Gothic Horror And Lesbianism

“Oh my— that is no way to answer a phone now is it Y/n?” The voice on the other side of the line was cat like and none you recognized.

“Who is this? How did you get this number and what the fuck is it that you want besides driving me to insanity apparently” you were tired, exasperated and above all — really fucking pissed at this point.

“Ouch, I thought after all these years you would at least remember your good old friend” the pouty tone lacing the woman’s voice wasn’t at all convincing.

When you didn’t come up with a reply, too confused on how could anyone, let alone an unknown person be calling this phone on purpose when it had been made to connect Spellmans only— the woman offered an even more confusing response —

“Mary? Mary Wardwell? Your fellow teacher…”

Mary Wardwell? As in — Mary the Baxter high English teacher? 

—

You had worked together for ten years, she was only a baby teacher when you first met, freshly out of college, smelling of hope and joy. Surely you didn’t mention you had been a teacher for over a century by then so as far as she knew you were both on the same “new teacher” boat. 

You had been good work friends back then, even when your wife hadn’t been pleased with your double life of teaching mortal teenagers at school and witches at the academy. Sure that had been back when Edward was high priest of the church of night and had allowed you to teach despite your personal beliefs not aligning with the school’s.

You didn’t preach your faith. Nobody even knew that you weren’t one of Satan’s devotees. Your class “wasn’t important enough to impact the overall curriculum”, or so they said. There was a reason why even Satan wasn’t stupid enough to try you directly. You didn’t depend on him for power and you were practically royalty across the realms. It was best to keep you within sight and even better to keep your weaknesses on a leash.

—

“Hello?” The voice called from the old line.

“Yes, Mary. Hi.” You sounded breathless, you were confused and the frown that has been displayed on your face since earlier in the day might have just became permanent. “Just— how exactly did you get this number?” 

“Oh that… I simply found it sitting in my drawer.”

You hum noncommittally at the dubious answer, not exactly believing a single word coming out of her.

“You see… we are in desperate need of a new music teacher here at Baxter high. Or may I say an old one.” There it was, that poorly masked mischievous tone that sounded nothing like the shy, nervous Mary you knew.

“Mary I— it’s been thirteen years — I am on the other side of the ocean — a whole different continent. I teach at Oxford. Why would you even call me? Are there no music teachers in one of the fifty states?” You couldn’t grasp what was happening at this very moment; you truly were waiting to wake up any second to find that you had put the wrong kind of mushrooms in the soup last night.

“I am calling you because you were the finest teacher in all of New England and because I have some very talented students that could use your guidance.” —She sounded bored— “ I also know that you hate scholars and that leaving wasn’t exactly a… thought through process— but I’m rambling— you see Y/n… strange things have been happening around here— I guess this was best attempt at reaching for some sort of… known stability” 

You scoffed. Yep, those were definitely the wrong mushrooms. “Wait— what do you mean weird? Weird how?” 

“You know… temperature has been rather chilly; more than usual— lots of… accidents—weird stories, hell, people have been speaking of the devil and witches as if we are back in the 1700’s” 

“Look Mary I am sorry to hear that but there is no way I will be coming back to Greendale, not today— not ever. Have a nice day.” You hung up and look at Orpheus with a worried expression not understanding what the fuck is going on.

“We’ll see…”

—//—

The morning light came too soon. You had simply buried your face in the pillows and committed to ignoring life a little longer.

A little longer had been too long. Your pager was beeping and when you didn’t move to check it— or make it stop, Orpheus made a move to grab it and drop it directly on your head.

You groaned as you grabbed it and peeked to read “WYA” 

When you turned to check the time you almost fell off the bed. 

“FOUR PM? Why didn’t you wake me up sooner!?” You freaked out as you quickly fetched a skirt and button up shirt and ran to the shower.

“You needed sleep” your familiar answered matter of factly.

“I have a faculty meeting Orpheus I can’t just sleep in!!” You yelled at him from under the cold running water.

“It was a long day, you had nightmares. I worry” he kept his position and you didn’t argue as the visions from last night turbulent slumber flash through your mind.

—

You were at the mortuary. It was dark. So dark. You could hear music playing in the distance. You could identify the song. Old French opera; more specifically —Habanera. Only it was distorted, wrong. Deeply wrong. The player let out a screeching noise and a blond short haired girl in a white gown passed through a doorway in the distance.

“Diana?” You mindlessly called out to her as you followed her through the walls you once called home. When you reach a dead end and turn around to find her standing barely a foot from you. 

Only it wasn’t Diana. 

-Prends garde à toi-

“Try again” the voice coming from the girl didn’t belong to her. It couldn’t belong to her. It was deep, dark—demonic.

