Halloween II

Last time: Rodrigo returned home to find his wife and son had become seriously mentally unhinged. Cesare admits that he killed Juan, Rodrigo finding him in the basement. Lucrezia took Gio and ran next door to Catherina's house.

1895

The Beginning

God turns his face away from The Murder House. It is a den of sin; incest, rape, abuse and cruelty.

But, just like in the Garden of Eden, the original sin of the house was small.

It was the sin of a lie.

The first impression Mrs. Russo had of Francesca was that she was beautiful but cold. Even her looks were icy, with light blonde hair pulled back demurely, light skin without make up and dark blue eyes. In the interview Francesca's lips were pinched and she sat upright in her chair. She had come with excellent references from the Palace Imperiale.

Mrs. Russo told her so and the girl simply nodded before, "I take a lot of pride in my work Madam."

"Indeed," Mrs. Russo, a ruddy happy woman with honey-brown eyes, "and it says also that you were the pinnacle of discretion. That is what I need for this house, on top of a good, strong work ethic."

"I think my work speaks for itself." Francesca's voice was low, almost a hiss at times.

Mrs. Russo wavered a little. How would this prim and proper woman fit in with herself, who was loud and jovial, and sweet little Sara who was always giggling and flirting with boys? Though, perhaps this sort of woman was exactly what they needed. No doubt the Master would be fine with women like Mrs. Russo and Sara, but would not his Lady wife find someone like Francesca more acceptable according to her rank?

"May I ask," began Mrs. Russo, "why you choose to come work at this house? You're used to working in palaces in the great cities of the Romagna. What brings you here to the Papal states?"

"My aunt is unwell," she responded promptly, "it is important for me to be near her as her life comes to a close. I know that I will not have much time off, but the time I do get I shall be able to visit her easily."

"Oh!" Mrs. Russo warmed to the girl a little, not expecting such kindness from the pretty little icicle, "my, my! Your poor aunt, my condolences. Does she live in the village then?"

Francesca shifted in her seat ever so slightly. "In the wood madam."

"I see," (odd) "very well. I see no reason for us not to welcome you aboard our merry little team. It'll be hard work but we shall get through it, working together!"

Francesca gave a small smile – more like a smirk – and it chilled Mrs. Russo to the bone.

Present Day

Catherina flew down the stairs when she hard someone banging on her door with their fist. Opening the door, she saw a sobbing Lucrezia holding Gio's hand as he stood next to her.

"Come in, come in!"

Catherina settled the girl down on a chair in the living room, getting her a warm drink. Lucrezia watched the attractive woman fuss over Gio, complimenting his dark hair and soulful eyes. The toddler giggled happily.

"Here," she offered him a brightly decorated rattle, "this belonged to Ascanio. Now it's yours." She kissed him on the head before settling down on the settee beside him, facing Lucrezia.

"My dear, what happened?"

Lucrezia let out a shaky sob. She felt pathetic, sitting in her neighbour's house and crying like a child. Borgias were strong and hot-headed and showed no weakness. Yet here she was.

"Cesare," she began, "he's…not himself. I thought I could…I don't know, maybe make him better? Maybe we could recapture what we once were but I didn't. He's even worse than before."

"Are you safe around him?"

Lucrezia paused. Before she would have said that she was, absolutely, for no matter how angry Cesare got, no matter how vicious, she always felt like he would never hurt her. But now?

"I don't know," she answered honestly, not wanting to go into that thought process any further. She began to wipe away the tears. She needed to get a hold of herself. She looked at Catherina imploringly, "may I and Gio stay here? It doesn't need to be long. Just for tonight? I can call family back in Spain in the morning and arrange to go and stay with them."

"Nonsense," stated Catherina serenely, "you will both stay here with me for as long as you need."

"Is Alfonse here? And your other children?" Lucrezia had to admit, she had been curious about the Sforza clan, especially as she had Sancia Sforza's diary and knew that the Sforzas had once lived in the Murder House. How had they survived? And Catherina had never bought up this fact. The knowledge of this reminded Lucrezia of why her family had avoided Catherina for so long. And now here she was, ready to spend a night in the lady's house.

"No," Catherina responded, "they are not. Now, tell me what you did to try and bring Cesare back to his usual lovely self. Maybe we can try it again?"

