which he would really rather forget, given that his clearest memory of the man was from Blind Man’s Bluff) had only worn them on a few occasions to practice. Only ever when Sasha was keeping him held up. He rarely tried doing it alone.

“And one, two, three, four,” Melanie shouted, the only one of the four not wearing her skates at the moment. In fairness, particularly with the first song being with actions, she was concerned about falling over when there weren’t people to hold her either side, which was why Melanie was second in line (note: YMCA) holding safely onto Julian – fully prepared to clutch and roll if needed.

It’s fun to stay at the-

“Y.M.C.A!” the four shouted in unison

The actions to the song at the very least allowed them to do their ‘freestyle’ dance in between the chorus, allowing each to move and feel as free as needed. Including Melanie and Julian’s partnered dance that Georgie would never admit aloud being jealous of. Never. Maybe if it was The Admiral, but not Julian.

Half an hour later (as well as several cans of strong larger and four portions of nachos with cheese), the four lay slumped together, laughing more than they ever had – though perhaps not that time Daisy had picked up eight cheese fondues in Asda’s reduced section, and had decided to share with the rest of the group. Between Jon, Martin, Tim, Sasha, Melanie, Georgie, Basira, Daisy, and Rosie, they had managed to eat the entire lot, without realising that cheese fondue contained a fair amount booze. Didn't know you could get drunk off of cheese. What a world we live in.

“Oh my god,” Melanie gasped between words, “We didn’t try the hot drinks vending machine with ‘soup, two sugars’!”

Within 100 seconds (it took time for them to find any change), four adult (debatable) human beings were stood glaring at vegetable soup being dispensed from the machine. Tim was the first brave enough to take a swipe from the cup.

His face spoke more truth than his lips, “Hm,” was the only sound to come from his face before passing it carefully to Melanie’s hands.

Her sip was met with a very high pitch noise, barely managing to gulp it down. Though, that didn’t stop her from letting her spouse experience the same horror. Or Sasha, for that matter – the pair meeting it was gasps and swear words.

“Sod that, chuck us a bag of Skips,” Melanie continued, attempting to wipe her tongue of the taste that could never be found in nature. “Better yet, Jesus, if you could turn us a glass of water into wine…”

Georgie’s arm wrapped between their wife’s. “You know, Tim, and only because I was thinking about this earlier, if your Jesus could turn water into something else, I think it would be into Diamond White. You know, that cheap white cider from back in the day?”

Before Tim could sarcastically reply, Melanie had already begun.

“Really? I always imagined he would turn it into Vimto.”

Sasha gasped, pointing at her, “That’s it! Water into Vimto!”

“Diamond white or Vimto,” Tim played with the words. “Thanks everyone. Really appreciate it. Now – back to the dance floor!”

Minutes later, to the tune of ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’, Melanie was rolling along with a gentle dance, as her spouse and Tim held her from either side. Rolling her arms backwards and forwards, gently shaking either side; it was fun.

When it came to the others’ turn, Melanie removed her own skates, as to join in without the anxiety of falling (and so that she could help by holding Julian, who was definitely growing on her). She still held her Georgie, doing her best, as Tim and Sasha cackled as they held onto each other hard enough to leave bruises, nearly slipping over to ABBA. Melanie and Georgie giggled and swore, especially when Georgie fell over, luckily not having either pulled Melanie over or injuring themselves.

And so maybe nothing ghostly did happen during the night, and maybe they did have to lie to the owner the next morning when asked if anything ‘unnatural’ happened. But they would always remember their evening spent at a roller disco, mildly tipsy, together.

What a premiere it was.

“Really, nothing?”

Martin was standing in the kitchenette, opposite Jon, having just fed him several espressos. Melanie had even let Martin borrow her cafetière for the exact purpose of reviving the ‘Fucking Prove It’ after show, and yet Georgie had been right. Caffeine had little to no effect on his boyfriend.

“No, sorry, love,” Jon looked up at Martin with guilt. He wasn’t really up for admitting that his time in university (and subsequently the first few years at The Magnus Institute, before the Archives and Martin only ever made tea) and the sheer volume of coffee and energy drinks gave Jon a very interesting caffeine tolerance. Which was either no effect, or poisoning. There was no in between.

With a huge sigh, Martin looked at Jon, then back at The Captain – who was comfortably being cuddled in his boyfriend’s arms. Damn.

“Alright, fine, fine! I give in,” Martin crossed his arms in defeat.

“A-and we should have coss-tumes for the kitties,” Jon slurred, punctuating it with a sip of wine.

Ah, back to normal.

Chapter Text

“Yep, go.” Georgie stuck their thumbs up.

In the early hours of a particularly warm Spring day, Tim began walking towards Sasha’s phone, as she filmed him in front of painted-blue concrete wall with no indication to their location until he spoke. Having now purchased a similar coat to the long black one he wore for the first series (if they were to continue this for some time, Tim would need it after all. He was wondering about suggesting name badges like the Ghostbusters had, soon) Tim was, as expected, wearing the smartest and plainest of all his clothes, shoes that were not the roller-skates from last week, and a red Hawaiian shirt – so that everyone knew he was alive and well and not on a kayaking trip with an avatar of the Lonely in a distant land. Who told you that?

“Hello, and welcome back to Perhaps It’s Haunted. For the last two months, me and my team have been submersing ourselves into a new environment to bring you something truly exceptional in this very special, penultimate episode of the series. In a ghost hunting first, we are exploring the only known haunted aquarium in the world, so let’s get into it, as we have 24 hours to investigate… Aqualand.”

“And, cut! Got it.”

Perhaps It’s Haunted

Timothy Bi-con Stoker (08:48): guys

What The Georgie (08:49): after last week, I have a good feeling about this

Martin, God of Tea (08:49): please do not encourage him

What The Georgie (08:50): go ahead timothy

Definitely Sasha (08:50): The thing is, to get access, we’re going to have to do something a bit different

Definitely Sasha (08:50): So, when was the last time everyone updated their CVs?