“Sabrina” you whispered when you recognized your brother in law’s eyes staring back at you before they turned completely white.

“Very good Y/n” the voice faded as you felt yourself being pushed into nothingness. 

-Prends garde à toi-

Next thing you knew you’re in the kitchen a chopping sound coming from behind you. You felt nauseous. 

After a deep breath you turned around immediately recognizing the figure in front of you.

“Hilda?” You whispered tentatively as you took a step forward.

“Yes darling?” She had a grin but it didn’t reach her eyes, and her voice was shaky. When she fully turned to face you, that’s when you saw the cleaver she’d been holding, her hands and forearms covered and blood, her eyes devoid of the light and warmth they had always held.

The image was shocking. But when you looked past her and laid your eyes on what it was she had been cutting the entire time that’s when you felt the bile rising to your throat and the panic take over your entire body. 

“Orpheus” you screamed out as you saw your soul torn apart into a grotesque imagery right in front of you.

You started crying uncontrollably and when you thought you were about to pass out you suddenly found yourself in the morgue.

You could hear the faint music from upstairs once again.

-Si tu ne m’aime pas je t’aime.-

A small rattle came from the centre of the room. There was something one the table. 

No, not something… Someone. By then you consciously understood none of it was real.

You didn’t know why any of it was happening, it had been a long time since you last dreamed this vividly. What you did know was that it had been a warning. Against what?, you weren’t exactly sure but it was bad.

When you managed to calm yourself and tended the nature of the situation, you reached for the identification tag on the corpse. It read “John Doe”. You knew but you pulled the sheet anyway. 

Ambrose’s body laid on the table, pale, lifeless, cold.

You took a deep breath and held his freezing hand tightly as you begged Hecate for an answer as to why you were there.

“Auntie Y/n?” A small voice came from the corner of the room and your heart shattered. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t; But when Ambrose’s voice came you felt the tears pooling in your eyes once more— “why didn’t you come back? We missed you” 

The voice wasn’t the one from the adventurous “young” man laying on the table, but the one of the little boy you and your wife once held through the night when he slept in your bed because he was scared of monsters.

When you mustered the courage to face the voices you were met with him holding a —what had to be two year old Sabrina. You knew the timelines made no sense. Ambrose had been almost 170 by the time Sabrina came along. He had been over a century old before Diana was even born. 

The image invoked the feeling of a grieving mother regardless. 

Their eyes bored into yours, but before you could say anything they vanished into the dark and you felt a cold hand on your shoulder snapping you back to attention.

“Auntie Y/n? How—? What happened?” Ambrose sounded confused, but he sounded like himself and not a poor imitation powered by Hecate-knows-what.

“Ambrose?” Your voice cracked, sounding desperate as you held him close.

“Auntie how are you here? What is going on?” He held you tight for a moment pulling away to look you in the eyes. 

“I don’t know honey but something is wrong and I haven’t been able to figure out what it is just yet.” You suddenly remember yourself and ask “Are you projecting?”

“Yes, I don’t know how I ended up here but listen to me, things are getting weirder the closer we are getting to Sabrina’s dark baptism.” 

“I don’t understand. What is happening?” You were tired of all of the abstract statements and half-explained situations.

“I can’t say for sure but I am looking for answers.” He suddenly realizes how long it’s been and asks “Are you okay? Where have you been?” He wasn’t mad, he understood why you left the way you did. He was the one person that always granted you unconditional love and understanding and for that you were grateful.

“I’m okay, I went back to London after my travels and haven’t left since but this isn’t a safe place for astral projection you need to leave.” You said with a tone that left no room for discussion. 

“But Aun—“

“I love you with all my heart Ambrose. I always will. Go!”You pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“I love you too. We miss you!”

Complying, soon all that was left was the lifeless body once more.

You made your way upstairs determined to figure out what kind of sick joke was the universe playing on you.

Only when you opened the door at the top of the stairs of the morgue you weren’t met with the entrance hallway but with your old room. Zelda’s room. 

Fuck. Okay.

You took a step inside. The door that had been previously behind you, disappeared into the wallpaper that covered the room.

There was an album perfectly placed on the center of the bed. 

Blood red cover with gold accents. 

Your wedding photo album, the one missing the picture you had found in the attic earlier that evening in your London attic. 

-Mais si je t’aime si je t’aime….-

You didn’t want to but you opened it nonetheless. 

Like clockwork the second you flipped the third page, a harsh cold voice resonated in the room.

“How dare you—“

You froze. You didn’t dare to look up.

“You have no right to be here. You have no right to those memories. Not after what you did!” Zelda, or this projection of her, was fuming and reached to snatch the item from your hands.

