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His old pickup jostles and bounces over the ruts in the washed out logging road as Daryl drives slowly past the other cars, turns around with barely enough room to spare, and pulls up behind Shane’s Jeep. He watches as they all pile out of the cars excitedly and wonders how he ever got talked into this.
If he’s being honest he would much rather be at the motel off the old state highway in Clayton like every other Saturday night for the last three months. They all know it too. They don’t know with who or for how long, and they’re still a little irked at him for not giving details.
It’s not the best or the safest idea they’ve ever had, but he’s willing to admit that it’s better than going to the costume party at the frat house that they’d originally talked him into. He’d spent the better part of two weeks trying to figure a way out of that. When Shane had suggested this instead, the others were all for it and had all looked to him expectantly, as if it’s up to him what they all do on Halloween night.
He sighs inwardly as he gets out of his truck. Truth be told, he doesn’t give a shit about Halloween. He gives even less of a shit about frat parties and old, abandoned houses. But he gives a shit about them, so here he is.
These guys had already been joined at the hip in middle school when suddenly Daryl was the new kid on the block. His dad had finally been locked up and Merle had done his best to take care of his little brother until he had gotten himself locked up too. Daryl had been sent to live with their Uncle Jess.
He’d always been a loner and while everything else had changed that hadn’t. He’d kept his head down but as hard as he’d tried to stay to himself for some reason Rick had tried just as hard not to let that happen. He’d talked to him every chance he got and he’d refused to let him sit alone in the corner during lunch, showing up at his table every day. It wasn’t long before the other four were sitting with them and before Daryl knew it - let alone knew how to stop it - he had friends.
He was a year ahead of them and he’d never admit it but his first year of high school had been lonely as hell. Besides that, he was sure they’d all come to their senses by the next year and he’d be alone again. But the following year nothing had changed. The five of them had even snuck into his graduation, right there with Jess to cheer for him as he crossed the stage. He’s not sure if he would have graduated at all if it wasn’t for them.
College was never his plan even if he could have afforded it. It hadn’t made much sense to him when they had all decided to go to Woodbury, a small, private college just outside of King County. They were smart enough they could have gone just about anywhere but Maggie had confided to him once that there was no reason for them to. None of them had wanted to move away and leave him behind.
After all these years he still doesn’t understand why it’s so important to them that he’s included in whatever it is they want to do, but if this bunch of idiots wants to go stumbling around in an old abandoned house on Halloween night then yeah, he’s in.
He joins the others to find Shane looking at him pointedly. “Where the hell ya been, man? We’ve been here damn near thirty minutes waitin’ on ya.”
“The hell ya talkin’ ‘bout, Walsh? We said a quarter to six an’ I’m ten minutes early,” Daryl points out.
“We wanted to make sure we had enough light to get through the woods so we changed it,” Shane explains. “I texted ya, and I tried callin’, but you nor Rick ever answered.” He arches a brow and looks at Daryl as if he’s waiting for an explanation. Daryl has no intention of explaining anything but still, he’s glad when Rick changes the subject.
“Ya know, everybody in town swears the old Walker place is haunted,” he says.
“Exactly why we’re here,” Tara points out.
“Whatever,” Glenn says. “There’s no such thing as haunted, right?” He looks a lot surer than he sounds.
“Aww, y’all ain’t afraid of the boogeyman are ya?” Shane asks with a wicked glint in his eye. “All those things that go bump in the night?”
“Pssh, I ain’t scared of nothin’,” Daryl replies.
Out of nowhere, a strong breeze kicks up, soughing through the trees and sending dead leaves swirling around their feet. It’s a chilly wind and Daryl looks up through the narrow break in the trees but the sky is clear. It’s that magical hour when the crisp blue of the autumn sky is slowly surrendering to the early evening pinks and oranges as the sun makes its westward trek toward the horizon.
The moon will be just this side of full tonight but it won’t offer enough light to keep one of them from breaking an arm or leg stumbling around through the overgrown thickets or the neglected landscape surrounding the old place. They have enough daylight left to get through the woods to the property and inside the house if they don’t waste it standing around talking and Daryl says as much.
“Last chance for somebody to change their mind,” Glenn says, looking around nervously.
Shane claps him on the shoulder. “You ain’t changin’ your mind are ya? Sure ya wanna walk through the spooky woods to the spooky house?” he laughs.
Glenn lightly shrugs his hand away. “Come on, dumbass,” he says and falls in line with the others.
They follow Daryl to a small break in the treeline and set off single file towards the house. Daryl, then Tara and Maggie, followed by Glenn, Rick, and Shane.
Daryl isn’t sure if it’s the third, fourth, hell maybe the tenth time he hears Shane hiss, mutter, trip, stumble, or cuss and he stops abruptly, Tara running into his back and Maggie plowing into her with an “oof”. He turns and glares at Shane.
“Damn, Walsh. Ya gonna make it or ya need a piggyback ride up to the house?” he whisper-yells.
“Fuck you, Dixon. Ya couldn’t find a spot that wasn’t full of thorns and briers?” Shane hisses back.
“You’re in the woods for fuck’s sake, not a wildflower meadow.” He shakes his head. “Grew up in backwoods Georgia an’ your grumblin’ about a few briars. If ya get too tangled up jus’ stay put an’ we’ll getcha on the way back,” he smirks, then turns and starts off again.
They emerge from the woods on the side and towards the back of the property. The old house sits in the distance and from where they’re standing it looks like nothing more than an empty house. The breeze becomes a gust that seems to burst from the treeline behind them to tousle their hair and rattle dying leaves on the nearly naked branches at their backs. The waist-high grass bends in half, rippling like a watery current, then stands tall only to lean the other way as the wind changes direction.
Dusk seems to be coming quicker than they’d expected but when Daryl looks up he sees dark clouds rolling in. They look puffed up and determined as if their very purpose is to steal the remaining light. It’s not supposed to rain, although it won’t bother him one way or the other if it does, except he’s already not too keen on leading the others back through the woods in the dark and he’d rather not add rain to the experience.
“Y’all watch where your steppin’,” he warns. “Last thing we need is for somebody to break a damn ankle in a mole hole.” He starts off across the expanse of grass and the others follow.