Martin, God of Tea (08:51): and this is why I dont leave you all at the institute unsupervised to make a tea-run

Melanie Fuc-King-Barker (08:51): Jon encouraged us

Martin, God of Tea (08:51): WHAT

Jon (08:51): I did no such thing

Jon (08:52): Daisy, on the other hand…

Just Daisy (08:53): I want no part in this

(Two months later)

“It’s time,” Tim announced as he sat down opposite Sasha, Melanie, and Georgie in the aquarium café area. “We’re doing it tonight.”

“What, Perhaps It’s Haunted, or staking out Elias’ house to see if he’s a supervillain?” Melanie asked through a mouthful of her cheese and tomato sandwich.

It had seemed like they had been here longer than this. When Tim had initially found the original reports of mysterious goings on at the newly opened Aqualand Aquarium just outside of London, he, Sasha, and Melanie proceeded with the process of getting in A.S.A.P. For previous episodes, two had been ‘official’ investigations from the institute – which had been their first thought. A polite e-mail later (and Sasha getting very excited at the prospect of seeing all the little fishies while Jon attempted to use his mildly-higher authority to help), the new owner had kindly told them that a visit was not necessary, and that there was nothing to worry about.

But when had something so trivial ever stopped them before?

It was Daisy who managed it. If asked, she would say that it was to get her friends out of the office for a day. In truth, she saw Sasha’s face drop as Jon read the reply aloud. With a quick Google of this ‘Aqualand’, and the time it took for the others to leave Jon’s office, she had done it.

(“Tim, Sasha, Melanie, you’ve got interviews tomorrow afternoon,” Daisy spoke, barely looking up from her phone screen. “I’ve just texted Georgie, all four of you are going. You need to check your e-mails, too.”

Sasha gawped at her.

“I- what?” Tim followed up with a similar expression.

Daisy placed her phone on the nearest desk, as The Sergent pawed to occupy her lap. “It’s a new establishment, they’re still hiring part-time staff, so I sent in applications for you all. Oh, and you need to take paper copies of your CVs with you.”

She laughed as a barrel of hugs were thrown at her.)

So, here they were. Working part-time jobs (miraculously, in this economy).

Melanie worked in customer service, quite happily, as it happened. As the boldest of the employees, she had never been afraid to tell someone where they could stick it. The owner, a Mr. Fell, had rather excitedly led her in this direction moments of the interview being over – a rather kind old soul, one who they all imagined Martin would get on with terrifically. None of them could imagine him angrily asking a patron to leave. His associate, on the other hand, a shadowy figure in sunglasses that they had only ever met once (all on separate occasions, mostly notably when Georgie almost knocked a potted plant out of his hands that he ‘needed’ Mr. Fell to see), must have been the last person with that specific job.

Both Tim and Georgie filled positions within the gift shop, spending the majority of their shifts creating battle scenes with the small plastic toys, and keeping the right people away from the wall of plushies. It wasn’t too difficult keeping Melanie’s away from it, something that Georgie insisted upon as their wife would get carried away. As she had previously. The other people who had unknowingly been banned from the gift shop was Jon and Martin. All of their friends had, at some point, come and visited the aquarium, and that wasn’t just because of who now worked there. Jon and Martin had visited on multiple occasions, in which Tim and Georgie spent a baffling amount of effort keeping them in the dark about the gift shop – because they knew that they would be powerless if either saw it. No, once this whole ordeal was over, they would buy them soft toys instead.

And lastly was Sasha.

Her enthusiasm in the interview had led Mr. Fell to give her what was most likely her dream job – Sasha was caring for the majestic cleaning shrimp. And while she was yet to witness one of them fry any rice (Tim had to be removed for sneaking up with a bag of it once), Sasha had taken the time to learn all of their names – for both her love for them, and so she could tell the little kids when they asked – and personalities. Towards the back of the aquarium, stood a fixture of two man-made rock pools, complete with sand at the bottom, seaweed, and eight lively little cleaning shrimp that, if done carefully, people were free to interact with by gently placing their hand in the water, and they would come over and remove any dead skin around a person’s finger nails.

(Wages-wise, none of them actually needed the cash since Sasha had been accessing institute funds for years now. Instead, she had been slowly funnelling their wages into the accounts of the other employees who needed it more.)

That was what the four of them had done for the last two months.

“Perhaps It’s Haunted,” Tim answered, poking the straw through his Capri-Sun. “Mr. Fell asked if I could lock up tonight-”

Georgie snorted.

“Hey! I can be given responsibility,” Tim pouted, then carried on. “Anyway, he also asked if me and you lot could, since we’re all such good friends, stick around for an hour or so to see if we could find out why the frozen feed in the stockroom is depleting quicker than it should.”

Sasha’s brow furrowed at this. “He could just look on security cameras-” she stopped herself. “Hm. Well, yeah, we might as well. It’s why we’re here after all.”

Georgie nodded as they stretched their arms out. “Do you think he knows? Mr. Fell, I mean. He seems the type to know, but not stop people if they aren’t hurting anyone. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. Probably best not to over think it,” Tim shrugged. “I’ll let Martin know to get the booze in. Or should that be boo-ze. Eh, eh?”

And if somehow Tim’s face met with, say, an impeccably aimed Toffee Crisp, then it was his own fault.

As the sun slowly set, the nights beginning to shorten after a winter of darkness, most of the UK headed bed-ward and turned off the lights, and the majority looked towards the Land of Nod. But somewhere, somewhere just outside of London, Sasha James was saying goodnight to her cleaning shrimp.

“You nearly ready?” a voice, one belonging to Georgie came from the door just before they themselves appeared.

Sasha smiled, “Yep, just need to move Jemima over, she’s under there, can you see?” She pointed beneath a rock, where Georgie could just spot a little white whisker poking out.

“Can I?”

She nodded. It was very likely the best plan to have Georgie make an attempt to remove the stubborn creature – for some unknown reason, and Sasha had thought about it a lot, Georgie was very popular with the cleaner shrimp. They all always came racing, as Jemima was currently proving, immediately seeking out their hand. At first, Sasha had wondered if maybe Georgie just needed their cuticles doing, but they were immaculate. It was almost infuriating to watch at times.

