The House on the Hill

Rating: M

Pairings/Characters: Eventual USUK, the other main characters are Canada, Russia, Seychelles, France, Prussia, and Hungary. I won't discount the possibility of other pairings, but I don't have any planned right now.

Summary: When Matthew Williams wakes up dead, he's not entirely sure how he got that way. Frustrated, he must turn to the only people who can now see him: other "spooks," including an overzealous werewolf, a temperamental warlock and more than a few vampires, in order to figure out who killed him. Unfortunately, being dead does not guarantee safety, and something is still after Matthew's soul…

Warnings: Bad, bad words, occasional instances of gore, and possible (probable) elements of a sensual and adult nature (ahem) will occur in this story.

Notes: So this story exists because I really love Halloween and spooky things. Well, that was how it started anyway. Now it has evolved into this big dumb brainbaby that won't leave. I had hoped to get some of it posted before the actual holiday but…well…school happens. In terms of genre, this is not a horror story. More like supernatural/action/comedy with some romance thrown in there. I'm drawing a lot of inspiration from stuff like Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Hanna is Not a Boy's Name, if that helps. Also I imagine this will contain a hearty helping of Halloween-movie type campiness. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

Dead Man Walking

Where can a dead man go?

A question with an answer only dead men know.

But I'm gonna bet they never really feel at home,

If they spent a lifetime learning how to live in Rome.

-Nickel Creek, "When in Rome"

The old house stood like a drab sentinel on the outskirts of Camelot, Pennsylvania, sitting on a rise adjacent to the large city cemetery. It had probably once been quite grand, but now it was a gloomy behemoth in the periphery of the town's vision. It had been built prior to the Civil War, and time stood still beyond the cast-iron gates. Anyone who stopped for more than a cursory glance through the bars would report that Ravenswood Manor gave off a feeling they could only describe as unsettling. Most explained it away as the house's general atmosphere: the untamed lawn and garden, the paint faded so badly that most of the structure was just dark, weathered boards, and the tradition of nearly uninterrupted silence.

Someone did live there, although the house's inhabitants were a matter of speculation. The name on the mailbox said "KIRKLAND," and the person who was normally seen emptying it was a skinny blond man with dark, furrowed brows. His age was hard to determine; he looked like he could be in his twenties but he carried himself like someone much older. Neighborhood children liked to wind him up by sneaking over the stone fence on the south side. Whenever he caught them, he would chase them off brandishing a garden rake, spewing phrases like "Scram, you brats, this isn't a bloody circus!" Sometimes he could be seen walking home from the supermarket bickering with one much taller who had spectacles and a toothy grin. The girl was the one most often seen in town, and though her dark pigtails and pleasant demeanor endeared her to the locals, they still felt like something was slightly off about her. They could never put their finger on it, but whenever the citizens came upon the subject, they would always say "There's just something funny about those people."

They rarely emerged from the house, and seemed to be more active at night, since the lights were often on until the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes another figure could be seen entering and leaving the manor after dark, much bigger than all the rest, but it walked hunched over with its head bowed, like it didn't want to attract too much attention. Boys would say that they had once heard howling coming from Ravenswood in order to get their girlfriends to snuggle a little closer. The house was distinctly more legend than fact, but that seemed to suit it.

On the night of the first of October, spirits were stirring in the bowels of the manor's old cellar. It was dark aside from a bare bulb hanging over a long wooden table. The table was scattered with all sorts of peculiar items: broken eggshells, smooth river stones, stoppered jars full of strange concoctions, clock parts. More odd accouterments hung from the ceiling and the walls: leather pouches stuffed with powders and seeds, old kerosene lanterns, and what looked like the entire hide of a beaver, feet and all. Small balls of colored light drifted around the room and if one looked close enough, they might think they saw tiny people with miniscule hands and pinprick teeth within the orbs. Loud rock music was blaring distantly from somewhere upstairs, despite the late hour.

A young man was slumped over the worktable, fast asleep. A few moths had nestled in his shaggy ash-blond hair and a fat, green caterpillar crawled over his hand on the desk. He was drooling slightly on the hem of the dark green cloak flung loosely around his shoulders. There were deep circles under his eyes and there was an assortment of mechanisms splayed in front of him, half-assembled.