They’ve walked a hundred yards or so when Shane runs into something and nearly falls over it because he’s not paying attention. It’s a wooden fence, the boards rotted and barely hanging on in places. It’s no more than 3 feet high and forms a square no more than thirty feet across either way. In all fairness to Shane, it’s mostly hidden in places by the tall grass.
“Dude, weren’t you the star athlete in school?” Tara asks.
“Yeah, well, ain’t no sport played in briers and tall ass grass,” Shane grumbles as he picks nettles from the sleeve of his sweatshirt.
“Hey guys, look,” Glenn says and points to his left.
Heads swivel in unison and once they see what he’s pointing at they see them all. Timeworn and faded, the moss and lichen covered stones stand at odd angles and none of them appear to be the same shape or size. The shallow, nearly illegible engraving on the two nearest the group are a testament to the passing of time in this place where time no longer matters.
“Wow,” Maggie says almost reverently. “Wish we had more daylight. I’d love to read the inscriptions on some of those.”
“That ain’t creepy at all,” Shane comments sarcastically. “Y’all notice somethin’ else?” He asks, stumbling and nearly falling backward over a rock protruding from the ground behind him.
“The fact that you make more noise than the rest of us put together?” Rick asks shaking his head. He’s never understood how their friend is such a force to be reckoned with on a baseball or football field - sturdy, agile, and surefooted - when off the field it seems like he can’t walk and chew bubble gum at the same time.
“Nah, smartass, the fact that there ain’t no noise at all. No birds, no animals runnin’ around, nothin’,” Shane points out.
They all freeze and assume a listening stance with their heads tilted to one side. There is complete silence, just like he said. No birdsong, no skittering of a squirrel’s tiny claws over a branch, not the perfectly pitched chirp of field crickets. Even the rustle of dried leaves seems to be carried away on the wind. Tara and Glenn exchange a glance and Maggie wraps her arms around herself as if suddenly feeling chilled.
“It’s like everything about this place is dead,” Glenn says.
Daryl has never been this close to the woods and not heard the sounds of nature all around him. Even he finds the complete lack of noise a little eerie but he’s not going to admit that to the others. Instead, he steps around them and starts off again. “C’mon. We’d better keep goin’ ‘less y’all wanna stumble through the front door in the dark,” he reminds them.
As they follow the fence toward the front of the house Rick can’t help thinking Glenn is right. It’s as if every living creature, even the atmosphere itself, has forsaken the abandoned property. The absence of...anything...seems to press closely on the small group and lends weight to the overall strange feeling surrounding the place. It’s a little creepy if he’s being honest, and for a second he wonders if he’s only imagining the swish of the high grass against their legs as they plod along.
At the corner of the small graveyard, they skirt around two huge evergreen magnolias and come to a stop in front of the house. The concrete walkway is buckled and broken in more places than not, weeds of every variety pushing their way through the cracks.
Overgrown shrubs line both sides of the narrow strip of concrete, and the smaller trees that grow along the outside of the shrubs teeter unsteadily over the walkway as if another strong wind could topple them into a tangled pile. The gathering clouds are slowly snuffing out the last rays of sunlight, melting the blues, pinks, and oranges into the pale gray of dusk and giving the bare branches the look of gnarled and twisted fingers that faithfully guard their home. They seem to be waiting to close around them the minute they take a step towards it.
Six heads tip back in unison. The house had looked much smaller from a distance but standing this close it’s enormous.
It’s a three-story Victorian with a cupola perched on top. The cornices that adorn the paired windows along the front and side are mostly rotted away and the windows are boarded up. The glass in the few along the porch where boards are missing is covered in layers of dirt and grime.
It’s hard to tell the original color of the home. What may have once been dark red or brown is now a patchwork of sun-faded patches, wood that is damp and stained a rotting black, or fuzzy green moss. Ivy has taken over an entire front corner from the crumbling foundation to the gabled roof, clinging to the house like it’s trying to siphon the remaining life out of it. The leaves are a dull, dirty green as if there isn’t enough left in this rotting shell to sustain it.
The chimneys on either side of the house are crumbling and a small balcony protruding from the second floor above the bay window is missing its railing entirely. The cupola stands slightly off-kilter at the center of the roof and there are no boards on the windows of the little tower. There doesn’t appear to be any glass left either.
The entire place looks like it could easily give in to the call of gravity at any time.
Rick tries to imagine what this place might have looked like at one time when it had been loved and cared for but he just can’t picture it.
Over the years dozens of tales have been told about the old house and its various owners within the Walker family, each one taller than the one before it. Some say the original Mr. Walker was a slave owner, evil to the bone, and that it’s the ghosts of former slaves that haunt the old place. Other’s say that he had five wives - simultaneously - and had built the enormous home to accommodate them, then slowly went mad after each of them had died under very mysterious circumstances. That particular story claims that it’s the wives haunting the house and property. Another tale claims that a third or fourth generation Mr. Walker married his sister who bore him four children, each of them grotesquely deformed and kept in the attic, those children doing the haunting. Then, of course, are the tales told by the local kids, each one trying to out-scare the other: cannibals, vampires, werewolves and the like.
Untold numbers of people have claimed anything from oddly flickering lights inside the house to the feeling that they’re being watched when they drive by the place but Rick has never believed that. Even standing outside the house now and as creepy as it is, he hasn’t once had the feeling of being watched.
Hershel, who at one time had occupied a seat on the historical council, had told Rick’s parents once that the house was built by Theodore Walker in the late 1800’s, so there were never any slaves. He and his younger brother were early leaders in textile manufacturing in Georgia and their descendants had been anything from farmers to business owners to politicians. They had all lived in the family home at one time or another as it was handed down from one generation to the next.
The house has sat empty for the last twenty years or so. According to Hershel, the last generation of Walkers to live there had been a judge and his young family who had vanished without a trace. According to what records the town still has, not a single personal item had been taken. Empty suitcases were left stored in closets, the kitchen was fully stocked, and all three cars were left parked in the garage out back. There was no sign of any sort of struggle, no reason to suspect foul play. The family was just gone. Ten years after their disappearance a young couple arrived from somewhere out west with proof that the wife was the only remaining Walker. They had the family declared dead and took ownership of the property, boarded up the windows, then went back to wherever they came from never to return.