“Hello,” Georgie cooed, gently moving her to the tank the cleaner shrimp stayed in overnight. “There we go. Won’t get to do this for much longer, will you?”

This seemed to catch a nerve that Georgie wasn’t aiming for, as their friend froze at the very notion of leaving her shrimp.

“I’ve decided not to think about it,” Sasha calmly spoke, sealing the tank. “Right. Are we starting at the entrance?”

Georgie silently nodded, hyperaware of hitting another nerve. That was going to be fun when the time came. Maybe they would have to actually buy her a fish tank? Ooh, or get one for the Archives…

Tim and Melanie were already waiting for the other two, at the entrance to the attraction. Looking at the building at night wasn’t as different as one would expect, given that no daylight entered the areas with tanks – it was all fairly dark with LED lighting, to get a better view of all the different ocean creatures in all their glory. The vast spaces just became vast-er without all of the visitors, but not silent. No, all of the filters and running water saw to that, a strange background noise that didn’t necessarily make it less eery when it was just the four of them.

Just the four of them, and the reports.

For such a serene place, it was no wonder that none of them had ever come across spooky goings on in an aquarium before. But when they received a written statement regarding a person’s experience of finding wet footprints and a figure in the distance of the Tunnel O’ Fish™ (like a Tunnel of Love, but with more of a desire to pair it with chips, and an added apostrophe), bizarre tapping noises when there were no people around, something about a ghostly shark chasing an equally ghostly school (or shoal, no one actually knows) of fish. And then there were the outdoor toilets.

Out the back of the aquarium, away from the prying eyes of the public, stood an old, brick outhouse that no one ever went near. And despite the number of people that the four of them inquired concerning the matter, no one was entirely sure – other than it was a fucking creepy building – why everyone avoided it.

“Are we all ready? I’ll start recording, if we are,” Sasha reached for her phone, and pressed play as a chorus of agreement rose.

The attraction part was all on the ground floor, a simply designed one-way walkthrough that only very occasionally had people walking back through it. And for this reason, they were not splitting up today. Especially not if they had to work tomorrow afternoon, and something creepy happened. Then again, they didn’t actually have to come into work, they couldn’t exactly be fired from the Magnus Institute, and they still had an income from it. It just seemed rather mean to leave Mr. Fell without proper notice, seeing how good he had been to them.

“Okie-dokey,” Tim grinned, leading the quartet forwards, talking to the camera as she filmed. “So, this is Aqualand, only re-opened this year, having been a destitute for many years. Actually, its last owner had it as an aquarium too, though the original tanks have since been moved.”

Around them were huge tanks, lit from different angles with stark white beams, reflecting each shiny little scale the fish had to offer. The pool holding the rays without a top, so that people could stand stand atop the steps and balcony, and watch them glide, was a key feature of the room. The bowmouth guitarfish popping up every now and again, curiously watching as the guests stepped around them.

They continued through, Tim narrating as they walked. “And it’s this bit here,” he gestured towards another wall of fish. “Where one of our more significant stories took place. Melanie?”

“Ah yes,” on the arm of her spouse, the camera focused on Melanie. “There was a report of a full-body apparition, right on this spot, as we were told by the witness themselves that the spirits of a school of fish fly through, being chased by a wisp-like shark. After some research, it turns out that the original tank that once stood here was three-foot forwards, exactly where this sighting took place.”

It was a good job that the video wasn’t of Sasha, but the volume of her eyeroll must have been audible on tape. Jon’s usually were.

It was a bit of a stretch, granted. They were, though, here to report.

No one spoke for a moment, as if something was going to happen in those ticking seconds. With the exception of a couple of taps on the glass from a pair of Yellow Tangs who were being as equally nosey as the bowmouth guitarfish.

“Interesting stuff,” Tim remarked, “And next we have a request from the owner himself.”

The storeroom was always locked when not in use, full of the different feeds, cleaning equipment and such. Continuously kept immaculately clean, which was interesting since none of them had ever met a cleaner at the aquarium. Actually, the more they considered it, the tanks must be cleaned too, right? It was a miracle that they hadn’t seen it happen. Maybe literally.

On the trail up to the door, Georgie retrieved the key from their pocket, “The owner has expressed some concern over the stocks of frozen food going missing overnight. Now, he didn’t suggest that it was spiritual activity, however,” they unlocked the cream-painted fire door. “We were wondering if- oh, Mick!”

“Mick, you daft sod. What are you doing down there?” Sasha chuckled, watching as the resident zebra octopus was clambering up the shelves, trying to reach the delicious frozen meat.

He looked up as if to say, But the nomnoms!

“Aww, I’m sorry, love,” Tim laughed, rolling his sleeves, and putting his hands out to the little darling. Mick appeared to give in, sticking himself to Tim’s hands, which had the added advantage of still being lightly coated in the Wotsits he had for dinner. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Melanie cackled as they took the beastie home to his tank, “You little rascal! Scaring us all like that, our very own little kraken- oh, sorry.”

It was a lot of effort for the quartet not to stop dead in their tracks.

“It’s fine, Melanie,” Georgie lied, hoping that the tears would subside quicker than they set in. They weren’t quite over the gay pirate show just yet, and Melanie had politely asked that no one mention krakens to them just yet (“None of us are over it, Melanie.”). “Nighty-night, Mick. See you tomorrow,” they waved as Tim deposited the stripy bastard (affectionate) into his tank.

And maybe it was their imagination, but they liked to think that he purposefully waved back and wasn’t just repositioning his tentacles.

“Righty-o, to the Tunnel O’ Fish™?” Sasha pointed to the entrance.

“How did you pronounce the ™?” Tim perked up, then gasped, “Ooh, I did it too.”

Melanie sighed, “It’s a T and an M, you know it’s just ™- holy crap.”

Before it could carry on any further, Georgie took the lead in pulling Melanie away, and therefore the rest of them.

The Tunnel O’ Fish™ was a three and a half metre wide, 20-foot-long domed tunnel (as the name would suggest), surrounding them with thick, clear glass. Beyond this, the immense variety of fish and ocean creatures drifting in and around never failed to amaze Sasha. It wasn’t her fault if the camera kept veering because she was following them around, wanting to see if the puffer fish was going to puff up.

