AN: Second of two today - read Chapter 11 first!

Thanks for coming along for the ride everyone. I hope you enjoyed my spooky tale.

While I was researching brownies, barghests, and other wee beasties from old English folklore, I came across a real ghost story, The Cauld Lad of Hylton. That's what I based Henry on. If you're interested, it's on Wikipedia.

Now Eric wouldn't let me leave it there, so you get an epilogue. It's bittersweet, so I hope you have some candy left to eat afterwards.

12: Epilogue

Eric paused at the top of the bank. The others were out of earshot; it was now or never. "Have you, ah, heard anything more from…?" He nodded back at the ice-house.

"Not a thing," Sookie said softly. "And I don't think I will. It got what it wanted." She sighed and shook her head. "Eleven years old. Poor Henry. You think they'll bury him in the churchyard this time, with his family?"

He rubbed her knuckles comfortingly with his thumb. "Maybe."

"Good. I think he'd like that."

They talked of pleasant things the rest of the way to the house. Bands they liked, favourite foods, inconsequential nonsense really, but Eric was painfully aware of how little time they had left and neither of them seemed willing to spoil it.

"Well, this is me," Sookie said when they reached the drive. Tray and Amelia were beside the taxi, saying their good-byes to the others. The Americans were all packed up and ready to leave.

Eric bent to kiss her cheek and they hugged. "It's been fun," he murmured. "Mostly."

"Thanks for not freaking out about… Well, you know. It means a lot."

"The Tower is worth a visit. You'll love it."

"Thanks." She flashed a smile, but no dimples. "London here I come."

"They won't know what's hit them."

She smiled properly at that, dimples showing and that twinkle lighting up her eyes. He committed it to memory. She said good-bye to the others, allowed Stan to kiss her hand again, and got in the taxi. Tray honked the horn as they pulled away.

Eric kicked at the gravel and watched her go, missing her already.

…

The three Brits travelled back to London in the van. Stan drove. Eric dozed in the back. Pam was still mad at him, but not so mad that she didn't hug him goodbye when they dropped him off at Kings Cross. The station was busy and he made his way to the departure board. There was a train to Edinburgh in an hour.

He didn't get on it.

Three days, he decided, wasn't nearly long enough to unravel the mystery that was Sookie Stackhouse.

He rang his boss, finagled a week off, and then called Tray to find out where they were all staying. He got a taxi across London, and was waiting in the hotel lobby when the Americans came back from dinner.

The smile Sookie gave him was glorious.

He'd booked himself a room of course, but he was barely in it. By Wednesday, Sookie insisted it was a waste of money, made him check out and move into hers. They spent their days sight-seeing: Buckingham Palace for the changing of the guard, a ride on the London Eye, a trip to the Tower to see the Crown Jewels, and a boat trip down the Thames in freezing rain he didn't give a shit about as long as he could hear her laughter and see those fucking irresistible dimples.

Their nights were passion-filled, and playful, and intense. They made good use of every possible surface in her room, and a few in the bathroom too. By Saturday they were both completely sleep-deprived, but neither of them cared. They were deliriously happy.

They didn't once talk about the ice-house, or the voices Sookie heard, or any of that.

It was wonderful.

And then it was over.

…

Pam kicked off her heels as soon as she got inside. Dropping her bag on the sofa and her keys on the coffee table, she made a beeline for the fridge. She'd eaten already, but there was a chilled bottle of Chablis in there with her name on it. The fridge was stainless steel, like the rest of the kitchen. Very modern, very fashionable, and very expensive. Pam worked bloody hard so she could afford to live in a flat that looked like it belonged in a glossy magazine.

She was just opening a cupboard to get out a glass when her mobile rang. Fuck. It better not be work. She'd put in enough bloody overtime this weekend. They could just sod off, the lot of them. She'd been this close to throwing her bastard of a boss out of his tenth floor window yesterday.

She looked at the phone, saw who it was and frowned as she took the call. "Eric?"

"Pam. You home?"

"Yes, just got in. What's up?"

"No date tonight?"

"Only the bottle of wine I'm about to open."

"Good." He hung up.

What the fuck? Was this some new drunk-dial fad she didn't know about, one where you randomly called a friend and asked them if they had a date on a Sunday night?

Maybe he'd made a bet with Stan. Yes, that was probably it. Bloody idiots, the pair of them. They could both fuck right off. She wasn't in the mood for their nonsense after the week she'd had.

Pam went back to the kitchen and rummaged in a drawer for the corkscrew, but before she got a chance to use it her doorbell rang. What now! Couldn't a girl open a bottle of wine in peace? The flat was open plan and Pam glared at the door as if she could laser her way through four inches of wood and steel from where she was.

The concierge was going to get a piece of her mind. He knew not to let anyone up without calling her first.

Except for the people she'd told him were exceptions. All two of them.

No. It couldn't be…

She went to the door, putting the wine bottle on the coffee table on the way. Standing on tiptoes, she put an eye to the peep-hole and squinted through the distorting bubble of glass. She swore softly.

It fucking was.

Eric was outside, his head down so she couldn't see his face. He had a hand on the door-jamb and he was leaning heavily on it.

She opened up. "What on earth are you doing in London?"

"Hello to you too," he said sourly.

"What bit your arse, you grumpy sod." The bag beside his feet was the one he'd had at the manor house, and the hand he wasn't leaning on hung loose at his side, wrapped around a bottle of vodka. A large bottle of vodka. Pam put two and two together and came up with, oh, about twenty. "You've been with blondie, haven't you? This whole week."

"She'll be boarding about now." He lifted the vodka bottle. "Fancy keeping me company?"

"Do I have a choice?" She sighed. "Come in."

He left his bag just inside the door, put the vodka down on the coffee table next to the wine and slumped on the couch like he owned the place. In the middle of the pristine white leather couch that cost her a month's wages, still in that scruffy leather jacket she detested that was covered in God knows what filth.

But she didn't yell at him.

Instead, she leant her hip against the back of the sofa and searched his face. He was staring at the vodka bottle, his eyes far away.

Fuck my life, she thought. I haven't seen him like this since third year. At least he brought decent vodka, not the paint-stripper we used to drink back then, but I bet I still have a hangover straight out of Hades tomorrow. Hm. I could call in sick. I just worked the whole bloody weekend, the bastards can't complain.

And if they do, I'll bloody quit. Life's too short for this shit.

"Well," she drawled, breaking the silence. "I hate to say I told you so, Eric, but I said it would end in tears. I just didn't think they'd be yours."

He roused himself enough to say, "Bullshit. You live for saying I told you so."

"True, I do. " On her way to the kitchen, she paused and squeezed his shoulder. "I'll get the shot glasses. We can drink to me being right yet again."

...