Chapter Text
Roswell, New Mexico. December 24th, 1919. 11:57 PM.
The wind whipped across the open desert, blowing down a blanket of snow from the mountains to settle ankle deep over empty fields and abandoned pastures. The crops had long since been harvested and stored for the winter; the cattle either herded to the barn to keep from freezing to death, or shipped off to the stockyard. Coyotes yipped and yapped as they raced each other through the snow, while somewhere in the distance a pack of wolves howled.
Music drifted on the air, faint but lively, from the modest two storey home. Smoke rose from the chimney, spreading the scent of burning wood, evergreen needles, and roasting pork into the bitter night air. It was Christmas Eve still, though just barely, and the Manes’ family ranch was hosting its traditional Christmas party. All the important people from town were no doubt there, sipping mulled wine and hot buttered rum, laughing their fake laughs and pretending that they don’t spend every day of the rest of the year backstabbing each other and trying to make more money than the other.
People flowed in and out of the house like waves to the shore, spilling out warmth and light each time the door opened. One lone man stood just out of reach of that warm light that reached across the ground each time someone came out for cool air. He stood tall, his shoulders back and chin tilted up defiantly. The wind ruffled his hair and sent a chill down his spine, but he hardly felt it. A quick glance at his pocket watch told him he had exactly two minutes to make it the rest of the way to the house and through the door. For a moment, he debated turning around and leaving. It was what was expected of him, after all -- not to make it in time.
No, he decided. No, he wasn’t going to let his father win. Not this time.
Pocket watch slipped carefully back into his vest, he squared his shoulders and took one step forward.
His satchel dropped to the snow at his feet.
The world darkened around him.
The distant bells of the town church rang out the hour as midnight mass ushered in the holy day.
A body laid in the snow, dark unseeing eyes turned towards the house. No one the wiser of his existence, or his demise, as the party continued on in earnest.
*** *** *** ***
Roswell, New Mexico. December 11th. Present Day.
“Okay, but…I still don’t understand. This place is a dump, Michael! It’s been empty for like, a hundred years.”
“Twenty-five, Iz. Not a hundred.”
“Whatever. It’s a dump. A complete money pit. Really, you’re just going to put more money into it than you’re going to get back.”
Michael Guerin rolled his head back and stared up at the ceiling as he tried to count backwards from a thousand -- counting back from a hundred didn’t work when it came to dealing with his sister. He loved his sister, he really did, but where he loved to build things and fix things and work with his hands, she wanted things clean and orderly and would rather get a mani-pedi than dirt under her nails. She just didn’t see things the same way he did. He could see the potential in the house and out-buildings. All she saw was dust, cobwebs, and severely out of date furnishings.
Smiling, Michael shook his head as he wandered from one room to the next. “There’s 1600 acres on this ranch, believe me, I’ll make my money back once I sell it.”
“You say ‘acres’ like it actually means anything to me,” Isobel rolled her eyes and huffed as she folded her arms over her chest, her lambskin jacket pulled tight around her. She sniffed once, her nose scrunched and disgust written across her face as she glanced around the main floor. “There’s no heat in here, either. Please tell me you’re not actually going to be living here while you renovate?”
Brushing past her, Michael moved into what he assumed to be the living room (or what he planned to turn into the living room at least), and right to the large stone fireplace that took up most of the wall. No doubt it had been the original source of heat when the home had been built back in the 1880s. He’d already checked the chimney and flue when he came through with the realtor and had logs ready to light for when Isobel and Max came by to see his new place.
Isobel Evans, of course, was early.
“I need to get the HVAC checked and updated before I use it, but the fireplace works great, so I’ll be sleeping in here. C’mon, Iz. It’s not going to be that bad. The place has damn good bones, it’s already wired for electricity and there’s plumbing--”
“Neither of which have been used in fifty years--”
“--that just need some updating. The rest is all cosmetic. Brand new appliances, replace the windows, level out the porch, refinish the floors. It’ll look amazing once I’m done with it.”