“Oh, wow,” Tim breathed. Being in the gift shop all day made it all the more exciting when he was allowed to investigate any other part of the aquarium. And even though he had access to most of the building, he could not tell you how far out the tunnel went.

Georgie stared into the blue expanse before them. “I can see how someone thought they might have seen a figure. I can’t see the wall.”

As the small hammerhead shark swam over the top of the tunnel, Sasha made the decision to sit down facing the same direction as the puffer fish, which had now been joined by a side-plate sized silver fish. This was the life. Moments later, the other three joined her, the four sitting closely together.

“Did you two ever have anything happen in the gift shop?” Sasha asked Tim and Georgie, on either side of her.

They thought for a second. “The contactless never works the first time, does that count?” Tim offered up.

She chuckled, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“This was nice,” Sasha murmured, leaving out ‘while it lasted’.

Melanie hummed in agreement. “It was an adventure, even if we didn’t find any ghosts, we did find out that it was Mick nicking all of the feed.”

And now it could be ticked off of the bucket list. Just one to go now.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

The last visitor had just left the establishment, and Sasha was sat by her rock pools, her left hand submerged so that Trevor and Stephanie the cleaner shrimp could nibble at her cuticles. It was their last day at Aqualand, and she had been lying to herself all day, desperate not to say goodbye. Tim, Melanie, and Georgie stood around her now, each having tried to prepare themselves for this moment. Even a group sleepover had already been devised, the whole Archival crew and the cats involved, and a very large plushie was waiting for her. And Mr. Fell had been very grateful for all of their assistance, telling Sasha that she was always welcome back whenever she liked (within opening hours, of course).

“I think it’s time, love,” Georgie cautiously whispered.

It was. Mr. Fell would want to lock up soon, and they shouldn’t keep the others waiting to order their takeaway dinner. She needed to let go.

Without words, Sasha turned to unlock the night-time tank, and then back so that she could tuck them all into bed one last time.

“Goodnight, Trevor,” she mumbled, transferring each cleaner shrimp along with her goodbye. “Night, Stephanie… Goodnight, Jemima… Sweet dreams, Terrance… Bedtime now, Chris… Rest, Seanie… Night, Tay… and- and goodbye, Swiffer. I shall miss you all.”

And now they were all to bed, it was done. The time had come, and it was over.

Tim gave her a small smile, and gently knocked his arm against hers, “But you know, Sash, sometimes… you can’t go back.”

“I know,” she nodded, the tears in her eyes threatening to become a waterfall any second.

“But you can visit.”

“Yes.”

“You can always visit.”

The three of them encircled her with their arms, forming a group hug. They were in this together, forever and always. No one left behind.

Sasha hummed a sad little laugh as she stepped backwards, and turned to Georgie, “I think they’ll miss you more than they’ll miss me, you know? We should have covered it in the episode, you and your mysterious shrimp-summoning ways.”

“Wait, you didn’t tell her?” Melanie questioned her spouse, with a grin forming on her lips.

“Melanie,” Georgie warned their wife.

Without much more thought, Tim swiped his hand over Georgie’s mouth to stop them interrupting, which left a muffled protest. Because if he didn’t know this now, he would find ways to.

Sasha didn’t have to urge Melanie on for her to continue.

“I can’t believe you didn’t know,” Melanie giggled. “Every day, Georgie would bring a sandwich to work, so that every time they visited your cleaner shrimp, they could put tiny little pieces of bacon underneath their nails. Poor little beasts go mad for it.”

At the end of the explanation, Tim released Georgie’s mouth, desperately holding back his smile as he watched it dawn upon Sasha.

“…You fucking what?!”

“I can’t be-lieve they had a whole w-wall of plushies, and ne’er told us,” Martin whined, taking another gulp of white wine, and clutched onto his brand-new orca plushie with the same arm. The other was taken up by the Captain, who was more curious about the new squishy thing, and could she have a go?

“A travesty, I know,” Jon sat – at the opposite end of the sofa – holding his phone covertly behind his also new-what-a-coincidence stingray soft toy, keeping his composure intact given that he was, at this moment, sober as a very sober thing. “Melanie was pissed off too, you know.”

Martin suddenly gasped, briefly making Jon corpse.

“We can go-o back and they cah-an’t stop us! We can buy them all,” and that, theydies and gentlethem, may have been the greatest idea that Martin K Blackwood had ever had drunk. And he once had an idea for socks that go on your hands after two and half bottles of Taboo.

Jon’s phone fell to the sofa. “Oh my god, you’re right.”

(And somewhere in the distance, at that exact moment, Basira sat bolt upright with an urgent sense to stop someone from doing something stupid.)

Chapter Text

“This is hopeless,” Melanie slumped into her chair, and pressed her forehead to the smooth desk in front of her.

“No, it isn’t,” Tim replied, though his arms remained folded as the pacing began.

He stared at the whiteboard Daisy had lent them, along with a set of non-permanent markers. In the centre was a spider diagram without any legs, only the words ‘PIH Series 2 Finale?’ in a bubble. Since their last episode, the quartet, in truth, had just been waiting for an opportunity to arise, since that was what usually happened. They had been unreasonably lucky with all of their past exploits and getting access so easily, primarily given their actual jobs – even if no one really did them anymore.

But in the last week, everyone had become antsy, watching the door for a statement giver on occasion. Tim wanted a good end to series two. After the first finale, it needed to match the enthusiasm. It needed to give him the same energy at the prospect of investigating as the house that Daisy, Basira, and Rosie had set up for them.

Yet, nothing came.

“Well, let’s go over this again,” Sasha sighed at the pile of notes in front of her. Other than the Spook Finders themselves, everyone had left for the day. They were determined to have somewhere by the end of the day, so Georgie was now out on a coffee run. Sasha re-read the first page, “Right, well we can’t get into the Tower of London at night unless we wait until Hallowe’en and do a tour. Which I fully suggest we do, but in six months.”

The post-it was aimed at the bin in the corner. Miss.

“Hampton Court Palace?” Melanie offered, still head-to-table.

