Author's Chapter Notes:
This has been something I have been working on for some time, I just abadoned it because it had no plot that I liked. Read and review, this one is a couple years in the making, and I want to know if the rewrite is worth it.
Rain splattered against the old oak windowpane and glass, coming down in pouring waves. It was almost soundless in the old house except for that. She stood in the doorway, her leather coat dripping on the old, old runner. The air smelled moist and dusty, an asthmatic’s nightmare. It was dark, only the light from the outside peeking in.

She set down her bags and surveyed all around her.

There was a coat rack to her right; one of those formal ones, and in the back of her mind, the name came to her: hall tree. They had one, kind of like that in the old house. It had nothing on it, just dust.

The wallpaper was faded like a windswept memory, splashed with graffiti here and there. Age was everywhere, like no one had lived here in a long time. There were lightened areas on the wall where maybe pictures had hung, spider webs clung limply to corners in the high ceilings, and the floor was so aged and warped in places, it looked like it wasn’t safe.

She snapped herself out of her reverie, and looked over at her bags. The large black trunk held all her weapons she would need, should anything happen, and the smaller blue suitcase held her clothes and personal things. Both were completely out of place. She looked for a light switch on the walls behind her, and found a set of pop buttons, pressing the top one, and poor lights came on in the vestibule and hallway.

Her cell phone vibrated in her holster, and she pulled it out. A familiar face was on the touch screen, and she pressed receive. “Hey.”

“Hey back. Are you there yet?”

“Yeah.” She started to walk down the hallway toward the back of the house absentmindedly, trailing her left hand on the wall. “It’s weird.”

A sigh from the caller, and then, “I bet.”

Buffy looked up into the next room on the left and saw empty bookcases lining the walls, and a chair. “I might need you to come over after all and help with a cleaning party. It’s pretty gross.”

“No one’s lived there for seventy years, Buffy. It will be gross.”

“I wasn’t thinking, it was going to be a palace, Dawn, but I was hoping that the caretakers were doing what they had been paid for. You know? Caretaking?” She walked into the room and slapped the seat of the chair and dust billowed out into the air. She coughed. “There’s not a lick of furniture worth saving here. I’m gonna have to call that store the lawyer told me about after all.” She sat down in the chair, which held her weight, although it was a bit rickety.

“You know,” Dawn began, “we were planning on coming up tomorrow, remember? Just get on the laptop and order some stuff online, and we’ll make sure it gets there. Between the four of us, we should be able to get it done. Oh, did the TV get there? Giles had some men bring it over two days ago, and hook up the cable.”

Buffy laughed. “I’m not turning anything on until we get some guys in here to look at the wiring. If I was anyone else, I wouldn’t even stay here, but I brought the sleeping bag and pillows for tonight. If the laptop has a charged battery, I’ll get an order done before I eat tonight, that way you can get a truck to bring it here.” With that, she stood up and walked out back into the hallway, continuing her exploration. “Oh, can you bring some kind of cleaner?” Glances near her right foot and she saw a dead rat. “You know, Dawnie? I might stay somewhere else. At least until we get some contractors here in the morning.” She looked up to the second level and bit back a lick of anxiety that crawled through her belly into her throat. “Or I can stay here.”

Papers rustled in her ear. “Um, Xander has everyone showing up at seven your time, so you’ll have to tour with them since our flight doesn’t even get in until 5:50. Let us know if you go somewhere else, and we’ll call them all for you.”

Buffy walked back to the front door, and knelt down to get a bottle of water. “Alright, I will.” She sighed again and opened it to take a swallow. “Bring chocolate.”

Her sister giggled a little. “I will.”

“Okay then, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Dawn took a deep breath, “It will be okay Buffy. You’ll do better here, than you were. Enjoy it all by yourself, you know he wanted you to, that’s why you got it.”

She brought her hand to her face and rubbed her eyes, “Yeah, I know.”

“Night.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” She ended the call and put the phone back in its case.

Her back was to the stairs, and it took her another minute to drink enough water to feel calmer. She turned and walked to the first stair, grasping the banister tightly for support.

She wasn’t scared, not at all, but she was still dreading going up to the bedroom two doors off to the right of the stairs.

It was William’s room, and later, Spike’s. No one had been in it since he had come there in 1945. The house had been secured and saved for him, had he ever wanted to come back. It was a small, two story colonial house in an suburb of London. Deeded to her upon his death. And he did, again. It took the lawyers in charge of the estate six years to figure out what they could do with the property, and two weeks ago, they came for her at her home in Paris. Gave her keys, papers, mumbo-jumbo, and condolences. She didn’t want any of it until Willow came back with the research on the place. Then she took it gladly, started making plans, and came.

Her life had become a shadow; a joke. So she needed this place. Besides, Paris cost her more than she wanted to pay, and this was free—almost.

The stairs were creaky as she climbed them. Each one having a little more give under them than the one before it, and she made a mental note to have the men look at that the first thing on the tour in the morning. She reached the landing and turned staring at the wall ahead, three stops from the top. The hallway branched left and right. Right was what she came for and the bathroom; the left was her room, and what the lawyers had called the flower room. Climbing those last three stairs seemed like it took her all day, and she turned to the right.

She peeked in the first door, smiling as she saw the sad bathroom’s condition. She mentally thanked whoever made her have to go before she left the airport. The door came back closed with a small tug, and she moved on to the door at the end of the small hallway.

Tears were already threatening to fall down, her hands were sweating, but she turned the handle and braced herself as she pushed the door open.

Light flooded her vision. Three large windows lined the wall, letting the rainy light in. It was a big room, a small bed in the corner, actually made up as if someone had just left for the night, but the bed clothes were moth-eaten and faded. Victorian. Another chair was next to it, and a wooden dresser was next to her on the right. The left corner had book shelves that once again lined the walls, but they were bare except for some papers and a few books that looked very old. The walls in the whole room were wood, but amazingly were free of rot or mold.

She walked over to the bookcases, touching the papers. There was writing on the first one, a list of things to do. Go to the market; get mutton for supper, blah blah. She smiled. She put it back on the stack and went over to the dresser.

The top drawer came open with little protest, and she smiled again. A small book, roughly bound, laid there with a very old pencil. She picked up the book and opened it, caressing it with a lover’s grace. Reading the first lines, she started to cry.

1880, December 11
Mother continues to be unwell. The doctor said there was much we could do for her if she left London, but she will have none of it. Nothing more to do but to wait. Being alone to suffer the injustices of a hard life must be horrible. To have your child with you to suffer has to be more than even the devil could bear. My heart breaks with every smile and reassurance that she gives me. I hope one day I can reread these volumes of scribbles with a fondness, but for now, it makes me ill. If she only knew how much I want to take it all away. I can hope that her last days are with peace. I wish for someone to share some of this burden with, but it will not happen to me. I fear I may not be far behind her.

Cecily came to call the other afternoon just as I thought she would. Her smile is like Heaven. I want to sit with her in the spring sun and hold her hands, showing her how I care for her so.

If the Lord wills it, then it shall be. I will be attending her gathering on Thursday. I will try to fit in so she can see me as I am. Her beauty is amazing.

Will


She turned the page and read the next two entries. Same things were written on the pages, but the rest of the book was empty. That must have been when he died. The last entry was on December 16, the morning of the party. Thursday.

Grabbing the other books on the shelves, she carried them to the chair next to the bed and lay down, amidst the protest of the bed itself. She got comfortable and began to read. It wasn’t long before she was asleep.





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