Rick is trying to remember how big the property is, thinking there are somewhere close to one hundred acres that have to be worth a fortune even if the house itself isn’t worth saving when Daryl’s voice breaks into his thoughts.
“Inside prob’ly ain’t in any better shape than the outside,” Daryl points out. “Anybody wants to change their mind, now’s the time.”
He picks up a large stick and without waiting for an answer he starts forward, picking his way over the crumbling walkway. When he reaches the porch he tests each step under his weight before stepping up on the next one, then does the same on the porch as he waves the stick around to clear the cobwebs.
He expects the front door to be locked and he’s surprised when the knob turns easily. Although maybe he shouldn’t be considering somebody has gone to the trouble of prying boards off of the front windows to get in.
The solid wood door has become swollen and warped over time and it takes several shoves with his shoulder to get it to even budge. When it finally does it scrapes heavily across the floor, the old hinges squealing in angry protest, and he opens it only far enough for them to slip through. Another sudden and rather harsh gust of wind sweeps over the porch and around their legs, rushing past him through the open door. The faint whistling it makes sounds as if the house is breathing a sigh of relief after being closed up for so long.
Daryl steps back out onto the porch and checks the sky yet again. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen when they started through the woods. Stars were beginning to flicker on and the moon was visible, awaiting its cue. Now though, the moon is dipping in and out behind the dark, heavy clouds that appear to move with a purpose and the stars are no longer visible. Seeming to answer his unspoken question about the validity of the weather forecast, a far-off rumble of thunder lumbers softly across the sky, as if whispering that if they hurry they’ve got time.
Daryl turns back to the house to find Rick waiting for him and they slip through the front door together. The air feels thick, heavy with expectation, although Rick isn’t sure if it’s theirs or rather the house itself expecting something from their impromptu visit. Immediately the smells of dust, mold, mildew, and decay fill his nose and lungs. It doesn’t matter that the odors are old and stale, it’s still difficult to draw a decent breath at first and he pulls the neck of his hoodie up over the lower half of his face.
Three flashlights click on almost at once. They each brought one but have agreed that they won’t use them all if they don’t have to. Even with most of the windows covered they don’t see the need to risk too much light in case somebody does happen by. As their eyes begin to adjust Maggie points out that Daryl was right, the interior is every bit as uninviting as the exterior, although it doesn’t appear to be quite as dilapidated.
Again Rick tries to imagine how the house might have looked when families lived inside its walls: polished oak floors, brightly patterned wallpaper, soft light shining from scattered wall sconces and chandeliers, maybe music and laughter. As hard as he tries though, he can’t seem to imagine this place ever being cheerful and welcoming. He can’t see beyond the layers of dust, stagnant smells, or the shadows that seem to writhe and sway, slipping from one corner to the next. Whatever it had once been, it had long ago succumbed to the elements. And loneliness.
He shines his light on the floor, the narrow beam moving from one side of the huge foyer to the other. A thick layer of dust carpets the floorboards with not a footprint in sight other than their own. It seems no one has been brave enough to trespass further than the front steps in quite some time.
Pale light spills in from the rooms on either side of them but even with their flashlights, they can’t see anything at the back of the house. Spiders are weaving their webs in different corners of the ceiling and along the crown molding while others have taken up residence between the rickety spindles of the staircase.
They all jump in unison when out of nowhere Daryl’s stick lands with a sharp thwack against the wall just above Shane’s head. It flies apart, the thick pieces landing with muffled thunks in the dust. Shane ducks low and side steps with all the coordination of a drunken clown at the circus, clutching at his chest as if to keep his heart from bursting through that pec he’s so proud of.
“What the ever-lovin' fuck, Dixon?!”, he hisses, glaring at Daryl.
Daryl shrugs. “Sorry, spider. Big spider,” he explains and points to a good-sized splatter on the wall just behind where Shane had been standing.
Shane’s eyes widen at the size of the now dead critter and he shudders comically. “Sumbitch I hate spiders.”
“You’re welcome,” Daryl offers as he searches the floor around him. He pulls a rotting leg from a small occasional table in the corner that has already tipped over after losing the first two and turns to find the others staring at him in disbelief as if he’s desecrated something sacred. “What? Better find somethin’ too, ‘less y’all are plannin’ on clearin’ away spider webs with your face.”
He steps to the arched entryway of the dining room on the left and Rick moves to stand beside him, close enough that Daryl can feel the nervous tension radiating from him. The others fill in the space around them but Maggie and Tara are the only ones who step fully into the room.
The once ornate table holds four place settings for a dinner that had never been served. Some of the pieces are overturned or broken, probably by small animals hoping to find scraps of leftovers that were never there. Linen napkins are still precisely folded beneath silverware bathed in flat black tarnish, so faded and discolored that it’s impossible to tell what pattern once adorned them. Like the foyer, dust coats every surface, cobwebs hang in thick ropes from the crystal chandelier and ceiling, and it’s anybody’s guess whether the chairs are upholstered in dark green velour or a thick layer of mildew. Most likely the latter.
The uneasy wind whispers mournfully through a broken window to their left as thunder rolls overhead, a little louder this time, and they all exchange an anxious glance. Rick turns and they follow him across the foyer to the living room - probably called the parlor in its day - all of them stepping into the room this time to have a look.
The sun is making its final descent on this side of the house and soft shafts of the fading light push through uneven gaps in the boards on the large window. Dust particles dance and swirl in a thick cloud within each pale ray bathing the space around the window in an odd, ethereal light.
Once beautiful window trim is molded and rotting away in places while in others it’s dry and blistered from the heat and humidity of unforgiving Georgia summers. More cobwebs adorn the windows in intricate lace panels, replacing the heavy drapes that hang tattered and moth-eaten. Wallpaper is peeling in more places than not to expose crumbling plaster. Where it isn’t cracked and peeling it bears patches of mold and mildew, like scars that tell the tale of time spent wasting away among the trees and overgrowth.