Sasha shook her head, “No, that CCTV footage of the ghost shutting the fire doors isn’t enough.” She dug through the papers, “What about… Whitby Abbey, up in the North East?”

“They’ve only got that Count Dracula arrived there when he came to England, but that’s it, pretty as it is,” Tim decided, given that not too long ago they investigated a place purely so he could go roller-skating. “Pendle Hill, in the North West? They had witches?”

Melanie sat back up, “No, Georgie won’t sit on a cold hill all night, I’ll tell you that now. What about going up to York? It’s supposed to be the most haunted city in Europe, do a whole city as a finale?”

The pacing stopped. The sound of squeaky markers on a whiteboard hit her.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Tim agreed. “Let’s keep going, though. Haunted cities, haunted cities… ooh, what about Edinburgh? We could go and look at the vaults?”

“No!” Melanie shouted a little too quickly. “Yeah, no. I went once with Ghost Hunt UK, and it is actually quite terrifying. I’d rather not relive that one, thank you.”

Sasha picked up a green post-it, about to throw it away when she considered voicing it anyway. “We could… we could always go and look at a UFO hotspot?”

A beat of silence.

Then a chorus of laughter rose from all three of them, as Sasha screwed it up and aimed for the 17^th time at the bin. Hit!

“Ah,” Tim calmed himself, “Jon would be furious.”

The quiet settled for what seemed to be the hundredth time that day, after a new suggestion. And even if they did finally come up with something that Tim set his heart on, they then had to find a way of getting in. The disappointment would be crushing.

“Y’know, Tim,” Melanie cleared her throat. “You might just have to settle on it. There will always be more chances to do more episodes, so it isn’t the end of the world if we don’t get somewhere good. After all, it isn’t like the perfect opportunity is about to come running down the- oh my god, I’m a prophet.”

As Melanie had spoken (and was now wondering what this new-found prophetic skill could mean for them all), footsteps crashed down the stone steps, desperate, needing footsteps of a person on a mission. The heaving breaths followed quick behind – this was a person who had something good, whoever it was. They could feel it in their bones.

This was it.

Georgie almost collapsed onto the floor, their lungs furiously trying to keep up with the passion within. No one said a word as the oxygen began to flow through once more.

“I- rea-lly have to,” Georgie gasped, sitting up against the cooling wall, “Do more- ah, ex-ercise. Hah.”

“Georgie?” Sasha poked at the veil of expectation surrounding her friend.

“We’ve got something. Something good.”

“And the coffees are where?”

“Yep, go, go, go,” Georgie urged them to hurry.

Before a large, Victorian house, surrounded by a perfectly maintained garden, and wrought iron gates like something from a horror film, Tim began walking towards Sasha’s phone, as she filmed what was to be the highlight of their careers as ghost hunters. In the dim dusky, they were lit by nothing more than their own personalities, and the light on Georgie’s phone, which shone on Tim’s ghost-hunting get up, the shoes that weren’t Heelys (Melanie destroyed those years ago), and a white Hawaiian shirt - so that everyone knew it was him. No one could ever replace Tim.

“Hello, and welcome to the season finale of Perhaps It’s Haunted: Season Two. For the last episode of this series, we are bringing you something truly unique, and something that can never be replicated. For this once in a life-time experience, we are going somewhere that has never been explored, and probably never will be again. We’re on a tight schedule, so, join us one last time, as we have four hours to explore…

…

The Lukas-Bouchard residence.”

“Got it. Quick, come on. Before someone sees us.”

For Spring-turn-Summer, it had been a surprisingly cold evening that they had chosen to break into Elias and Peter’s home. It hadn’t been earlier that day, and, if they were to check, the quartet of ghost hunters would notice that the light mist and drop in temperature only occurred once they stepped through the iron gates. At least Martin had made them take coats, after the four had excitedly boasted to the others how they were in for a surprise when they saw the episode. Jon had even passed on for lots of Tupperware, filled with homemade dinners, for them this time around.

And for the rush that Tim had been in to leave, he hadn’t taken Julian. That, and there was no newly-knitted outfit to debut. It was just Tim, Sasha, Melanie, and Georgie tonight. No more, no less. No animals were being risked tonight.

It started when Georgie had returned from their coffee run, they had noticed Rosie at her desk, working away, and thought it best to give her a small break by saying ‘Hello’. They weren’t the closest in the group, but that didn’t mean they disliked each other at all. Goodness, no. Naturally, a conversation began. Rosie asked what the four of them were doing still at work at this time of day, and Georgie told her. Rosie didn’t reply straight away, she glanced to something on her desk, then back at Georgie. Eventually uttered that a post-it note had been left on her desk that morning, saying that Elias wouldn’t be in London for the next fortnight.

Georgie would later apologise and find a mop for the coffees spilt.

Which was why the four of them were now staring up at the Lukas-Bouchard residence and the steps leading up.

It was a Victorian style building – quite possibly an original, rather than a late copy in architecture – its walls dark with a suggestion of moss at the edges. Its high-pitched roof was perfectly intact, no slates threatening to slip at the drop of a hat; all of the lacey, white curtains closed, including the eaves’ stood out the most, feature-wise. The sheer number of windows (including the bay window on the ground floor, not far from the entrance) seemed about right for a creature such as Elias, he did like to see what everyone was doing. Gaze from a distance where he could, but not secretly. As though he wanted his staff to know they were being watched. That did prove one thing, however: Elias was not a vampire. Not with the potential for so much sunlight without even a hint of black-out curtains. (Also, Daisy was pretty such she once saw him bite into a bulb of raw garlic, though it was never proven.)

It did have the eery feeling that they should, at some point, see a figure out of the corner of their eye. The single turret above the bay window seemed like a good setting for that. As though there should be a story of a young child being seen on occasion.

“I know we haven’t gone in yet,” Melanie said, adjusting her sunglasses, “But does anyone else think the vibes are really off with this place? Since I lost my sight, I have never had this feeling of a place before we went in.”

The others hummed in unison, and Georgie tightened their grip on their wife’s arm. They may not be afraid of anything, but they would be damned if something were to frighten Melanie King-Barker.