Lucrezia blushed horribly and glanced away. Her feelings in that moment were confused; fear, shame but also a rush of defiance and arousal. She didn't feel bad about what she had done with Cesare, but her lack of remorse was what was making her feel ashamed.

Catherina leaned over, closing the space between them, and grasping Lucrezia's slim hands in her own. "Lucrezia, you must tell me," she said with some urgency, "the time of keeping secrets is over; keeping them hasn't helped your family so far."

"You must not judge," Lucrezia said conspiratorially, "You will judge."

"I won't, I swear."

"I … kissed him," she half-lied, "not like a sister. He's sick, like I said. The last few months he's been developing these strange thoughts towards me. He never said anything, never forced me to do anything. He never even suggested. But I could tell by the way he looked at me. The way he spoke to me and touched me. And I thought if I gave in…just a little…it would quench his thirst but…" She shrugged, glancing anxiously at Catherina whose face was carefully blank.

"Your brother…" Catherina trailed off, staring blankly. After a moment's silence she seemed to rouse herself out of her state of shock, "are you certain you were never forced? You were not coerced? Predators are not always old dirty men, they can be young and handsome. And grooming isn't always obvious."

"No, Catherina, never! He isn't like that. I swear," Lucrezia took a deep breath, "I don't know when it all started. When he started seeing me as something other than a sister. He was always," she shrugged, "lonely, I think. He finds it hard to relate to other people, even in our family. People don't like us. They don't like Cesare. They might fear him, or fancy him…but few really love him and…I don't know…maybe somewhere all the different types of love that exist bled into being one for him. There's no boundaries between them."

Lucrezia looked at Catherina, trying to gauge her thoughts. She felt like a damned traitor taking about Cesare this way. Borgias stuck together no matter what; even if they hated one another, even if they needed outside help, no one went outside of the family. To divulge such damning information about a relative was a disgrace, but she was so desperate.

"Well," said Catherina, "that is very sad to hear. He did seem like a lost soul on the few occasions I met him, and very passionate too. I can imagine that that is a toxic combination. But you know, it may not have been his fault. That house has a way of twisting beautiful things into something strange and unnatural."

"I heard," Lucrezia replied carefully, "that you used to live there. With your family." Lucrezia paused, a thought occurring to her. And now she thought of it, she realised how obvious it was. "I've never seen any of your children...apart from Alphonse and he's only ever in our house."

Catherina smiled then. And for the first time it seemed to be a real one. It was dark and sardonic. "I was wondering when you would all notice, but it's been a very stressful couple of months, so I understand why you didn't. Yes, I used to live there with my children back in the nineties." She took a photograph, the one Micheletto had been looking at on the day he died, and handed it to Lucrezia. "I had four children," Catherina continued, "Benito, Sancia, Alfonse and Ascanio."

Lucrezia stared at the girl. She had seen her before. In fact, it had been the first ghost she had seen in the house. She had been on Lucrezia's bed, blood on her white nightgown. Blood on the crotch area. She also knew Sancia had written an entry into the back of the diary she was reading. She then glanced at Alphonse. He looked exactly the same as now as he did in the photo, only the photo had a much younger looking Catherina.

"They all died," realised Lucrezia, "Alfonse is a ghost…"

"Yes," Catherina confirmed, "my daughter is little more than a poltergeist, though she has calmed down in the last few months. Benito and Alfonse haunt the house. On the night of the fire, I managed to escape with Benito and my baby, Ascanio. But Ascanio died outside of the garden, the smoke got to him. He's spirit is gone, I haven't seen him since his death." She smiled without humour, "I didn't leave the house soon enough. Before the fire, my two nephews and my husband were killed. It wasn't enough for me to take the house seriously. My nephew and Benito both went mad. I got Benito out of the house during the fire, but it was too late. Once the madness of the house infects their minds, there's nothing you can do. They're part of the house now."

"How do you know Benito couldn't be saved?" pushed Lucrezia, her body turning cold at the thought of Cesare dying mad and alone in the Murder House.