Over in the far corner, next to the furnace, a large kettle suddenly began to stir, shuddering on its base and making a rattling noise. The contents within began to bubble and glow a faint blue. The young man slept on, emitting light, wheezy snores. One of the glowing orbs zipped over and tugged on his hair. He did not wake up. The orb made an indignant tinkling sound.

"Ahhh!" The young man jerked up, knocking the caterpillar flying and sending the moths scattering to circle the light bulb. The caterpillar landed in a strange blue puddle on the floor and with a surge of light, flapped away as a slightly bewildered butterfly.

The man shook his head, disoriented, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. When he was able to focus on the pink bubble bobbing in front of his face, he frowned.

"Tara, do you really have to bite so hard?" He rubbed the blossoming red welt on his neck tenderly. The pixie, Tara, jingled impatiently and the young man rubbed his eyes. He wondered what time it was; it had been awhile since he'd been on a normal sleeping schedule. "What's the matter, dear?"

Tara whizzed over to the glowing pot and danced around it, making it clear what warranted attention. The young man frowned, bushy eyebrows knitting together. "Oh," he muttered, still a tad drowsy. He slid off the stool that he'd been sleeping on, cracking his back as he stood, and walked over to the pot warily.

He peered over the edge, the green and blue light from within dancing on his face. There was a far-off pounding on the basement door and a muffled girl's voice yelling "Arthur! Did you fall asleep at the table again? You know you can't stay like that!"

The young man ignored the noise, continuing to stare down into the pot's swirling depths. His eyes were wide under furrowed brows and his mouth hung open a bit as he examined the scrying pool's insides. Tara jingled again, but this time the noise was slightly timorous, as if with fear.

"Oh, bloody hell," Arthur muttered.

When Matthew Williams woke up, he was dead.

It took him a few minutes to figure this out. The lights in his apartment were off, and after lying in bed a moment, he realized that this was strange. He sat up. The red numbers on his alarm clock read two thirty-three p.m. He scratched his head idly, wondering if he had fallen asleep. He tried to consult his recent memory, but found it unsettlingly blank. He couldn't remember what he'd been doing last, or even what day it was.

He tried to think. Your name is Matthew Williams. He was glad he remembered that much, at least. You are twenty-three years old. You are a bank teller. You lead a relatively boring but comfortable life.

He looked around the room, searching for any clue that would spark his memory and fix his disorientation. He noted that there was a weird sort of fog in the air. Well, not really a fog, but more of an essence. Everything in the room seemed redder than usual, even though the rational part of his brain told him that 'redder' was not really a good way to describe something intangible.

He heard a melodic ringing and looked over to see his phone sitting on his bedside table and he stood up to get it. He reached for it, but when he pulled his hand away his phone did not come with it. Puzzled, Matthew tried again. Again, he was unable to pick up the phone. And suddenly he realized that the reason he couldn't even feelthe phone's smooth plastic surface was because his hand was drifting right through it. He gulped. Trying not to panic, he swept his hand through the phone a few more times, as though trying to yank open a defective door that he knew must eventually open.

However, then by chance, Matthew's eyes flicked over to the bed and he noticed something. He stopped. He stared. The phone rang on, forgotten, and went to voicemail.

"Oh, shit," Matthew said.

He was standing four feet away from the bed, in front of the table. But his body was still lying on the bed, eyes closed, unmoving, a separate entity altogether.

And there was an axe buried in the center of his chest.

"Looks like it's gonna be a long one." Detective Elizabeta Héderváry sighed a little as she exited her squad car and began walking over to the crime scene. Lights flashed red and blue and there were enough people huddled around the sidewalk to make her apprehensive. She shot a wry grin at the figure trailing behind her. "Sorry if you had plans for sleep tonight, Toris."

Toris, her newest recruit, shrugged and grinned amiably. "No problem, Detective. All part of the job."

"Yeah, well, at least I'll be able to introduce you to the rest of the crew," Elizabeta said. "I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"Why would it be a bad thing?" Toris asked.