“We should really move, shouldn’t we?” Sasha said aloud, moments later when no one had taken a step closer to the door.

Tim nodded in agreement, and then turned back to them. “Do you mind…? Trade secrets, and everything?”

Melanie chuckled as the other two groaned, rolling their eyes, yet nevertheless faced the other way as Tim clearly reached beneath his coat for something. A few click-y sounds later, he threw something heavy onto the lawn beside them – though it was too dark to tell what exactly his methods were, one could have a reasonable guess.

“Here we go then. Good luck, people,” Tim said, and waited until the four of them were facing the door to slowly push it open with a creak.

An even colder draft came close to them, before anyone dared move an inch forward. The blanket of darkness within the boundaries of the home were only broken by the phone torches, which showed very little but enough for them to take steps eventually.

Silently, Sasha searched for a light-switch, in the hopes that once the electricity came on it would be mildly less creepy.

“Please don’t tell me it’s all candles,” Tim shivered, watching his breath appear in front of him in wisps.

Georgie briefly let go of Melanie when their torch caught something glint against the artificial light. They crept forward, each floorboard squeaking in protest as they did. Upon a small baroque table, next to an old-fashioned telephone, was a zipper lighter. A small silver thing, with a web pattern adorning the side. It almost looked out of placed against its surroundings.

“Here,” they whispered, finding the closest candle that had been mounted on a wall, and lighting it.

Despite being only one wick, it did wonders to reveal their setting further.

And, with a clear absence of modern technology (did Elias really not have electricity? Or did he just like the ambience?), Georgie set about lighting all of the candles they could reach, one by one. As time passed, the whole entrance became visible to them.

An empty space, no personal belongings (bar the telephone and lighter) to be seen that made the place feel ‘homely’. The room itself led off to the right and further back, a curving staircase to the left of them that didn’t show the upper floor(s?), though the wall flowing in that direction held three small, sepia photographs that no one could quite make out without drawing nearer. The walls had been painted a pale, sickly yellow colour that one felt should have been cracked in places, and yet it was perfectly neat, no spots of damp of cobwebs in sight.

Which made it all the more unusual when a light scuttle was heard on the varnished floorboards to the side of them.

“What the fuck was that?” Melanie gasped, her hand finding Georgie’s.

“I don’t know, it was too quick to see,” Sasha bravely walked towards the room to the right of them – The Parlour.

Tim followed quickly, afraid of being left behind. “Sash, wait!”

The change to carpeted floor went unnoticed, as Sasha had snatched a candle from the wall to guide her way through.

This room may have been slightly more filled than the entrance, but the unlit fireplace was a large part of that. Within, one of the walls served more as a bookcase, and another a tall glass cabinet sat against it. More strangely, however, was the single Queen Anne wingback armchair, facing the bay window, looking out. It was the only piece of movable furniture in the room, no side table, no sofa, nothing.

“Maybe Bitchard just likes the view?” Tim shrugged. “He’s a weird guy, it makes sense.”

While Tim and Sasha had gone for the armchair, even peering out of the curtains (only to see a well-manicured hedge), Georgie and Melanie had held back, and the former was staring at the open glass cabinet.

“Tim’s right, have you seen this?” Georgie asked the others.

“Well, no,” Melanie attempted to lighten the mood. It didn’t work as such, so she urged her spouse on. “What is it?”

They turned their head at the items, slowly figuring out what they were in front of.

“Alright, well there’s a small pile of what look to be silver coins next to a leather pouch,” Georgie squinted, but couldn’t spot a date without picking the pieces up. “We’ve got an old-looking whistle next to it, could be a sailor’s; a shattered hand mirror that’s been sellotaped back together; and then… I don’t know what that is.”

There were no labels to be seen, which would have really helped right about now. The other item appeared to be a material of some sort, dark black, leathery with parts of it showing short hairs, though singed. It had been put in the cabinet with less care than the other items, squashed onto its own shelf.

By the time Tim and Sasha had come to see, curiosity had gotten the better of Melanie. She began to reach forward, first meeting with the glass door, then-

“Don’t!” Georgie pulled her hand away with a matter of urgency. “It could have fleas, or whatever disease on it. It could be animal, it could be anything.” They didn’t tut as Tim made sure the case was videoed, just explained to Melanie that it was lump of ‘stuff’ and hopefully nothing more.

The remainder of the ground floor fit in as well as the rooms the quartet had already been through. The sitting room with two identical, dark brown chesterfield sofas facing one another, and the fireplace at the very least ready to be lit this time. Though, intriguingly, above it an oil painting of two gentlemen. One a tall sea captain, clearly Peter Lukas, if they recognised him correctly from the very few instances the man had actually been seen. The other gentleman was sat down, in a chair indistinguishable from the one in the parlour. But it certainly wasn’t Elias Bouchard.

“Whoever they are, they look very familiar,” Sasha pondered, desperately pulling at why she knew the face as she lifted the candle as high as she could to it.

The taunt features, the pale complexion. The way his eyes appeared to follow a person around the room…

Melanie thought for a moment. “But why would Elias let Peter keep a portrait of him and another man? He isn’t exactly the sharing type.”

She wasn’t wrong – and they had all heard the arguments that led to divorce before. Anything this big would cause something far more permanent.

“It’s not- no. Peter wouldn’t be old enough,” Tim stopped himself. “It’s just, it kind of looks like that portrait of Jonah Magnus.”

Even as Tim said the name, they knew. The grey eyes had the same green tinge – bizarrely like Elias’ – and it was the same smug tug at his lips.

“I feel like this is going to bother me for weeks,” Sasha sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Come on, we haven’t got too long tonight. I want to see what’s back there.” She gestured at the doorway to the dining room and headed towards it.

As the other three followed, Tim noticed a book on one of the sofas, a bookmark poking out from the middle. He nodded towards it, “Huh, looks like Elias is doing his book report on ‘The Introduction to Higher Anatomy’.”

“I can’t tell you how much I don’t want to know,” Melanie chuckled to herself.