“Uh-huh, and what about the ghost?”
Michael stopped fiddling with the logs to glance over his shoulder at her. Everyone in Roswell knew the stories surrounding the old Manes’ Homestead Ranch, the mystery and scandal over what could have happened to the youngest Manes son. There were rumors, obviously, that he’d been abducted by aliens twenty-six years before the infamous crash even happened (which those who believe that rumor also seem to think the crash happened because the aliens had come to return said youngest Manes; Michael thought both rumors were bullshit). Some people said he’d simply taken off for Mexico to start a new life. Others, though, swore that he’d been killed and buried somewhere on the property and that his spirit haunted the ranch waiting for his chance at revenge.
(Michael thought that one was about as much bullshit as the alien abduction rumor.)
“There’s no such thing as ghosts, Izzy,” he answered bluntly.
No sooner had the words left his mouth that a thump sounded from the kitchen. A chill raced down Michael’s spine as his eyes darted towards the archway separating the two rooms. Isobel jumped, her blond ponytail fanning out around her as she spun towards the sound. Neither moved. They couldn’t. The air was charged and tense, silent. The kind of silence that only seemed to appear in horror movies just before the killer jumps out from a closet.
After a moment, when nothing else happened, Isobel darted a sharp look to Michael. “Explain that.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “The place has been abandoned for years, it was probably some angry rat or something. Now do you want the tour and to hear my plans or not?”
For the next hour Michael and Isobel wandered through the house. Inspired by the numerous home improvement and house flipping shows on HGTV, the pair had (half jokingly) decided they should start their own house flipping company. Michael, ever the handyman and Mr. Fix-It, had all the construction know-how needed in order to rip down walls and put them back up again without them falling down; while Isobel had studied extensively the pin boards on Pinterest and followed all the trending interior decorating influencers on Instagram to be able to take the drab and make it glam.
Of course, they’d only done one house so far and that had been their brother Max’s place, but they were up and coming and Michael felt confident they could make it work.
Michael pointed out which walls he planned to take out in order to open the main floor up a bit more and how he was going to expand the miniscule kitchen tucked into the back of the house. There were six bedrooms all together, but Michael and Isobel agreed that two should be combined to create a massive master bedroom complete with ensuite and walk-in closet. Isobel wanted to pull out all the original handcrafted woodworking -- door frames, window trim, chair rail and baseboards -- and turn the whole place into a sleek, minimalistic, modern dream home. Ultimately, Michael won that argument and the original woodwork would stay and they would keep to the Old West theme with modern touches.
“Absolutely no animal heads or antlers on the walls,” Isobel insisted as they made their way back to the front door. “They’re tacky and ugly. No skulls, either. God, why Max insisted on all of that…”
Huffing a soft laugh, Michael nodded as he pulled her in for a tight hug.
“For once, I agree. The mounted heads and antlers are gonna be out the door as soon as you leave,” pulling back from the hug -- after presenting his cheek for a kiss -- Michael shoved his hands in his pockets and smirked. “Sure you don’t wanna stick around and help me clean everything out? Maybe even start some demo? I’ll let you take a sledgehammer to the kitchen cabinets.”
Isobel’s face scrunched in disgust. “No. That’s fine. Though, let me know if you find any antiques in the attic or buried in the walls. They might be worth something. Oh! And if you ever get that one bedroom door unstuck! I bet there’s a lot of great stuff in there!”
Michael laughed, nudging her towards the door. “Right. Bye, Izzy.”
With a smile and a wave, Isobel disappeared out the door, leaving Michael to stand alone in his new temporary home with only the sounds of the fire crackling and house settling to keep him company. With a deep breath, he turned his attention back to the main room.