Catherina sat back in her chair, a bit of an attitude showing, "because, my dear, when I finally got him out of the house and into some sort of normal routine; going to school, watching tv, accompanying me to the shops and so on; his madness grew until he somehow got his hands on firearms, he went into school, and he killed over twenty of his schoolmates." There was a pause as Catherina let that sink in for Lucrezia. "He wasn't bullied, he wasn't angry. He just did it, because it was the winter months and the house demands blood."

"I heard about that shooting, they still talk about it in school."

"He was found hours later in the Murder House," continued Catherina. "He tried to attack the police, so they had no choice but to kill him. The newspapers reported that it was the influence of America's gun-culture on our young people, but I knew better. It was that house. It claimed every one of my children."

There was silence then, apart from the sound of the clicking clock and Gio quietly humming to himself.

Catherina put on a bright, fake smile. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to worry you. But this is serious."

"Why didn't you warn us?" bit out Lucrezia, angry now, "if you knew all of this, why didn't you say anything? We could have moved out earlier…Joffre and…he may have lived!" She almost said 'Juan,' but luckily held it in. She didn't want Catherina knowing the full extent of Cesare's insanity.

"But I did," argued Catherina, "on the first day I intruded on your family. I told them that it had a dark history and that it was cheap for a reason. I even bought up ghosts, but your family didn't believe. The most I and Alphonse could do was make you curious enough to check yourselves but," she shrugged sadly, "it seems the only ones who looked into the house were Cesare and to a lesser degree, yourself. Your parents didn't. I think they were distracted by each other, and then by your sad loss of Joffre. After I kept an eye on you all. I could tell Cesare didn't quite trust me and I didn't want to keep pushing myself into your family. There wasn't much I could do. But you're here now, and that's why I'm being so very honest with you about my own tragedies."

Lucrezia nodded, "I understand," she commiserated, because though she wasn't convinced that Catherina had done everything in her power, she did feel that the woman had suffered very badly and was a potential ally. After all, it was becoming a distinct possibility that soon Lucrezia would be alone in a different country with only a mad brother, mad mother and baby brother… if she was lucky. Lucrezia would need a friend, preferably a rich adult who had a house with spare rooms.

Catherina smiled, patted Lucrezia's knee and went off to make them both another hot drink to soothe their nerves. Lucrezia thought desperately; how could she convince Catherina to allow her to bring Cesare, if not both Cesare and her parents, into the house? Perhaps papa, if still alive and sound, could charm her? He seemed quite attracted to Catherina, and mother was too far gone to be jealous. Plus, perhaps Roberto was correct

Catherina returned, handing Lucrezia a drink before settling back down. "You may stay in the room upstairs. I think the on beside the bathroom is best, it looks out to the street. The one opposite face your house. I think if you can see the house it will draw you back to it, and I would not want that to happen."

"About my father…"

"If he was meant to arrive here," interrupted Catherina, "then he will. If he doesn't make it out of the house, then he won't. Tonight is Halloween. It's the most dangerous time of the year."

Lucrezia thought of her diary. "Right, the realm between the living and dead is thinner."

"Exactly. You must stay out of that house tonight. If you go in, I won't chase after you. And I'm not sure, if you survive, if I'd let you back in to my home."

Lucrezia gulped. She was going to have to choose between herself, and her father and Cesare. Self-preservation was always the first and foremost Borgia instinct.

"I'll stay here," she promised. "But if papa can make it here before night, can you let him in?"

"I will."

Lucrezia allowed herself a small amount of relief, "and Cesare?"

"I don't think Cesare will be leaving that house now. But I will offer you this, I shall go into the house with you tomorrow to see if I can help your mama, who is now a dear friend of mine, and anyone else who is alive and well in there."

"Thank you, so much."

1895

The village was desolate.

The farms were barely thriving. The people were impoverished and starving. Whereas the rest of Europe seemed to be slowly but surely moving forwards, entering the 20th century with a new sense of fairness to all, the poor country-side dwellers were still essentially trapped in serfdom.

But the people were proud, sticking to their traditions and festivals. They were nationalistic too, and they did not appreciate the idea of a unified Italy.

"They feel that it's taking away their individuality. Their customs and culture and making them homogenous with this idea of Italy as a country."

Francesca was in a carriage with the Butler, Mr. Dantonio. He was explaining to her the will of the people, preparing her for hostility, as if she were some sort of idiot who had been living under a rock for the last decade or so.