The dining room sat much like something either out of a museum or a haunted house ride at a theme park (not dissimilar to the one from the first series of ‘Perhaps It’s Haunted’, where Tim jumped quite badly at a rogue pigeon). Only a wooden table and two chairs – not as fine as the other furniture in the house, but not cheap - sat dead in the centre, atop a gaudy rug, with silverware, glassware, and bright white ceramic plates decorating it. The darkened chandelier presided over the room, and if they had means to light it properly, would have shone in into every inch of every nook and cranny, everything would be exposed to them.

Tim’s phone torch fell on the Fine China cabinet, the pieces inside filled with dust to the point that they didn’t match with the rest of the room. That and that several pieces from the left-hand corner were missing – only rings of dust where they should have been. Strange to pick items from the side, though not uncommon enough for him to care. He almost passed over the side table next to the gap in Fine China.

“Another item encased in a glass box,” Tim commented. “I wonder how often he has to replace broken glass, because I get through a lot of it.”

“And that’s why I’m buying you a sippy cup for your birthday,” Georgie gave him a knowing look.

It was a ceramic pot, and if Tim knew anything about pottery, it was that he did not know anything more than that. It must have been worth something, if Elias had it stored in the way it was. The pot was an off white, and decorated in crisp, geometric blue lines that repeated in a symmetrical pattern, as they grew thinner and thicker. Tim couldn’t quite express the vibe it was giving off other than ‘bigoted’ and ‘beckoning’ at the same time.

He had a very sudden urge to take it out and hold it in his hands.

“I think,” Melanie broke him out of his thoughts, “We should have a go at the next floor. We don’t have much more than something scrambling along the floorboards, so we might as well see if there’s something ghostly or weird upstairs.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed.

It was noticeable that he wasn’t his usual, cheeky self tonight, as the four found the staircase. They couldn’t blame him. None of them felt in the mood for japes and giggles right now, not until they had left this place. It just seemed wrong. The whole place, off. Like nothing any of them had experienced before. As though they should be in a horror film, waiting for all of the doors to magically lock, and a killer in a mask to pick them off one by one. Although, there being only four of them, it wouldn’t be a very long film. Perhaps a TV special at Hallowe’en instead.

The staircase, as most of the floorboards in the entrance had, creaked and groaned with their collective weight. Only now were they able to properly look at the three photographs hanging up, all sepia by now, or appeared so as Sasha took the time to light each candle as they all ascended the stairs.

All three of Victorian-Edwardian gentlemen; all around the same age Elias would be now; and all looking off slightly to the side with a smidge of what could have been adoration. They did have very small names written in the corners, not that any of the ghost hunters stopped for long enough to notice ‘B. Bennett’, ‘J. Fanshawe’, and ‘A. Von Closen’, alongside their birth and death years.

They didn’t notice, because that was when they heard the noise again.

“Fuck!” Tim shout-whispered.

Sasha turned to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, “Hey, hey, it’s alright. I see it, just a spider. I promise. Ooh, and she’s a big girl, too.”

With little to no warning, Sasha followed where she had seen the creature go, wondering if there was an aquarium-type thing to help her back into. Tim could do nothing but follow at speed.

Georgie hissed ahead, “No, wait! Stop running off! Damnit. You alright, Melanie?”

“Yeah, just let me know if I’m about to tread on an arachnid. Martin would kill me,” Melanie said in all seriousness. “We’ll have to warn Jon about this, you know.”

They reach the landing, a small, carpeted area that led directly to three other rooms. “Oh god, we will,” Georgie agreed. “Did he ever tell you how that started? His arachnophobia?” At the shake of their wife’s head, Georgie carried on. “Don’t tell him I told you about this, and don’t tease him, but when Jon was very young, he-”

“Got her!”

Sasha had shouted through loud enough for them to know which room to enter, the noise weaving through the hallways with ease. Georgie sighed.

“Tell me later, hun,” Melanie smiled.

It appeared that the room their spider had returned to was nothing more than the master bedroom itself.

Far more ornate and decorated than any other room they had seen, something that Elias must have spent an awfully long time perfecting to this standard. The biggest four-poster bed any of them had ever witnessed, adorned with deep emerald covers with a gold lining, delicate features carved into the dark wooden frame, the curtains around it matching the rich colours within, and two bedside tables holding books. Beside the window, a small table holding a chess set – the game in progress – with two chairs identical to the ones in the dining room opposing each other. On the other side of the room, close to where Tim and Sasha stood, was a matching wardrobe and cupboard (them differentiable given that the wardrobe was immensely wider and taller); then opposite the bed, a desk and a dressing table, each covered in their own possessions.

“Oh, good lord,” Georgie gawked as they took it all in, ignoring the involuntary impression of Jon.

“Isn’t it just?” Sasha was smiling at the tarantula (she wondered if it may be a Brazilian black?) that was sitting politely in her hand. “Oh, you mean the room? Yeah, it’s something.”

Tim walked away from the creature, not looking entirely convinced by it. He didn’t dislike spiders, but he wasn’t as fond of them as Martin was. And he certainly wasn’t going to be touching it. Instead, Tim passed Georgie and Melanie, rounding the bed to see what was on the other side.

“Anything good?” Melanie asked, as the footsteps came to a halt.

He hummed, and Sasha gently placed the little beastie on the bed covers to start exploring for herself. “This says something in Latin, so I feel like I might butcher this, ‘Ex Al-’ something-” Tim picked up the leather-bound book with faded gold letters on the spine.

“There’s a fair few in here,” Georgie commented, gazing over to the desk. Nothing sat on top of it, but there were drawers to snoop it.

Sasha nodded, taking her glasses off to clean them, “I can read a few books at a time, I wouldn’t hold it against either of them. What’s this?” On the bedside table closest to her was a thick, black paperback with something written in a white serif font. ‘The’ Something’s ‘Tale’.

“I’m going to go with ‘Ex Altiora’?” Tim decided, though it sounded more like a question.

Georgie pulled at the top drawer in the desk, peering inside as the other two focused on their own findings.

They froze.

The millisecond the panic set in, Melanie knew something was wrong.

“Put the books down,” Georgie calmly spoke. When neither Tim nor Sasha responded, they nearly screamed, “Put them down! Right now! Do not touch anything else in this room.”