Six bedrooms, three baths, a kitchen, dining room, and living room. It was a lot of house for just one person. Once upon a time it had been full of life, passed down from Jesse Manes to his only remaining son, Gregory, and then eventually to Gregory’s son, Edward. Edward, who never had any children and had gone into a nursing facility back in 1997 and had finally passed away two years ago at the ripe old age of 102. When Edward had moved into the nursing facility, he’d left the house exactly as it was, with clear instructions left that nothing was to be removed from the home, nor anything done to the home until after his death.
So it sat empty, a liminal space and ghost of its own sort. Family heirlooms left untouched for twenty-five years. Despite that, Michael had noticed on his initial walkthrough that the house seemed to be well kept and maintained for the most part. Almost as if someone made it a point to come in once or twice a year to dust, air the place out, and chase out any critters or vermin that decided to make that place their home.
Now, though, it belonged to Michael, to do with as he pleased, and the first thing he wanted to do was trash the hunting memorabilia. Starting with the massive buffalo head above the fireplace.
*** *** *** ***
If Michael had known that moving into the old Manes Homestead came with the added bonus of being constantly asked if he’d seen “The Ghost” yet, he might have given a little more thought to buying the place. It seemed like everywhere he went in town, people stopped him to ask about the place. Was it really haunted? Is it really the ghost of Alexander Manes? Is it Jesse Manes, trapped there waiting for his youngest boy to return home? Had he seen things go flying in the middle of the night? It had gotten to a point where Michael wanted to scream if anyone so much as even mentioned Casper the Friendly Ghost.
“So, d’ja introduce yourself to Alex Manes last night before ya started tearin’ into his house?”
Michael cursed under his breath as he worked to get the new water heater in place, glaring up at the older man across from him. “I asked you to help me replace the damn water heater so I can take a fucking shower, not harass me about some nonexistent ghost.”
“I can help and harass at the same time. I’m talented like that. Push your corner more towards me, you’re never gonna get the pipes lined up crooked like it is.”
Walt Sanders stood against the wall, his one good eye focused on what they were working on. Well, what Michael was working on. Sanders had decided to supervise and apparently join in on the ridiculous ghost bullshit. Michael narrowed his eyes, a scowl firmly in place as he nudged the tank a little closer to where the old man said it needed to be.
“I’m not introducing myself to an empty house. Hand me the wrench.”
“This house ain’t never been empty.” Sanders slapped the wrench into Michael’s outstretched hand. “You spent the night here last night, you mean to tell me you didn’t notice anything strange ‘bout the place?”
“That,” Michael grunted as he tightened the bolts into place, “is exactly what I’m telling you. I can’t believe you, of all people, actually buy into the rumors that this place is haunted.”
“They ain’t rumors, kid. It’s fact.”
Michael sat back on his heels and shoved a hand through his hair, forcing the wild curls he’d never been able to tame, back off his forehead and out of his eyes. He let the wrench fall to the floor in front of him before looking back up at Sanders.
“Fine. Let’s say this place is haunted. I really hope this Alex guy enjoyed seeing me walk around naked this morning,” he flashed a saccharine smile.
Behind him a pipe suddenly rattled, clanking hard against the stone wall. It was enough to make Michael jump and glance over his shoulder. He stared into the empty space behind him, almost expecting to see something suddenly shimmer into existence, before Sanders’ chuckle drew his attention back to him. The man smirked at Michael with a raised brow.
Michael, exasperated, shook his head. Old houses made weird noises all the time, didn’t mean they were haunted.
When Sanders finally left for the night, after harassing Michael a few more times about ghosts and being respectful and all kinds of other bullshit that he didn’t believe in, Michael made his way up the stairs to start clearing out the bedrooms. Most of them had the bare minimum to begin with, an antique bed that he quickly dismantled and set the pieces aside for Isobel to check over later and decide if she wanted to keep or sell; a small dresser and maybe a chair. That was it.