"Put that down, bastardo!"

Toris jumped a little at the harsh demand, which they could hear from several yards away although the speaker was not yet in sight. Elizabeta laughed nervously. "We-ell, every precinct has its characters…"

She wove through the crowd of spectators and flashed her badge at the police officers standing guard. Toris followed her up the steps and into the front hall of the house, where one of the crime scene investigators seemed intent on making another crime scene, as he was practically throttling Officer Carriedo, who Toris had met at the station earlier that day.

"How many times have I told you not to touch my kit, you moron!"

"Lovino, I think he gets the message. You can let him go now," Elizabeta said. She gestured to Toris. "Toris, this is Lovino Vargas, our chief crime scene investigator. You met his brother Feliciano in human resources. Lovino, this is Toris Laurinaitis."

"Charmed," Lovino growled. "Are you here to take this idiot off my hands? He's fucking up my crime scene."

"I was only trying to help!" Officer Carriedo looked bewildered and slightly crestfallen.

"Toni, how about you show me the body," Elizabeta decided, already getting a headache. Whenever Lovino and Antonio were in the same room, she found herself reaching for the aspirin.

"Alright, boss, but I gotta warn you, it's not pretty," Antonio said.

"It never is," Elizabeta muttered, and she followed him back to the bedroom, Toris close behind.

The boy, or what had been a boy, was spread out on the bed in a faded Canucks t-shirt and sweatpants, the dark red, gelatinous stain spreading out from his chest and the axe that sank down in the center of it. Elizabeta's mouth was drawn in a tight line as she looked down at his thin face. He really was too young. Elizabeta wondered if she would ever get used to this, walking into houses to look into the faces of the dead and ask for their secrets.

"Name?" she asked.

"Matthew Williams. Twenty-three," Antonio replied. "Bank teller. It was actually one of his coworkers who found him. She came to check on him, said he wasn't the type to miss work. She was pretty shaken up over it."

"So the door was open?"

"Yes, but no signs of forced entry."

"Hm. What did his coworker say in the interview?"

"Eh? Well, she said he was a pretty quiet guy, kept to himself. Always very polite."

Elizabeta leaned over the bed, examining the dark bruises around his eyes and trying to ignore the smell. "Has his family been notified?"

Antonio rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly apprehensive. "We're, uh, working on that," he said.

Elizabeta shot a glance at the Spaniard. "What? No immediate family?"

"Well…we don't know. It appears his father's been dead for several years, but his mamá…we're not sure. We can't track down a permanent address. Also," Antonio's eyes were downcast. "I looked through his phone and there's no number for "Mom" or anything like that."

Elizabeta's mouth thinned even further. She wondered what could have happened to make a son sever all contact with his mother. And what reason could anyone have to drive an axe through this seemingly ordinary boy's chest? Elizabeta sighed, her eyebrows furrowed.

"What happened to you, Matthew Williams?"

It was turning out to be a bad week for Matthew. Adding insult to, well, death, only six people attended his funeral. They consisted of his coworkers from the bank, his postman of all people, and his rather batty old neighbor, Mrs. Tuttle, who spent the entire time turning up her hearing aid and telling the priest to speak up, for crissakes.

Matthew sat in the back. He wasn't really sure why he was there, other than it just seemed like the thing to do. Also, he didn't exactly have any other social engagements at the moment. It was quite depressing, though. Of course, he didn't really have any ties to his family anymore; they probably didn't even know he was living in the States now. But it would have been nice to have a few more people at his funeral, ones that he could call friends. Truly, Matthew Williams had died and had made barely a ripple on the earth.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. That lady cop still seemed to have at least a minor interest in him. She'd come back to his house twice, as if thinking there must be something she missed. But Matthew had heard the initial report from his spot hovering around the crime scene: there were no fingerprints, no stray fibers, no indication that anyone else had been in his house at all.

He had discerned a few things in his rather short time being dead. One, no one could see him. He was used to being fairly invisible, but at least when he was alive, he could tap someone on the shoulder or yell across the room or wave his hands in front of their face. It turned out that none of these tactics were very useful when you were a ghost.