The sharp tone in their voice snapped Tim and Sasha out of it, both releasing the books to the floor without a moment’s thought.

“Georgie?” Sasha carefully prodded for an explanation.

They took a breath.

“There is a book in that desk. A book with a crude drawing of a spider in a red hat on the front, and if it’s what I think it is, then we need to leave. We need to leave right now before anyone accidentally touches something that belongs in Artefact Storage.”

No one had ever seen Georgie Barker-King this worked up over something. Sure, they had seen them shout at Jon once or twice, just never like this.

“Alright,” Tim said, gaining his composure. They wouldn’t act like this if they didn’t mean it. “Alright, let’s go. Preferably, quickly.”

And maybe if it hadn’t been for that final adverb, they would have remained unscathed.

Maybe Sasha wouldn’t have tripped on the corner of the rug.

But she did.

She did.

And, like any normal human being/entity, grabbed for something to keep her upright. Which, in this case, happened to be the cupboard beside the wardrobe. And, to add to it all, Sasha had the strength to pull one of the door’s off of its hinges, revealing its contents.

If nobody moved before, then nobody moved now.

Melanie felt Georgie stiffen worse than before as the noise of Sasha’s shriek mixed with the broken door, and then nothing. Not even breaths.

They could do no more than stare in the utmost horror.

“What? What is it?” Melanie grasped for an answer.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Tim whispered, covering his mouth,

Sasha was still on the floor, but when an item threatened to fall, she leapt up and away quicker than Tim at an ice cream van. “So… so much,” she gulped, her voice wavering. “Rubber.”

“And latex,” Georgie unhelpfully added, not much louder than Tim.

The cogs began to turn in Melanie’s brain. “Oh- oh, please, please tell me that what I’m thinking we’re in front of isn’t… that.” Melanie had never believed in a Christian God before, but she was perfectly willing to now if she was proven wrong.

“They’re all so… big,” Tim divulged. “How would they get it u- no. Nope! I do not want that image, and I’ve already got it, we are leaving, and we are leaving now.”

“Yes please,” Sasha scrambled for the exit. “I didn’t need to know anything about my boss’ intimate life, I’ll never be able to look Elias in the eye again.”

They all clambered for the stairs, taking little care in how loud they were.

“What’ll we do about our finale?” Melanie asked over the commotion.

Georgie shrugged, “Pretend it never happened? I am not letting anyone else see that.”

(Two weeks later)

Jonah Elias grumbled to himself as he dusted off his leather chair, and nearly fell backwards into it. Two bloody weeks Peter had stuck him in The Lonely for. Two! All because Peter didn’t like the idea of keeping the bread in the fridge, Elias had to be whisked off to that hell hole his ex-husband called ‘paradise’.

Christ, he was still wafting away the mist that had followed him out.

Still, The Eye was at least giving Elias a summary of the events he had missed (some more conveniently than others) while trapped. Which was more detailed than usual, given how The Eye had lately become more fond of the Archival staff than Elias – something Elias was not looking forward to hearing about what they had been up to. It was always so unproductive; he couldn’t even recall the last time The Archivist had taken a live statement. He may as well give up on an Apocalypse right here, right now.

Peter Lukas left Rosie Zampano a note telling her that you would not be available for the next fortnight. She has been running the Institute well in your absence. Perhaps she should have been the Archivist…

Elias wanted to argue back, but she might actually be able to hear him from in here.

Lukas also nearly bought a pet goat.

That sounded about right. What Elias really wanted was to check that no one (naming no names) had messed with his office again. He didn’t appreciate the yoghurt on the highest shelves last time, it took him and Peter ages to get the foul, rotten goop out.

The Archival staff have not sabotaged your office.

…Huh. That was strange. Maybe they had better things to be doing.

That was when there was a knock at the door, and Elias didn’t need The Eye to tell him who it was. Not since a baby black widow crawled atop his desk – and, if he wasn’t very much mistaken, waved. He should have been part of the Web. At least the spiders seemed to like Elias.

“Come in, Annabelle,” Elias sighed, and then, for show, removed a shoe to stage himself as though he were about to crush the tiny arachnid.

“We both know that’s a bad idea. Leave Lottie alone,” Annabelle purred, her shock of bleached hair coming into view. She closed the door behind her, and whisked herself forwards, all the way up to Elias’ desk so as to rescue her spider. “Did you enjoy your holiday? Good weather, I hope.”

He sneered, leaning back. “Peter Lukas is a childish individual who will be regretting his actions soon enough. But, since you're asking, I would have appreciated a hot water bottle. Now, what do you want?”

Her grin had always been unsettling, but the way Annabelle’s fangs hung down, and all of her eyes lit up definitely made it worse. It was then that Elias realised that one of her hands had remained hidden, as it came into view. A VHS tape, labelled ‘PIHS02E03’.

“Is that…?” Elias left the question open, gently falling forwards as his mouth gawped slightly.

She nodded feverishly. “’Perhaps It’s Haunted’, the series two finale. My Adelaide watched the entire thing happen.” A large, Brazilian black tarantula scuttled around from behind her neck, and down to the tape.

The Eye had already explained that no one was entirely sure what had happened to the end of ‘Perhaps It’s Haunted’ – a stupid little ghost hunting show that Elias had no interest in stopping – and it must have been filmed in a blind spot (they would later realise that this was because Mikaele Salesa ‘just happened’ to be around on a photography excursion), because The Eye couldn’t see it. Elias would be lying if he said he wasn’t a fan of it and its counterpart after-show (and that was made by someone who once set him on fire).

“Do the others know?” he questioned, thinking how quickly he could pack away his belongings.

2.4 seconds. You only just sat down.

“Yes,” Annabelle answered, staring back down at the tape. “Jude and Agnes are bringing snacks, Jane’s on drinks, and Helen has promised not to touch the tape player again, after last time. Everyone else is meeting at yours in,” she looked to the grandfather clock kept in the corner, “About forty-five minutes.”

“Excellent. Would you care for a lift back?” Elias replied, grabbing his coat and unopened bag.

“If you don’t mind, then yes. Shall we?”