Tara sighs heavily behind them and they all turn, staring at her as if waiting for an explanation. She shrugs one shoulder and gives a half smile. “It’s just sad. All those years...people loved here, probably a few weddings, birthday parties, babies born here, kids grew up here. All those memories and nobody left to remember them.” When nobody says anything she continues. “Sorry, that’s depressing as hell and we didn’t come here to get all depressed. What say we check out the rest of the house? Nothing like being scared shitless to cheer you up.” She turns to leave and they follow her back to the foyer.
“Me and Glenn will take the upstairs,” Maggie whispers into the near darkness.
Another forceful gust kicks up, sweeping leaves through the partially opened front door at the same time that a tree limb or loose shutter knocks loudly against the house, the sound echoing through the darkness in rooms they can’t see. They jump in unison, each of them taking an involuntary step toward the front door. A few of the old floorboards creak beneath their feet and the house seems to groan against the wind as if the once grand home is shuddering beneath the weight of the weather.
Glenn’s face looks ashen even in the yellow glow of the flashlights. His eyes dart around the huge entry and Daryl knows he’s looking for escape options should the need arise.
They watch the couple step gingerly toward the enormous staircase, the shadows seeming to swallow them whole. Before they start up Daryl reminds them, “Stay to one side on those stairs an’ test ‘em ‘fore ya put your weight on ‘em.” He sticks his flashlight under his chin and shines it over his face. “Don’t need y’all fallin’ through into some portal to hell or some shit.”
Maggie rolls her eyes and sticks her own flashlight under her chin. “Not funny, Daryl.” He merely shrugs and turns back to the others.
“Me and Tara’ll take the main floor, y’all can take the basement,” Shane tells him.
Daryl stares at him for a moment trying to hide his surprise. Whenever they pair off it’s always Rick and Shane, Daryl and Tara. He’s not sure why Shane has suddenly switched it up and when he glances at Rick he can tell that he’s not either.
Shane doesn’t offer an explanation but says to Tara, “Don’t worry, I’ll protect ya from the boogeyman.”
“I can look out for myself, but if you get scared, feel free to hide up under my coattails,” she snarks.
Completely unruffled he smirks at her. “Ya let Reverend Walsh up under those coattails and you’ll be straight as an arrow by the time ya walk outta here.”
“I’ve never been that hard up,” she smirks back.
“Ouch,” Shane winces. He pats his pockets and Daryl lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Fuck’s sake, Walsh, here,” he says and hands him his flashlight.
“Musta dropped mine outside or somethin’,” Shane mumbles.
Rick looks at Daryl with wide eyes and holds up his own small flashlight. “It’ll be enough,” Daryl said. “Ya ain’t scared are ya?”
Rick clicks his light off then back on and hopes he sounds more confident than he feels when he answers, “Let’s go.”
xoxoxoxoxo
It takes them a few minutes to find the basement door, as they had incorrectly assumed it would be in the back hallway or somewhere close to the kitchen.
“Who the hell puts a basement door in the back corner of the den?” Daryl whispers.
“It’s not a den, it’s a study,” Rick corrects him.
“What the hell ever it ain’t in the hall like where normal people put it,” Daryl grumbles.
He doesn’t expect the basement door to be locked and it isn’t, but he was expecting it to be harder to open than it is. He eases it open, surprised but relieved when the hinges emit nothing more than a soft whine. He turns and motions for Rick to go ahead of him, the corner of his mouth tipped up in an unseen grin when he hesitates just a second too long before he steps through the door.
Remembering what Daryl had told the others Rick hugs the wall and tests his weight against the first step, then the second before stepping down onto them. “One more,” Daryl whispers behind him, and he jumps only a little as he tests the third step, all while keeping an eye on the inky blackness at the bottom of the stairs. The small beam of his light is no match for the sheer strength of the dark below them.
Along with the ripe stench of mold and mildew, the odors of dirt and dampness waft up the narrow staircase from the black hole below them and this time they both pull their shirts over their faces. He feels more than sees Daryl turn back towards the door and he’s suddenly hoping he’s changed his mind about the basement.
A chill spreads through him at the thought of descending the narrow, rickety stairs, fear keeping his feet planted firmly on the third step. He’s almost positive he’ll never be able to make it to the bottom. Behind him, Daryl is so still and so quiet that for a split second Rick wonders if he’s still there and he turns only far enough to see him in the weak light. He has his ear to the door as if he’s listening and Rick is pretty sure they should be far more concerned about what’s at the bottom of the stairs than about what might be on the other side of the door.
Suddenly there is a frenzy of commotion below them and to their right. It could be the beating of wings, the scurrying of furry feet, or Satan himself crawling up from Hell but Rick wouldn’t know the difference. Every fiber of his being is frozen solid, his neck scrunched down into his shoulders and his eyes squeezed shut. His teeth are digging into his bottom lip but he doesn’t think he could make a single sound if his life depended on it. He wonders if this might be the portal to Hell that Daryl was talking about.
Then there is silence again, so sudden and so complete that the creepy factor instantly triples. The only sound he can hear is the pounding of his heart in his ears and he swears if he pisses himself standing on the basement stairs of this creepy old house he’ll never forgive Shane nor Daryl.
Just when his lungs have finally deflated and his shoulders have relaxed he feels Daryl’s hand on his arm. Dear God, please let that be Daryl’s hand, he thinks as he tenses.
“C’mon,” Daryl whispers, thankful that the dark hides another grin when he feels Rick flinch at his sudden touch. When he eases the door open and slips back through Rick’s legs almost buckle with relief.
Daryl quickly and quietly pushes the door closed. Still holding Rick’s arm, he takes the flashlight from him and cups his hand around the light, the muted beam doing nothing more than providing a pale path for his boots as he leads Rick back the way they came.
Other than the faint howl and whistle of the wind and the occasional soft rumble of thunder, the house is silent as a tomb as they sneak quietly along the back hallway. Then suddenly it’s not.
They both freeze in place, although Rick doesn’t think he has a choice in the matter, and Daryl clicks off the flashlight. The instant and complete darkness feel like an immense thing pressing in on them and Rick squeezes his eyes shut. His heart is racing fit to burst as they listen to the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps, scuffling along through pitch black so thick it’s disorienting, making it impossible to tell if they’re coming from in front of or behind them. Unable to move a muscle only seconds ago, Rick’s body is now tingling with the desire to run and he’s sure the only thing holding him in place is Daryl’s hand still on his arm, his grip tighter now.