You couldn’t help the emotions from taking over. No matter how much you resented her for shutting you out and throwing you away all of those years ago, she had been, she was and she always will be the love of your life. It might not have been real but it sure felt like it and seeing her this close after thirteen years was enough to cut you deeply.

Over a decade of no answers to what happened, no closure to why the rug was pulled from under you in less than a second. It killed you a little everyday that passed with nothing but the knowledge that she wanted you dead and buried.

“You betrayed me. You betrayed this family. Your own family. ” Zelda spat out, her eyes were full of hate, no… pain.

You were sobbing, still not understanding what she was referring to after all this time. You refused to engage with the accusations.

“Two centuries Y/n, you managed to fool me for two centuries. I thought you loved me. Loved us— but you never did.” Zelda was sobbing and that’s what it took for you to break. 

She could hate you forever she could kill you and throw you out a million times but seeing her cry had always been your biggest weakness.

You held her, shaking your head— crying uncontrollably “Zee I don’t understand— I trie— tried to stay—b—but you  woul—dn’t talk to me— I—“ you tried to reach “her” but it was futile, none of it was real.

 Her features quickly morphed into something painful— shock, hurt, betrayal, regret? All of them?

She slowly turned around slipping away from your hold to face a shadow that you couldn’t quite make out and suddenly it was like you were no longer there but simply became an expectator of something that had been meant to stay buried in the past.

You couldn’t make out the words being said amongst the screams and cries and when you thought your heart was going to explode in your chest everything vanished into smoke.

-Prends garde à toi-

You hoped it was over but the noise got louder and more distorted than before, suddenly you were in the parlour, facing your old piano. In front of you was a music sheet.  

The last song you ever wrote.

Suddenly you heard a caw and looked up to find a crow staring down at you.

Watch yourself.

When you jolted awake the clock announced 3:33a.m. 

Of course…

——

It took you a solid seven minutes to get ready, grabbing your bag you leaned over and gave Orpheus a little head kiss and thanked him.He puffed his feathers slightly before resuming his peaceful slumber. 

Before you knew you were sliding in the auditorium on the east wing trying to remain unnoticed and failing miserably as all everyone turned to look at you with unreadable expressions.

“Miss Y/L/n how lovely of you to finally join us” the head of the science department remarked with a fake smile that didn’t reach his eyes “maybe you should just get a phone instead of that ancient pager thing you rely on.”

“Mister Harrington” you smile trying to hide your annoyance at the man “I apologize for my tardiness but I will not take any snarky remarks regarding my— or lack there of— tech choices so please do keep those comments to yourself” you stated as you sat in a corner and tried your best to remain invisible for the next three hours.

You hated the man, he was an unwelcome remind of Blackwood and the reason why you hated men with a passion.

He mumbled something about manners and how you should be nicer but subsided his commentary when the meeting resumed.

When it had finally ended you were as aware of the contents of the reunion as you had been in the beginning. You weren’t. 

Mary had been right about one thing is that you hated scholars, specifically the mortal ones. So young and full of themselves. The only faith being their own egos and high horses. 

Fools.

You were lost in thought when a familiar voice came from behind you, quick steps rhythmically marking the stride as the ginger tried to reach you.

“Y/n may I have a word?” the Irish accent was unmistakable. Arthur O’Brien , the head of the music department AKA the one mortal man who hasn’t made you wish murder was legal in this realm.

“Hello Arthur, how may I assist you?” You answered as you stopped and turned to face him.

“How is your class planning coming along?” He asked a bit breathless from all the jogging he had to do in order to reach you.

“I— truth be told I am not sure.” You answered honestly, defeat and exhaustion slipping through your tone.

“Look I will be honest, I am a big supporter of your work” his flattery told you everything you needed to know, “ but I can’t justify to the board opening an entire module this semester, not right now, certainly not with the current political landscape…” the man sounded truly apologetic.

“Arthur—“ you didn’t even know what you were going to say but he got ahead— “Y/n let me finish— I can’t open your class, but, I would like to invite you into my classroom. Your work is truly outstanding and I believe you can bring a lot of value to our students” 

“I am leaving.” The words left your mouth before you even formed a conscious thought.

“What?” The man was caught by surprise “if it’s because of the class— we can figure something out. I can al—“ he tried to bargain but your soul decided before your mind did. 

“I got a call from an old friend, I think— look I have somethings to figure out and to that I have to travel a great distance and won’t be able to be around.” You were shocked with your own words but you knew you couldn’t go another year without answering the questions that plagued your mind for the last decade.

“Are you sure?” He was looking at you, really, looking at you as if he was seeing you for the first time.