He did seem to be able to touch people, in a sense. Even though his hand went right through their shoulders, they would always bristle a little and look around as if they expected to find someone there. At first, he couldn't touch things, but with a bit of effort, he found he was able to touch and hold very small objects again. He also realized that he could walk through walls, which was handy, he supposed, and like that first day when he had noted a red glow around his deathbed, he found he could pick out other essences; auras, he guessed. He'd never really put much stock in things like that, but sure enough the clouds were everywhere, around people, buildings, trees, just about everything. They gave off colors and tastes and sometimes temperatures, and Matthew noted that they were each as unique as the things they belonged to.

However, one thing he still had not figured out was how he had died. Or rather, who killed him, since an axe to the chest hardly seemed accidental. He still couldn't remember the actual moment of him dying, and he couldn't think of anyone who would want him dead.

Currently, he was standing under a gnarly tree in the cemetery while he watched a man fill up his grave. After the funeral, he hadn't really wanted to return to his house. He'd followed his body this far, and the idea of going back and sleeping in the place he was killed…well, he didn't relish it.

So now he watched as a slightly haggard-looking middle-aged man shoveled dirt over his rather plain coffin. The gravedigger whistled a little as he worked, and Matthew found it oddly comforting. He was getting close to the moment where he would have absolutely no idea what his next move was, if a move there was at all, and so watching his burial and listening to the man's offhand whistling temporarily quelled his rising panic.

However, all too soon, the man finished rolling the new sod over the mound, and he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He glanced over exactly where Matthew was sitting and Matthew started, for a second thinking that there was maybe one person on this earth who could still see him.

The gravedigger spoke. "Looks like rain," he said.

Matthew turned to look behind him at the setting sun. On the contrary, the sky was perfectly cloud-free.

"Yep, there's a storm on its way for sure," the gravedigger continued to himself, now picking up his tools and heading in the direction of back gates and his truck. He started whistling again, and didn't look back.

Matthew sighed and plopped down on his own grave. He wrapped his arms around his knees and pulled them up to his chest. He tugged at the grass in front of him, a bit savagely.

"Well, now what?"

On the other side of the cemetery, some distance from where Matthew was shredding dandelions by his grave, a naked young man emerged from a bush. He stretched languidly and yawned, as if waking from a deep sleep. He grinned as he scratched his stomach idly. He glanced around and then he began to poke around in the surrounding bushes, muttering to himself.

"Now where…? Ah, yeah!" Triumphantly, he pulled a pair of careworn jeans, a Superman t-shirt, and an old bomber jacket from the undergrowth, and a few minutes later he stepped out onto the pavement, edging a pair of thin glasses onto his nose. He looked completely ordinary aside from a few leaves in his hair and a slightly peculiar loping gait as he started down the pathway out of the cemetery.

He looked to be around twenty and had hair the color of corn. He sang a little as he walked, his fingers tapping a rhythm on his thigh. He had a bit of a swagger in his stride, a man who had nothing to fear from the darkness.

The cemetery was one of his favorite places, but more because it was quiet than out of any sort of morbid fascination. It was a good place to clear his head. As he walked along, his eyes, blue as the incoming tide, flicked over the familiar scenery, taking in the many rows of graves, some just small plaques in the dirt and others monuments taller than he was. It was a pleasant evening, a bit cold, but he preferred it that way. He was thinking of the new video game he had waiting at home, and staying up through the night to see how far he could get through it, when a slight motion off to his right made itself known in the periphery of his vision. He stopped and turned.

"Hey, what the-?"

Hurtling toward him was an insubstantial figure, an estranged white mist in the semi-darkness, or at least that was what it looked like. It ducked and wove through the air, like a giant wayward bird with a broken wing, but it was still most certainly headed his way, and fast. The young man's heart sped up as the form took brief shape, blank white eyes and a mouth full of teeth suddenly visible and certainly threatening.