As the footsteps draw closer they hear whispers and Rick immediately feels like an idiot. As Shane’s not-quite whisper draws nearer he’s aware that it should have occurred to him that they weren’t alone in the house. In addition to feeling like an idiot, he also feels like the biggest pussy in the world. Just as he’s able to breathe a silent sigh of relief a flashlight beam becomes visible up ahead and he lets out a small squeak of alarm before he can help himself. Then he’s being yanked to the left, and after a couple of seconds of fumbling Daryl pulls him behind what he assumes is the door to a room off of the hallway.
Daryl stands stock still behind the door. With all of the rooms for those two to choose from, he hopes that this isn’t the one they decide to come into next. Not that it would be the end of the world if they did, he’s just hoping not to be seen since they’re supposed to be in the basement. They’re standing shoulder to shoulder in the small space behind the door and he can feel the tension rolling off of Rick in waves. He’s willing to bet that he’s holding his breath and he only feels a little guilty for being amused that Rick seems terrified right now.
He nearly holds his own breath when their friends stop right outside the door, and he strains to hear what they’re saying.
“...stupid. It’s never going to work,” Tara whispers.
“It’ll work...watch and see,” Shane whispers back as their footsteps recede further down the hallway.
The conversation doesn’t make sense but on the other hand, he doesn’t much care what they were talking about. He eases out from behind the door, still gripping Rick’s arm, and peers far enough around the doorway to see the beam of light disappear into a room at the far end of the hall. He steps back into the hallway leading Rick behind him, but instead of turning on the light he feels his way along the wall with his free hand. When the pale light of the foyer appears to their left, Daryl turns to the right and Rick has no choice but to follow.
When he finally clicks on the light they’re in the kitchen but they’re moving so quickly that Rick doesn’t see more than a few cupboard doors hanging from their hinges and more cobwebs before Daryl hooks another right at the back of the room. He leads him through a long, narrow room, each wall lined with ceiling height shelves that appear to be full of boxes and cans that are no longer of use to anyone and Rick realizes it’s the pantry. At the back of the small space, Daryl finally lets go of his arm and reaches up to open a door that sits at least a foot above the floor.
He steps up and through it, whispering for Rick to close it behind him. When he does, Rick is struck with a claustrophobic feeling that he’s never felt before, like they’ve stepped into a void that presses in on either side of them. Once his eyes adjust, the thin beam of light reveals a narrow, steep staircase with a wall on their right and a wooden banister to their left. The light doesn’t reach more than ten steps ahead of them and Rick is no more sure about going up these stairs than he had been about going down the other ones. At least Daryl is in front of him this time.
Before they’ve taken the first step up they hear a thud and a muffled “Shit! Son of a bitch!”
“Fuckin’ Walsh,” Daryl whispers. “That fucker could tear up an anvil with a rubber hammer. Any of us ends up in the ER tonight it’ll be his dumb ass for sure.”
Without waiting for any kind of an answer from Rick he starts slowly up the stairs, stepping softly and hugging tight to the wall on the right side. Before he can stop himself Rick reaches up and takes hold of the hem at the back of Daryl’s t-shirt, following him step for step. Another few steps and Daryl stops.
“Dammit, Rick, ya got a death grip on my fuckin’ shirt. Wanna get in my back pocket?” he whispers.
Rick’s stomach flutters because yes, that’s exactly where he’d love to be but he’s not telling Daryl that. Instead, he mumbles, “Sorry, sorry,” and loosens his grip. But he doesn’t let go.
They reach a small landing and start up the next flight, passing a doorway at the top and turning to climb the next. Rick glances to his left and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The shadows of the spindles dancing along the wall look like specters rising up from a bottomless pit and for the rest of the climb, his eyes are glued firmly on Daryl’s back. After what feels like ten flights in the near-darkness, the staircase comes to a dead end at another door.
Daryl pulls it open and clears the cobwebs then ducks inside, passing the flashlight back to Rick and turning to close the door once he comes through. If the three flights of stairs didn’t already tip him off, one look around and Rick knows they’re in the attic. From what he can tell it stretches the length of the house and nearly all the way to the back. There’s not much more light than in the basement but still, it’s not the basement. And it does seem a little airier.
Probably because of the places here and there where the roof is no longer keeping the elements out. None of the jagged holes are more than a foot in diameter, and the wind rushing across and through them seems to be playing the haunting notes of a mournful dirge. The intermittent moonlight bleeds weakly into the attic, barely enough light to illuminate the floor directly beneath each hole, like a dozen pale and faded spotlights focusing on center stage awaiting the star performer. It’s not nearly enough light to discern anything about the rest of the large space.
Another shiver runs through him that he doesn’t think has anything to do with the much cooler night temperature.
Another beam of light joins his own as it dances from one wall to the other, across the floor and over the rafters, highlighting small piles of dead leaves tucked into the corners and cobwebs hanging thick amongst the rafters.
“You brought an extra light?” he asks, hoping Daryl can’t hear any of the relief that he feels.
Of course Daryl hears it. “Figured somebody’d either forget or lose theirs. Figured it might be Walsh, too.”
To outsiders, it would appear that Daryl and Shane don’t care much for each other but Rick and the others know better. They love bickering and talking shit to each other, but underneath that is a solid friendship. They don’t quite share the bond that Rick and Daryl do, but Rick knows there isn’t anything that one wouldn’t do for the other so he doesn’t respond to that.
As if Daryl knows he won’t, he asks his own question. “Speakin’ of Walsh, what’s up with him wantin’ to ghost hunt with Tara instead of you?”
Rick’s not entirely surprised by the question because he’s been wondering the same thing so he says as much. “I have no idea. I was wonderin’ the same thing myself.”
He walks carefully across the floor, stepping to the side if a board threatens to creak until he can see that there is furniture pushed against one of the far walls, some of it covered with drop cloths but most of them blown or pulled away over time. There are other pieces large and small sitting here and there in the middle of the large space.