Then there was the mystery room with the locked door. The door was warped and wedged enough that the only way Michael could think of to get it open was to break it down. As much as he didn’t want to, especially after all his fighting with Isobel over getting to keep the original woodwork. The first hard kick landed next to the knob and did nothing but send a crack splintering along the dried out wood. Michael shoved his shoulder against the crack, hoping it would give out and he wouldn’t need to actually kick it in. It creaked, but that was it. With a deep breath and a silent apology sent up for destroying the beautiful wood door, Michael leaned back, kept his knee bent and slammed the heel of his boot as hard as he could beside the knob.
Wood splintered as the door flew open, a rush of musty old air slapped him in the face as the room came into view for the first time in decades. Unlike the other rooms, this one was filled with belongings and looked as if it had been frozen in time waiting for its occupant to return to it. The bed sat perfectly made against one wall, a nightstand with an old mosaic stained glass electric lamp sitting on it. A wash basin and mirror were across the room while a large dresser stood beside one of the three windows in the room. Knick-knacks lined the top of the dresser along with a few framed black and white photos. Everything in the room was personal, from the faded and dusty blue curtains to the guitar propped up against the dresser. It was personal, and clearly none of it had been touched since the early part of the 1900s.
Michael made his way slowly through the room, slacked jawed in awe over it all. Isobel was the one with an eye for antiques, but even Michael could tell that nearly everything in the room could easily fund most of the renovation costs. Hell, he was willing to bet that lamp was an original Tiffany Studios lamp. He’d have to take a picture and do some research on it but if it was… whew . There were landscape paintings on the walls, a few larger photographs of people in dark heavy clothes hung on either side of the far window across from the bed. It was the picture beside the wash basin that drew Michael in, though. Dark eyes shone out from under perfectly groomed dark hair. A strong jaw and facial features that could have been crafted by the gods themselves. Though the man wasn’t smiling in the picture, his piercing gaze was enough to make Michael’s stomach do a ridiculous flip.
The guy was absolutely gorgeous .
There was another, smaller, picture beside it of the same man -- Michael had to assume it was the fabled Alexander Manes -- dressed in a doughboy uniform, standing at attention with his gun at his side and scowling at the camera. For the first time since buying the house, Michael found himself wondering what happened to this particular Manes boy. The story went that Alexander had returned home from The Great War and then disappeared shortly after; but just how true was that? Had he returned home suffering from shell shock and wandered into the desert never to be seen again? Or had he suffered the same fate many others had and been shoved into an institution by a family who didn’t understand the trauma response he’d developed at war?
He stared at the pictures for a little longer before finally he picked them both up and wandered out of the room. His eyes darted from one picture to the other as he made his way down the stairs and to his makeshift bed in the living room. The fire had died down some, but Michael didn’t seem to notice. He settled himself on the couch, set the first picture on the coffee table gently, and turned his attention back to the smaller one. Something about it had him curious for more information. As carefully as he could, he pried the backing off the frame and stared down at the elaborate cursive scrawled across the back in dark graphite.
Alexander Jackson Manes.
May 3rd, 1915.
Aged 23 years and 7 months.
Christ, his assumption had been right. This was the Alexander Manes everyone claimed haunted the house. A guy who, by Michael’s math, had supposedly disappeared in 1919 and would have been Michael’s age at the time.
It figured the mystery Manes was so damned attractive. Attractive and completely unattainable, the story of Michael’s life.
“What happened to you?” Michael asked the photo as he turned it over in his hands to stare down at the face looking back at him. A log in the fireplace shifted and fell, sending sparks dancing up the chimney, but no other answer seemed to follow. Not that he expected one, that would have been stupid. There was no one left alive who could answer that question, anyway.
Setting the picture beside the other, Michael shoved himself up and set about getting ready for bed. Boots, pants and shirts flung across furniture before he tossed another couple of logs onto the fire and slipped under the blankets splayed across the couch. As he snuggled down against his pillows and let his eyes land on the handsome face of Alexander Manes’ century old photographs, Michael found himself considering the idea of ghosts. If they were real -- which he still 100% doubted they were -- if Alexander wanted to haunt the house and keep him company, well…Michael would probably be okay with that.