"Shit!" He had barely seconds to throw up his arm before the thing had swooped down and crashed into him. His back hit the cold ground with a resounding thud and he rolled. He was up on his feet with an inhuman swiftness and his hands automatically started slipping into long, three-inch claws, brown fur peppering his fingertips. He braced himself for the second attack, but was still thrown back several yards and almost collided with a gravestone.

A growl rose low in his throat and he glared at the creature, which was circling around, still cloudy and translucent but with apparently enough strength to knock him over. The young man stood up, meeting the creature's blank white stare.

"What are you?" he spat, his claws still extended. The creature gave no response, only watched him, weaving in the air a bit before it darted forward for another offense.

"Wizard, wizard, will you be my wizard? Tell me, are you the wizard of Oz?"

The loud and insistent singing came muffled out of his pocket and the young man gritted his teeth as he recognized the ringtone. He rapidly tried to decide how much trouble he would be in if he didn't answer.

He figured he could fight one-handed.

"Yeah, what?" he asked shortly.

A clipped British accent barked from the other end of the line. "Where are you? You've been gone for almost four hours. I thought you were going for a 'short run.'"

"Give me a break. Your idea of a short run is from the front door to the mailbox, old man."

"Shut up, Alfred. Have you even been to the grocery store yet? You know I asked you…"

"Yeah, I know." Alfred rolled his eyes as he ducked out of the path of the creature. "I'll do it, I'll do it. Wal-Mart's open twenty-four hours, yanno."

"Hmph. I suppose so. Well, if you're going there, I was thinking we should really replace those curtains in the parlor. Ever since we singed them in that spell last week, the smell has been getting…"

"Arthur." Still juggling the phone, Alfred swiped at the creature. "D'you think we could talk about this later? I'm kind of in the middle of killing something."

The voice on the other end sputtered. "K-killing? Killing what?"

"I don't know!" Alfred yelled, annoyed. "I'll let you know when it's dead!"

"Alfred! You get back here right now! I will not have you…!"

"Yeah, yeah, okay Mother!" Alfred shouted into the phone, already halfway to closing it. "I'llcallyoubackthanksbye!"

He fumbled the device for a second but it was knocked clean out of his hands by the creature and hurled against a headstone. Shit. Arthur was going to kill him.

The creature swooped in again, its eyes now warming to red. Alfred gulped. Well, Arthur was going to kill him if this thing didn't beat him to it.

Matthew stared upward, head leaning back over his gravestone, picking out the constellations above him. As a cloud passed over Orion, he suddenly heard a distant shout. He sat up, a slight frown creasing his face as he tried to locate the source. He couldn't see anything; the only lights around the cemetery were close to the street, his area was shrouded in deep shadows.

He stood up, and listening carefully he could pick out other sounds, like those of a scuffle taking place. He glanced down at his grave and back towards the noise. Even though he was separated from his body, he felt apprehension at leaving it somehow. It felt very…final. Another shout rang through the darkness. Matthew hesitated, and then he took off at a trot towards the sound.

He saw the ethereal attacker before he saw the victim, as it glowed and swept through the night like a demonic cloud. Matthew's brain tried to process the strange scene before him; the formless entity before him was something he did not know, that did not have a name. Then he saw the young man lying on the ground, groaning as he rubbed the back of his head.

The specter turned to face its target again, its red eyes burning and its sharp teeth bared in an aggressive snarl. Matthew realized it was going in for another assault and he also realized that the boy on the ground might not get up in time to block it.

Matthew could only explain what he did next by a sort of newfound throwaway bravery, perhaps a side effect of being dead, because he certainly would not have done it had he been alive. However, after being axed through the heart, he wasn't really too concerned about getting hurt.

"H-hey!" he yelped with as much potency as his soft voice was really capable of. He hurtled in front of the prone figure of the boy, throwing up his hands to the oncoming spirit. "Stop!"

To his amazement, the spirit heeded him. It drew itself up sharply, and the red in its eyes faded back to demure white. It paused, eyes squinting a little, like it was asking "Are you sure?"

Matthew licked his lips nervously, and though his voice shook, it was loud and clear. "I'm w-warning you! Back off!"