He turns slowly just as the moon peeks out from behind a cloud to illuminate the missing places in the old roof, and his eye lands on one in particular in the far corner. It’s larger than the rest and as he makes his way closer his breath catches in his throat when his light reveals a twin bed, little more than a cot really, pushed into the corner. It’s tucked beneath the rafters beside a small window that’s covered with layers of dirt and neglect. A small table sits next to it, leaning precariously on rotting legs that look like they might collapse underneath it at any moment.
As he approaches it he wonders if this might be where a maid or a butler slept, his overactive imagination clinging tightly to that thought rather than running rampant after an image of a grotesquely disfigured family member hidden away up here like a taboo family secret.
He notices an old, leather-bound Bible on the table, it’s worn and cracked jacket covered with dust and mildew. For reasons he doesn’t quite understand he gently lifts the Bible and places it on the dingy, stained pillow.
Daryl watches Rick as he makes his way around the attic, the set of his shoulders tense as if readying himself for whatever might jump out of the shadows. If Rick thinks Daryl isn’t fully aware that he’s about to come out of his skin he’s mistaken.
He watches him pause by the small bed and pick up the Bible, placing it on the pillow as carefully as if he’s handling a newborn kitten, and he’s a bit surprised at how touched he is by that simple gesture. Then again, he’s always thought Rick is the kindest person he’s ever known. He’d sensed that about him the first time Rick had ever spoken to him and not once in the years since has he done anything to make Daryl doubt that first impression of him.
As he watches he doesn’t miss the glances Rick throws over his shoulder at him, as if to make sure he’s still there. He has no clue why Shane decided to explore the house with Tara instead of Rick, but it doesn’t matter, he’s just glad that he did.
Rick moves quietly to a long, wooden table situated along the back wall and flicks the beam of his light over the various items piled there. Sealed wooden crates, open crates that reveal anything from mason jars to old papers, another crate filled with books, and various hand tools of all sizes and types.
He doesn’t hear Daryl walk up behind him, which isn’t surprising, and he flinches when his arms wind around his waist and his chest presses against his back. He immediately leans back into him, feeling calm for the first time since they walked onto the property, and he can feel Daryl grinning as his mouth skims the side of his neck.
“This place’s got ya jumpy as a virgin at a prison rodeo,” he teases as his lips tickle the shell of Rick’s ear.
“Huh? Nah, just didn’t hear you come up behind me is all,” Rick says, knowing Daryl won’t believe a word of it and he’s right.
“Uh huh. Think you’re startin’ to regret spendin’ Halloween in a big, scary house.” He leaves a trail of open-mouth kisses down the side of his neck. The tendon at his shoulder is tightrope-taut and he nips at it with his teeth, humming with satisfaction when he feels Rick tremble with a hard shiver.
“It’s not so bad,” Rick whispers, a soft sigh escaping him when Daryl drags the tip of his tongue back up the side of his neck to his ear.
“Rather be at that party?” He closes his teeth around the lobe then sucks on it gently.
With a quiet gasp, Rick turns to face him and before he can settle against him again Daryl’s mouth covers his in a heated kiss.
Rick pulls back only far enough to mumble against his lips, “Rather be in room twelve.”
Daryl pulls back further and looks at him with feigned surprise. “Twelve? With the drippy faucet?”
Rick shrugs and nips at his bottom lip. “Fifteen has that big lump in the middle of the mattress, and ten has that funky smell.”
“Shit, this whole house has a funky smell,” Daryl points out as he slips his hands underneath Rick’s hoodie.
“Yeah…” Rick sighs, pausing to enjoy the feel of Daryl’s calloused hands skimming along his sides to his back, “...but at least it doesn’t smell like sex we didn’t have.”
He pulls Daryl into a slow, lazy kiss, humming softly into his mouth as he winds his fingers into the hair at the back of his neck. It doesn’t matter to him where they are and even as unnerving as the old house is he’d be happy to stand in this dusty attic all night kissing Daryl.
He’d been crushing on Daryl since the minute he'd walked into class late that first day. He’d seemed awkward and uncomfortable like he’d rather be anywhere but in Mr. Morgan’s first period English class. Rick had thought he was the most beautiful boy he’d ever seen. His black t-shirt was missing its sleeves, revealing broad shoulders. His face was nearly angelic (in Rick’s opinion) despite the sharp lines and angles of his cheekbones and jaw. Dirty blonde hair barely brushed his shirt at the back of his neck, while shaggy bangs fell across blue eyes that were piercing and intense, an almost startling contrast to his seemingly soft features. He’d sat down two seats in front of Rick in the next row and Rick hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of him.
He’d spoken to him after class that first day, barely able to muster a “hi”, choosing to ignore both the startled look and lack of response from the other boy. It had taken him a whole week to gather up the nerve to take his tray and sit with him in the cafeteria, not at all satisfied to see him sitting alone in the corner. He hadn’t seemed to welcome his company at first, but neither had he told him to leave. By the time the others started joining them a tentative friendship had formed and by the end of the school year, he was as much a part of their small circle as if he’d always been there.
Rick had welcomed his friendship but he never stopped crushing on him. He cherished the bond they had but it didn’t stop him from wanting more. It only took him six more years to get up the nerve to do something about it and he probably wouldn’t have then except he’d begun to notice a subtle...shift...in his and Daryl’s relationship. Three months ago they had all been over at Daryl’s hanging out and having a few beers. Rick was the last to leave, as he often was, and he’d been trying to figure out why Daryl was looking at him the way he was as they stood at the front door. It didn’t so much “hit him” as it slowly sank in, curling softly around him and seeping into his bones. With five seconds of insane courage and five more seconds of embarrassing bravery, he’d leaned in and kissed Daryl, the instant fear that he had ruined everything replaced with overwhelming relief and happiness when Daryl had immediately returned the kiss. It had been awkward and sloppy, yet it was as easy as if they’d been kissing each other all along. It was perfect.
He’s thinking it’s still perfect and his arms wind tighter around Daryl’s neck just as an angry crack of thunder beats its way across the sky, reverberating through the rafters and the floor beneath their feet.
They both jump this time and Daryl breaks the kiss, his lips brushing Rick’s when he asks, “Wanna make this place smell like sex we did have?” He emphasizes the question with a slow roll of his hips, grinding himself against Rick.