“Yes I am sure, thank you for all of your help O’Brien. You have been a good friend to me.” You gave him a reassuring smile and shook his hand. “Goodbye Arthur”.

———

“You are doing the right thing.” Orpheus stated as you threw several of your belongings into a bag.

“I don’t know about right… — What if there is nothing wrong and I just lost it completely? Maybe I’ve gone crazy?

 What if I’m throwing away all the effort I put into leaving all of it behind for — what? A silly nightmare?.” You know it’s futile to overthink but you let your thoughts spill out regardless. 

“Y/n, in thirteen years nothing has happened, the last twenty four hours have been nothing if red flags and sirens. Something is wrong, Ambrose was there was he not?” Your familiar was a really good at dissecting your thought for you when your own judgement was clouded by irrational doubts…

“Why yes. It was him I don’t know how he got there but I am sure.” Your eyes had a small glow, to them.  You hadn’t seen your nephew in a few years, not since he last visited you in one of his astral projections. Not since you lectured him for endangering himself like that when he was a sentenced man.

“Y/n I may be biased but you deserve answers, you need to move on” Orpheus really was the voice of reason, always louder than your intrusive thoughts.

You scoff despite his reason “I moved on. I’ve built a life for myself. I mean— not everyone can brag about being a Professor at Oxford now, can they.” you tried hiding behind an empty attempt at humour but you knew it was pointless.

“You live in a house you once shared with her, you don’t have friends, you don’t speak for days— sometimes weeks at a time and, you haven’t sung in years. You didn’t move on and I can’t blame you because it requires closure and— that —requires at least some answers. You shut down and despite your very long existence thirteen years is a long time to be an hermit.”

You hated when he was right so you grabbed your headphones and chose to be a closed off hermit for a little while longer.

—

It took you half a day to pack.

It wasn’t exactly hard, most of your clothes are black, an habit you kept after all the years spent organizing and leading funerals and classical music concerts and all other preparation requirements consisted in covering the furniture properly and making sure everything would be properly forwarded to New England.

The night came and with it the dread of tomorrow’s day, the knot in your stomach got tighter by the hour and although you tried to sleep it had been nothing but a useless attempt.  

You were in for a long journey...

“Oh for the love of Hecate” you mumbled as the wooden box flew off and crashed open as you pulled the sheet covering the ancient bookshelf that had been sitting on the attic for longer than you care to remember.

It had been just a quarter after three when the phone hanging from the wall downstairs had started ringing. You chose to ignore it, nothing good had ever came from answering that damned thing. Last time it rang was almost thirteen years ago. Hilda had called that evening to ask you to please wish Sabrina a happy birthday. 

By then it had been a few months since you left the Spellman mortuary but the little blonde girl hadn’t forgot her aunt and had been incenssant on speaking to you and ask where were you and when would you be coming back.

— October 31st 2003 —

“Oh darling I am so sorry.” Your voice cracked a little but you took a breath and continued “ I had to attend to some very important business but I need you to know that I love you so so much and that I am always thinking of you, okay?”. Your tears had been falling freely by then. 

“Okay Auntie Y/n, I luv you too.” Sabring answered in the heartbreaking voice only a three year old can master.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” You heard the unmistakable voice of your ex wife coming through the background. Zelda was furious. You hung up before any more damage could be done to your psyche.

That October 31st had been spent with too many glasses of Jäger and a pack of Phillip Morris that had been both emptied in a few hours of sleepless disturbance. That night you played the century old piano that sat on your old Oxford home until your fingers bled. You tried distracting yourself with the lyrics of others creations but all you could hear were Zelda’s last words to you.  

“Leave, Y/n, I don’t ever want to see you again, you are dead to me.”

— Oxford — current day —

You had been looking for an old spellbook much needed for your current musical project. You knew it had to be in the attic because that is where you kept everything you wanted to avoid. The edition you were looking for had been gifted to you many decades ago by a young Ambrose after his first travel across Eastern Europe. He had gifted Zelda one on Hexes and Dark Arts, both were signed “Thank you mothers for loving and supporting me, Love Ambrose”.

Back when you and Zelda had a massive shared book collection. 

It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that you needed the book for your class this week and by Hecate’s name you were going to find it. 

You tore apart the piles that filled the victorian bookcase one by one, but, of course none of the 423 books that had been shoved in there was the one you needed. 

The phone rings for what feels like the hundred time in twenty minutes and you groan, getting frustrated with the high pitched noise coming from the ancient telephone, making team with the dust floating around you, that is also now covering your clothes, plus, the absence of the book. 