The spirit hovered uncertainly for a moment or two. But then Matthew took a step forward and it receded, and after another second, it swept away into the night.

Matthew stood, shaking a little, for several seconds. Then he jumped as an excited voice shattered the quiet.

"Dude, that was awesome!"

Matthew turned around to find the boy on the ground grinning at him. He looked around Matthew's own age, maybe younger, his glasses sitting askew on his oddly pointed ears. He looked astounded, but not frightened. And more importantly…

"You can see me?" Matthew asked. He hardly dared believe it. After the past few days of being ignored, it was almost as though he himself had encountered a ghost.

The boy let out a winded laugh. "Yeah, I can see you," he said, standing up and brushing off his pants. "How long you been dead, bro?"

Matthew fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "Um…a few days, I guess."

"Bummer," said the apparition in front of him. He seemed utterly casual, like he met dead people all the time. Maybe he did, Matthew thought.

"Um, excuse me, but who are you?" Matthew asked.

"Oh! Sorry for not introducing myself. Alfred F. Jones, werewolf. But please, call me Al."

"Werewolf?" Well, that was a new one.

"Yeah! Check it out!" Alfred held out his hand and fur erupted from the skin, his fingernails lengthening into sharp claws. Matthew yelped and Alfred laughed, pulling his hand back as the fur and claws receded. "Pretty cool, huh?" he said. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah," Matthew said, staring at his now human hand. Alfred was so casual about it, like it was normal to be able to grow fur at will. After the encounter with the hostile spirit, and now this, Matthew's previous worldview was suddenly being dragged through the mud. "I suppose you're going to tell me there's such things as witches, vampires, and fairies, too?"

"Well, I've never seen a fairy," Alfred said thoughtfully. "But I can assure you, vampires are annoyingly real and I live with two witches. Check that, one witch and one very fussy warlock." To Matthew's dismay, he realized that Alfred was completely serious.

The werewolf shot him a sympathetic grin. "It's okay, dude. I guess this is all news to you, but you'll get used to it. Hey!" He perked up. "Why don't you come back to my place? You probably could use a place to crash, right?" When Matthew looked anxiously over his shoulder, Alfred raised one eyebrow. "Someplace that isn't a gravestone? Unless you're still haunting your house; I don't mean to intrude."

Matthew laughed, a little embarrassed. "Ah…no, no. I don't really want to go back to my house. Uh."

Alfred's teeth looked rather unnaturally sharp, even though they were bared in kindness. "Well, me and my friends…we could maybe help explain a few things, yeah? I know those first few days aren't easy."

Matthew looked back again, towards the spot where his body lay. It's not like I have anywhere else to be, he thought wryly. His physical body was in the ground, eyelids sewn shut and hands folded carefully forevermore.

What have I got to lose?

"Okay." Al brightened up and Matthew's lips tugged up into a small smile. "Yeah, I'd really appreciate that."

"Cool!" Al crowed. He started walking up the path. "Say, what's your name?"

"Matthew. Matthew Williams."

"Well, Matthew Williams, your afterlife is about to get a lot better, now that-! Hey, that's weird." Alfred had reached out, evidently forgetting that Matthew was ectoplasm, to clap him on the back. And while his hand did not meet a solid shoulder, it did not meet thin air, either. Matthew felt like his shoulder was made of Jell-o and something was trying to pass through it.

"Uh," Al said. "That's different."

"How come you can touch me? Er, sort of touch me."

Alfred shrugged, looking bewildered. "Beats me. Every spirit I've ever met was completely untouchable." He kept walking, apparently not terribly concerned. "Yeah, I think everybody will be very interested to meet you, Mr. Williams."

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I haven't written longfic in a veeery long time, so I hope I'll be able to keep this going. But I'm super excited about this story and the next chapter is going to be really fun. A couple things:

-I'm pretty sure there isn't a town called Camelot, Pennsylvania. I mean if there is, that's pretty boss, but the Camelot in this story isn't based on any real place.

-On Alfred's ringtone for Arthur: I almost picked the traditional "We're off to see the wizard!" from the movie, but I figured the slightly obnoxious Toy-Box song was more Alfred's style.