“What? Here?” Rick asks and looks around the attic despite the fact that he can’t see a thing.
“Yeah, here.” Daryl rolls his hips again and dips his head, suckling softly at the hollow of his throat.
Rick moans softly and despite the chill of the dark space heat spreads through him to settle between his legs. Part of him has no desire to have sex in a dirty, dusty, smelly attic but the other part desires Daryl so much that he could care less where they are. Especially when Daryl is more or less humping him now, the slow and steady press of his erection almost more than he can stand.
“Wh-what about the others?” Rick stutters out as Daryl’s teeth scrape lightly along his collarbone.
“What about ‘em?” Daryl asks. “They think we’re in the basement…” he reaches around to cup Rick’s ass and pulls him closer, rocking his hips from side to side. “...we’ll jus’ have to hurry.” Right now it doesn’t much matter to him if they have sex or just keep it at some sort of foreplay, he just wants Rick. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t want Rick even if it took him forever to figure that out.
The first time Rick ever talked to him he thought he was the most handsome boy he’d ever seen. From his curls to his clear blue eyes, his smile to that sweet drawl when he spoke. He was clean-cut, polite, and kind to everybody. Daryl thought he was perfect. He’d had no idea why the other boy would want anything to do with him.
He’d always felt closer to Rick than the others and by the time he graduated he understood why. Still, he was smart enough to know that Rick was way too good for him so he never said a word, grateful and happy to have him as a friend. Except it got harder to keep it to himself, to pretend that he just saw him as a friend.
He’s still not sure if he wasn’t hiding it as well as he thought or if maybe Rick could tell because he felt the same way. What he is sure of is that the first time Rick kissed him was the best day of his life. He’s also pretty sure that it gets better every time and he can’t get enough.
Right now though? Right now it’s almost ridiculous how bad he wants him, right here in this dark, smelly attic in this big, spooky house.
“And if they catch us?” Rick asks, although he’s already decided yes and he’s working to get Daryl’s belt unbuckled, fumbling with it as Daryl continues his assault with his mouth, hands, and hips.
“So what if they do?” he shrugs.
Rick’s hands stop and he looks confused. “But I thought…” They don’t plan on keeping their relationship from the others forever, but it’s new and it’s different, and they’ve agreed to let it be just for them for a little while longer.
“Fuck it, I’m tired of sneakin’ ‘round hidin’ it. Don’t like havin’ to give up our Saturday night to come to smelly old houses” he explains. “An’ I’m tired of worryin’ ‘bout what they’re gonna think. Ain’t that I don’t care, they’re our friends, but they’ll either be happy for us or they won’t. Right?”
He grins in the dim light and steps back, getting his belt open and his jeans undone as Rick works to open his own. Before he lets his pants fall, he digs in his front pocket and produces a condom and a small packet of lube. Rick’s never been more grateful for Daryl’s “just in case”.
Rick takes him by the waist and turns him to face the worktable then steps behind him, pulling his jeans and boxers down to his knees. He nips lightly at his ass cheek as he goes, then stands and works his own jeans down to the tops of his thighs. They may no longer care if their friends catch them, but he’d rather they not get caught butt naked. They don’t have time for naked anyway.
He fumbles with the condom and finally gets it open, rolling it on quickly and reaching for the lube. Daryl is leaned over the table on his left arm, but his right arm is tucked in front of him and Rick is momentarily distracted as he watches his bicep flex, knowing he’s stroking himself while he waits. Daryl pushes his ass against Rick, rocking his hips from side to side and whispers, “C’mon, Rick.”
Another burst of thunder rips the sky directly over them as a strong gust of wind whistles across the holes in the roof and he almost drops the packet trying to get it open but he manages, slicking his fingers then smearing the rest over the condom. Daryl hisses between his teeth when Rick’s cool, wet fingers graze his entrance but just as he’s about to slip a long, slender digit inside his hand stills completely.
“Daryl Dixon, you’ve been playing without me.” He tries his best to sound hurt or offended, but he’s sure Daryl can hear the grin in his voice and he’s right.
“Well, didn’t think I’s gonna get to play with ya. “‘Sides, saved ya some time. Now quit standin’ there grinnin’ and get on with it.” He pushes his ass back again just as Rick pushes forward and his finger slips in smoothly. He’ll have to remember to ask Daryl later exactly what he was playing with because this is clearly unnecessary and he’s wasting precious time.
He slips his finger back out and lines himself up, then slides all the way in with one smooth thrust. Daryl’s head drops to the table and he groans softly, then a little louder when Rick immediately sets a steady pace. His hands grip Daryl’s slender hips and as he rocks into him he pulls Daryl back against him with every thrust. They’ve had sex countless times in the last three months, yet every time Rick is overwhelmed with how amazing it feels to be inside him.
Daryl reaches down and manages to get his jeans around his ankles then widens his stance, arching his back and pushing his ass out further. With his cheek resting on the rough and dusty wood he reaches back and spreads himself open, Rick sinking as deep as he can go on the very next thrust. Behind him, his breath is coming in short pants and grunts as his hips speed up and Daryl reaches further back, his fingertips gliding along his slick shaft with every push and pull.
Rick throws his head back with a groan, then raises up on the balls of his feet and drops his hips slightly, the next thrust nailing Daryl’s prostate. If he wasn’t so completely lost in the feel of Daryl’s tight heat, he might have thought twice before causing Daryl to moan loudly and he could have prevented him from blindly reaching forward to steady himself. His arm hits a stack of crates, knocking the top one off which in turn sends the one next to it crashing to the floor with a loud thud and the splintering of wood.
Rick stills and a second later they hear a high-pitched shriek from directly below them that has to be Maggie, except it’s immediately followed by the sound of Maggie’s warm, hearty laughter and they know that it was Glenn who screamed like a girl.
Shit, Daryl was almost there and he’s sure Rick was too. Either Rick moves and they get there or they’ll have to start all over and they definitely don’t have time for that. Daryl pushes his hips against Rick and whispers “don’t stop” and Rick’s moving again. He’s just found his rhythm again when they hear the muffled sound of feet thundering up the main staircase, no doubt the cavalry racing to the rescue in the form of Shane and Tara.
Shit.