You hear a small coo from the rounded window and roll your eyes, your annoyance getting more prominent by the second of that ear splitting ring. 

“Yes I know, I also know I will shove an ice pick through my eardrums before answering that cursed thing Orpheus” you answered your familiar.

“You know I am only trying to help” he answers back.

“Nothing good has ever came from answering that phone” you said with a tone of finality. 

You and Orpheus have been together since you were a child, if anyone knew what you felt and thought— better than you did it was certainly the barn owl that was starring into your soul from across the room. 

He knew arguing was futile so he settled for silence. 

You resumed your quest, fumbling around a pile of boxes. You opened one and pulled out some old journals. You knew what they were so you dared not open them. You settled on a crossed-leg sitting position on the neglected floor. After opening all of them one by one at the bottom of the last box a shiny purple string poked through, immediately conjuring recognition. The book you had been looking for, finally. You buried your hand under the pile of covers and pulled it out. 

“Yes!” You exclaimed finally coming to the end of your search, flipping the pages to make sure the years hadn’t worn it out too much.

“Is that it?” Orpheus asked, his voice falling distant as your eyes landed on the piece of plastic coated paper; a photo. 

“What is it?” He asked as he propped himself on your knee, suddenly not needing an answer any longer as his eyes landed on the wedding photo. 

Zelda’s face stared back at you, not with the harshness and cruelty you last saw on her features before you left all those years ago, but with love, pure unconditional love. Next to her you shared a similar dream like smile, on the bottom corner a tiny Ambrose jumped with an adorable grin photobombing the wedding portrait. 

Tears pooled on the corner of your eyes and blurred your vision. You shoved the picture back in the box closing it and murmuring “Hell I need to get around to burn this stuff” as you got up and grabbed your book making a B line for the stairs that led back to the second floor of your home.

Orpheus followed in silence, he knew thirteen years were no match to the near two centuries you spent with the Spellman’s. It would take you a long time to heal from the events, if you ever will.

He felt it too, after Vinegar Tom died something changed in him. You and Zelda had been so connected that somehow it reflected in your familiars as well. 

It doesn’t matter anymore.

When you reached the kitchen on the first floor you pull out a glass of scotch and thank Hecate that the phone stopped ringing. You take a sip and light up a cigarette as you try to sway away the memories of your past from the front of your mind. 

After a moment of silent contemplation you hear a loud bang coming from upstairs and jump up from your spot, calming instantly once you realize it was just a door hitting because of the wind. You sigh in defeat as you make the way back upstairs to close the attic window and subsequently the door so you can settle away from that God forsaken room until you gather the courage necessary to burn everything that resides in it.

You finish making sure the window is properly closed and locked you spin around to find the wooden box from earlier and its contents fallen and scattered all over. You quickly bend to pick it up along with the set of clover and heart keys as well as the small stack of music sheets that had presumably fallen from it. 

You put away the box and keys avoiding entertaining the thought of meaning, simply stacking it back amongst the books and covering everything with the dusty, thick, no-longer-white sheet and properly locking everything up this time, aided by the nicotine running through your system.

—

The ice cold water ran through your skin as you washed away the dust and the bitter sadness that accumulated over the evening. Cinnamon and sugar scent enveloped the air around as you finally turned off the tap and got out of the shower.

Once dressed in a cozy silk nightgown you settled at the piano with your book in hand and the sheets found earlier scattered around you trying to organize your upcoming class.

It was Tuesday, October 28th you had been trying to come up with a proper curriculum on a experimental music unit but you had failed to make something that would please the agnostic scholars without having your phd in theology bleed through. 

You came from a powerful line of witches, Hecate worshipers, some had been writers, others painters, you had been one of the few singers. Before you could talk you had already been singing. It had been a long time since you last sang anything. You had played several instruments over the centuries but nothing ever got you like a good old piano has. That’s all you cold bring yourself to do. 

Every song, every good song, you ever wrote belonged to someone else.  Everything great, everything that granted you prizes and praise and standing ovations had been because of her, — had been about her. Every lyric was so entwined with your feelings for her that the thought of weaving them into speech was more painful than pulling teeth.

As you kept trying to focus on the words in front of you the telephone rang once again. 

“It’s the eight time today, take a hint” you mumble into the air as if the message will register with “whoever” is calling. You keep your eyes on the page and a sigh of relief escapes you when the noise subsides.

When you think you finally found piece in your own living room, the vile machine rings yet again with what seems to be the screech of every single soul that has even condemned to eternal damnation

You slam the book and get up, knocking off the bench, making your way to the kitchen almost ripping the ancient phone from the even more ancient wall as you answer it with a poorly contained growl of pure discontent

“WHAT?”—

To be continued...