"They should have sent us to the village in something less conspicuous that this," she answered, "an old-fashioned trap, pulled by a horse or two."

"I wouldn't know how to drive such a thing," he sniffed, "I grew up in the city, so traps were a waste of time. It's faster to walk, or to use an automobile."

This caught her attention, she turned to him, "you've driven one?"

He smiled, glad to have her looking at him now, "yes. My father had shares in a company. They expected to sell many, but with the economy and everything," he shrugged, "maybe one day they will be common."

She turned away, looking out of the window to the gloomy countryside. A fog had rolled in, tainting everything with a blue-ish hue. The land looked haunted.

"How will the villagers react, I wonder?" she began, "on finding out that the Big House recently built is owned by two Napolitano's?"

"Furious," he answered without feeling, "but when are people ever not angry nowadays?"

"We bring money and trade. Perhaps they will put their xenophobia aside as long as they gain to profit?"

He laughed then, "what a funny woman you are! You are very cynical. It doesn't suit how pretty you are. Mrs. Russo usually likes her girls to be gay, like Miss Sara."

Sara was the scullery maid, slightly lower than Francesca. She had dark brown hair and eyes of a fawn. She had half a brain and a loose tongue.

She turned to Mr. Dantonio once more, gracing him with a sweet smile. His instincts were not as good as Mrs Russo's, so he simply smiled back at her with good humour.

They entered the village, with its dirty hovels masquerading badly as cottages. The people were thin, watching the carriage with narrowed eyes. It was so tense that Mr. Dantonio made a sign against the evil eye.

The centre of the village had a lovely centre-piece, a fountain that was covered in moss. The fountain wasn't working, but rain water pooled at its bottom, scum floating at the top.

The carriage stopped and they got out, the driver taking it off to get the horses a drink at the nearest establishment for such things. He would have let them drink from the fountain, but the water looked unhealthy. Inside the water were various knives and even a sword or two. They were rusted and old.

"Gifts to Hercules?" she asked, looking at the charming Butler, "are the people here quite connected to the Old Religion?"

"Everyone is devotedly Catholic," he said simply, hooking her arm in his and striding towards the butcher's.

They bought the best of what could be found in the small village before going into the pub for lunch. Fabiano, the driver of their carriage, was in there already with half a pint.

They sat at a table. The pub was sullen and dark with most of its punters loitering either at the bar or around a small hearth which held within it a weak fire.

"The goose we bought has barely enough fat on it to roast the potatoes," Francesca muttered quietly.

"How sorry you both must be," sneered Fabiano, "coming from the wealthy cities of the south to this place."

"I'm a Roman," argued Dantonio defensively.

Fabiano shrugged, his watery blue eyes turning to Francesca. She stared back at him. She had no issues with who she was or where she came from.

The landlord came to take their orders. Almost nothing from the menu was available so in the end they settled for some bread and a bowl of testaroli.

Before he went away with his orders, Francesca asked, "Sir, is there a physician in the village or nearby?"

"Are you sick madam?" the man asked, his eyes roving over her body.

"No," she smiled charmingly, "but I find it is good to be prepared for these things. And as a newcomer here, I wish to know everything about this place."

"There's no doctors," he answered bluntly, not taken in by her amiable sentiments, "does this look like a place where we would have such things? There is a strega in the woods. She heals. If she wants to. You go to her. Your Master, is he interested in such things? He needs a healer?"

"My Master is very well," she said. The conversation was tense now. Fabiano and Dantonio were sitting up straight in their chairs, the former even ignoring his beer for the moment.

"He should be wary," the landlord continued, "many will be envious of his position. The last Land Owner we had, he died. Typhoid. We didn't have to pay taxes for a while. All was chaos as the government took ages to sort it all out."

"Our Master does not ask for taxes," she replied coolly, "he wishes to live in peace with his wife. We have bought food locally for him. He does not consider himself above this village. We bring commerce."

The Landlord grunted, walking away with their orders.

"Why did you mention the Master having a wife?" hissed Fabiano at her, "do you want them both cursed?"

"Come now," Dantonio tried for affability to lighten to mood, "you surely do not believe such things? We're passed all that now."