Daryl reaches down and grabs his cock, gripping it tightly and stroking fast. Rick’s chasing his own finish and sets a furious pace. And while he doesn’t necessarily appreciate being rushed he has to admit that the risk of getting caught does add a certain something that seriously turns him on. So much so that he finds it impossible to be upset when his balls are tingling and there’s a fiery heat burning low in his belly. Instead, he bears down and moves faster.
Daryl’s close, so fucking close. With every snap of Rick’s hips, the pressure between his thighs is building until he’d almost think it was painful if it didn’t feel so fucking good. He’d brought Rick to the attic with the intention of fooling around a little - it had been a whole week after all - but it never occurred to him that worrying about their friends catching them would only drive his pleasure higher.
He briefly wonders how Rick would feel about fooling around in a semi-public place but he can’t hold the thought when his orgasm hits him hard and fast. It slams into him at the same time that Rick does, his knees nearly buckling under the force of it. Words fly out of his mouth - although he has no idea what they are - before he can stop them and then Rick’s hand is clamped over his mouth. He’s vaguely aware of the fingers of Rick’s other hand digging into his hip, his ragged groan, and his stuttered, uncoordinated thrusts as he fucks them both through it.
Daryl sags against the table and Rick sags against him, both of them unable to move for a moment and neither having the desire to do so. Before they can properly catch their breath and in the interest of time Rick slips out of him and pulls the condom off, tying it at the end and slipping it in his pocket. They pull their jeans up and right their clothes, and Rick does his best to get the cobwebs out of Daryl’s hair and brush the dirt and dust away from the side of his face.
It takes them a minute to find Rick’s flashlight laying underneath the toppled crate then they make their way silently to the door, creeping quietly down the steps and hugging tight to the wall as they had on their way up.
When they reach the bottom of the stairs Daryl whispers, “See? Might not get caught after all,” and he once again covers the light with his hand.
Rick’s sure he’s right. Before they’ve even made it to the other side of the pantry he’s confident they can get through the kitchen and back to the hallway before the others come downstairs and no one will be the wiser.
Until they round the corner into the kitchen and four flashlights click on at once, four faces staring at them expectantly.
They stop short and exchange a glance that clearly says “well shit”.
Their friends step closer and Rick can tell by the looks on their faces that they know. Not that he cares, he just didn’t want this to be the way they found out.
“Well, well,” Tara says. “Did you two find anything interesting up there in the basement?” She levels them with a look full of Chambler sass as she waits for an answer.
“Were y’all lookin’ for that ghost we heard up there?” Maggie asks with a wide grin and fake excitement.
Daryl rolls his eyes. “So we were in the attic instead a the basement. Knocked over a crate in the dark. So what? Sure weren’t makin’ the kinda racket y’all were makin’ down here.”
“Still, I think y’all probably had more fun than we did,” Tara grins.
“Yeah, all we found was a dressmaker’s dummy but Glenn killed it,” Maggie snickers.
Shane has yet to say a word, which is unusual for him. A grin splits his face as he looks at Tara and when he finally speaks it’s not at all what Rick expects. “Told ya it would work,” he says almost proudly.
“You did say that,” she agrees.
Daryl remembers them whispering earlier and suddenly he’s curious. “Told her what would work?”
“That if we put you and Rick together instead of you and her, y’all wouldn’t be able to help yourselves,” he explains, still smiling. He crosses his arms over his barrel chest. “It’s about fuckin’ time,” he says.
Daryl and Rick exchange a glance. “What are you talkin’ about?” Rick asks.
“Man, Rick, you been moonin’ over Dixon since you met him. Don’t even deny it.” He looks at Daryl. “Now, I don’t know exactly how long you’ve had the hots for Rick but it’s been obvious since last Christmas. There’s also the fact the while you’re at the motel on Saturday nights…” he points at Daryl, “...Rick never answers his phone,” and he points at Rick.
“How long?” Maggie asks.
Daryl shrugs. “‘Bout three months.”
“Three months and y’all didn’t tell us?” Shane asks in disbelief. “I figured a few weeks but three months? Why the hell didn’t y’all tell us?”
“Same reason Maggie and Glenn didn’t say anything when they started datin’ in high school,” Rick explains.
“Ya talk shit and ya don’t know when to shut up man,” Daryl adds.
“Hell, I’m just glad y’all finally done somethin’ about it so the rest of us don’t have to watch it anymore,” Shane says. “Hey, lemme ask y’all somethin’. Why the hell have y’all been sneakin’ off to a motel when Dixon’s got a house?”
Rick and Daryl exchange another glance and Rick asks him, “You remember that Saturday night about two and a half months ago when Paula stood you up?” Shane nods. “You showed up at Daryl’s house and I spent the better part of two hours hidin’ in his closet while you cried into your beer.”
To their credit, they try really hard not to but they all laugh anyway.
“That shit’s not funny,” Rick tells him. “I got a fish hook stuck in my arm hidin’ from your dumbass.”
Thunder bursts overhead and the house creaks and groans in the whipping wind.
Glenn suggests they go to the diner and they all agree, although none of them are fooled for a minute. He’s been ready to get out of there since they walked through the front door.
When they reach the foyer Daryl tells them they’re taking the main road back to their cars. It hasn’t rained yet but it sounds like it’s going to and besides, there’s really no need to go back through the woods.
Glenn and Shane are at the front door and Daryl can’t help himself. He reaches for the door that’s standing open to his left and slams it as hard as he can. Glenn lets out another girly scream while Shane lets go with a string of curse words and when the rest of them step out onto the front porch they’re in a dead run towards the road.
Back on the logging road Daryl immediately notices that the thunder has stopped, the wind has died down to nothing more than a cool autumn breeze, and it never did rain. He hears something small scurrying through the underbrush in the woods and the hoot of an owl in the distance. When he looks up through the trees he sees a few winking stars and the pale glow of the moonlit sky. He’s overcome with the strangest feeling that maybe the house didn’t appreciate their intrusion and it’s relieved that they’re gone, although he’s usually not given to such thoughts.
Nobody says a word when Tara gets in the Jeep and Rick climbs into Daryl’s truck. He reaches over and takes Daryl’s hand, and Daryl is suddenly sure that Halloween is his favorite time of the year.