Chapter Text
The Phantomhive Manor. The most haunted building in the whole of Britain.
Because the haunted-ness was real. Throughout the century or longer since it'd become uninhabited, countless had set foot within its grounds, attempting to penetrate its mysteries, all to no avail.
What was in there? What did they see? No one would ever know.
Because all of them-- every single one of them, with no exception-- would be found, when the heavy mist cleared on the morning following their arrival, dead. No wounds, no blood, nothing, but unmistakably dead, lain neatly outside the Manor's closed iron gates, their eyes closed and their mouths slightly open, as if they were simply asleep.
So since the 1950s, the government had prohibited anyone's entry into its grounds. But that hadn't stopped legends about the place making their way out, and flourishing into the most well-known fairytale nowadays. Every child knows of the tale of The Boy Over the Hills, a dark, un-fairytale-like fairytale set in the very manor, of a certain 13-year-old Ciel Phantomhive who, after his parents' death, turned to the help of a demon and went on the path of evil, eventually having his soul eaten on Judgement Day, and to rest in neither hell nor heaven, because of all the sins he had committed.
You remember your mother reading you the tale when you were still a child. You remember your little family-- happy, though incomplete-- just your mother, and you, and your little cat who used to love scratching at the leather of the car's passenger seat.
And then you remember the night when everything fell apart; the moment when you woke up in the hospital, head still throbbing after the deafening crash, instinctively calling out for your mother, only to be told that you were the only one left alive. All that was left of your past life was a little silver bell charm, hung on a fine silver chain, which the nurse handed to you with a trembling hand. It was one your mother had always worn, and now it was yours to keep around your neck.
You were sent to a foster family after your recovery. The Waysons were gentle, caring, considerate, all that you'd ever hoped for and needed. But you weren't happy.
You felt as though you could never be happy again.
So one night, one pouring, thunderous night, you ran. You ran, not knowing where to go, and not caring, only feeling the little bell knocking against your the middle of your collarbone, its weak jingle overpowered by the rain. You ran till you were all drenched to the skin, and your legs could carry you no more. And by the time you stopped, there was nothing but a pair of heavy, wrought-iron gates in front of you.
A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the sprawling estate in the not-too-far distance. But before the sudden shock of recognition could sink in, you felt the dazzle of electricity as a bolt of lightning passed right through you. Numbed by the acute pain, you felt your vision turn blurry. Your last sensation was that of a sharp sting as your knees hit the ground, before you felt yourself sink into the darkness.
+++++++++
You woke up the following morning in a soft King-sized bed beside large full-length windows, the curtains of which were drawn, showing a still gloomy sky. The rain was still pouring, but had subsided enough for you to make out in the distance the iron gates you had collapsed against the previous night.
You were inside the Phantomhive Manor.
In a daze, you stood and slipped into fluffy white slippers that had been placed out for you neatly at the side of the bed, at the same time noticing the white, velvety, oversized shirt you had on that hanged down all the way to cover your thighs.
You pushed open your door. The corridors were a rich red and gold, hanged with beautiful oil paintings, all immaculately clean as if just dusted by a meticulous servant.
And then you noticed the moving figure further down the corridor, followed by a gently yet firm knocking on a door.
A creak of doors opening, and the figure disappeared into them.
You slipped along carefully, the soft velvet carpeting deadening your footsteps.
'Young Master. It's time to wake up.'
Rustle of curtains being drawn.
'Today's tea is a royal blend of Earl Grey from Fortnum and Mason's.'
The tinker of tea set and then trickling water. Rich citrus aroma wafted into your nose.
'And your schedule today is white as snow. Please do take this day off and relax a little. Breakfast will await you down in the dining hall.'
A pause, then the creak of doors turning on its hinges as the previously seen figure, now recognizable but only as a tall man dressed all in black, appeared and disappeared almost immediately down the other side of the corridor.
And so you make your way soundlessly down, stopping in front of the large oaken doors. They had been left ajar, but you knocked anyways, expecting and receiving no response.
Taking a deep breath, you pushed the door open.
'Y-Young mas...ter? Sorry for the intrusion-'
But there was no Young Master. The cup of Earl Grey stood on the nightstand, undrunk, untouched, steam rising weakly from the dark red liquid; the pure white bedsheets smooth, undisturbed, cold, clean as paper before the poem.