Fabiano took a sip of his drink, leaning back and watching them with intelligent eyes, "we're out in the country now. These people have their own ways. Better to learn their rules."

Present Day

"Papa is sad."

They were in Lucrezia's room. Cesare was lying on her bed. Where was she?

"I don't care," he said to Juan, who was sitting at the end of the bed watching him. Joffre was peeping through the wooden boards on the window to look outside and Micheletto was looking through Lucrezia's CD collection.

"Do you really not?" asked Juan, annoyed, "he just saw me and Chatty Cathy over there," (he gestured to Micheletto, who just levelled a stare at Juan in response,) "in a fucking ottoman in the basement. Like, rotting and dead. My blood is everywhere." When Cesare said nothing he rolled his eyes and muttered, "I still can't believe you stabbed me to death!"

"Why are you all here?" asked Cesare, lifting himself up. "You've been following me around all day."

"We're haunting you dickhead," sneered Juan, "me and Joffre are stuck to you. I don't know why he's here." He gestured at Micheletto again.

"Shouldn't you be scaring me then?"

"I can't scare you. No one can. You're fucking crazy."

"No I'm not," frowned Cesare at the same time as Joffre cried out,

"I don't want to scare you! I like you Cesare!"

Cesare grinned, "that's why he's the one everyone loved," he informed Juan, who first scowled before an evil grin appeared on his face.

"Why don't you kill yourself Cesare?" he suggested sweetly, "then you can stay with Joffre forever."

Joffre jumped up and down, nodding excitedly.

"No," sighed Cesare, "I couldn't leave Lucrezia all alone."

"Can't she come too?" asked Joffre, now sitting on the bed beside Cesare. Juan crawled up so all three brothers were sitting up at the headboard.

"You wouldn't want her to be killed would you?"

"I guess not," Joffre allowed.

The door to the bedroom opened.

Rodrigo stepped in. His eyes were red and his cheeks wet with tears. Cesare felt something then, not guilt for what he had done, but regret for doing this to his papa.

"Did you really do that?" whispered Rodrigo, "did you truly kill your brother?"

Cesare got to his feet slowly. It felt wrong to be lounging on the bed of his sister.

"I did," he said at last, though part of him wanted to lie.

Rodrigo slumped against the doorway, looking horrified and defeated.

Cesare felt his temper spiking. "It's not a big deal!" he shouted at his father, "Juan's fine. He's right there!"

He pointed to Juan.

"Cesare," his father sounded old and weak, "there's no one there."

"There is!" Cesare shrieked, "he's right there. And Joffre is here and Micheletto! You're making a fuss over nothing!" He looked to Juan, "show yourself to papa!"

Juan made a rude gesture that meant go fuck yourself.

Rodrigo slumped to the floor, putting his head into his hands. How had this happened? How had his family fallen apart so quickly?

"You wouldn't be like this if I had been the one who died," spat Cesare, watching his father with anger, "you would be fine. But only because it's your favourite! You weren't this upset when Joffre died!"

Rodrigo raised his head. His eyes were watery and angry, "how dare you!" he hissed, "how dare you! You! Who weep for no one! I didn't see you caring too much when your baby brother died! Did you even shed one tear? I saw you hugging Lucrezia though, that was your main concern!"

Cesare took a few steps back, stung and a little shocked.

He could hear Juan giggling, "ooh, he got you there. Exactly what I said, you care more about Lucrezia than the rest of us. But I warned you, remember? I said –"

"Shut up Juan," he muttered.

This served to enrage his father more-so.

"I should have seen this coming," Rodrigo said, pulling himself back to his feet, "all that time spent alone in your room or that damned basement. The obsession with your sister. Your need to control everything and everyone. Your lack of emotion and compassion. Your inability to make friends. God, you're a psychopath. I've raised a psychopath."

"How am I a psychopath?" spat Cesare, "when I feel more deeply than you ever have? I might not make a big show of my emotions but I do care about this family! I care about them more than you ever have. I would have never betrayed us like you have. I would never use the others as pawns. I might use others, outsiders, my friends, but never my family." (He ignored Juan's ghost shouting, "liar!") "I've never cared about what the neighbours think of us or the Italians in general. I never would have cheated on mama, I never would have bought us to a dangerous house like this and then kept us here because I would never put money over our well -being. I didn't bring us here. I didn't cause the situation that we had to leave Spain. I didn't send mama mad. I didn't cause two innocents to be bought here to live. I didn't kill Giulia. You can't blame me for any of this. I'm not a psychopath. But you are right about one thing, you did raise me. I am a product of you."

They stood for a while when Cesare was finished, father and son, staring at each other.

Rodrigo didn't even look angry. He just looked tired. Defeated.

He nodded, rubbing his hand across his mouth. He walked across the room, Cesare backing away, and sat on the bed.

"You're right." He said, "I'm your father. And I should have seen this coming and I should have done something about it. I realised that earlier, when going into that horrible basement; I should have been suspicious of you going in there all the time. I should have gone down and I would have seen…seen all the stuff down there. That alone would have told me about your mental state." He put his head in his hands, "but no. Not even then. Before, years ago, I was picking up the signs. Your inability to make friends…how lonely you were. How much you relied on…on your sister."

Cesare was huddled by the wall. Micheletto had vanished, but Joffre was crouched on the floor looking mournful. He couldn't see if Juan was still around.

"I'm not stupid," Cesare sniffed, "I know how it's weird to be in love with your sister. I tried, father, I really did. For a long time. Not to love her the way that I do." He walked forward, his arms still wrapped around himself, until he faced Rodrigo. "I would go with other girls. Ones who looked different to her. Ones that looked the same. It didn't help. And you are right, I can't connect with most people. It's not that I'm a psychopath I just…"

"You never learned," sighed Rodrigo.

Cesare shook his head slowly. "You kept me hidden away," he said accusatorily, "when I wanted to join the football team as a little boy, when I was desperate to join, you sent Juan in my place. I had to stay at home and learn English until I was fluent. I didn't get to go to Summer Camp with my friends, I had to go to that one with the Church even though I didn't know any of them because you needed to impress the Priest. By the time I returned in September, all my friends had moved on without me. Juan had been allowed to go. Some of them became his friends. And I was alone all school year."

"It was because I knew I could rely on you," Rodrigo argued softly, "you were clever and could be diplomatic…"

"I know," answered Cesare, "I understand the logic. But you see, there was a price to pay. And that price was me. In the end, the only person I had was Lucrezia. I resented Juan. I was jealous. Because I wanted his life and felt that I would have run it better. And Joffre, as much as I love him, was much, much younger than me! All I had was Lucrezia. Mama always preferred Lucrezia and Joffre. Juan was your favourite. I had no one other than this little blonde girl who thought the world of me. She didn't think I was up-tight like you did, or cold like mama did, or wicked like Juan, or too old like Joffre. She saw me as…as how I want to be I guess," Cesare blinked a few times, surprised to find his eyes full of tears, "she would look at me and think I was kind and brave and good. And I so badly wanted to be that for her. Even now I'd protect her from anything. And it became the wrong kind of love because what other chance did I have? Who would ever love me like she would? My own family can barely put up with me. I'm a useful tool to you, but nothing else. You don't enjoy my company. I got all twisted up papa. Now I'm this thing," he looked down at his hands, "she's worried about me. I know that the person she needs protecting from is me. You have any idea how that feels?"

"I do," answered his father, making Cesare look up at him in surprise, "I know what it is to be the worst thing that could happen to those you love. You know I love your mother, and look what has happened."

"But those were your choices," Cesare argued, "you choose to cheat on her."

"And are not your actions chosen?" Rodrigo stood, "choose not to hurt her newest boyfriend. Choose to allow her to be happy with him, or anyone that she dates in the future."

"The house," Cesare's voice shook, "it's making me worse. More jealous…"

"I'm going to take you away," Rodrigo put his hands on his son's shoulders. They were the same height now, but soon Cesare would be taller. He was still growing. "I shall take you away and you will get better. We can get past this. I will always love Juan and Joffre. But we can get through this."

Cesare watched his father with dark, inky eyes, "will you be able to forgive me? About Juan?"

Silence.

"I can love you," Rodrigo eventually answered, "I shall always love you."

Cesare lay in Lucrezia's bed. He didn't know what time it was or what day it was. He felt ill and dizzy. The conversation with his father had left him shaken. They'd never been so open with one another. People joke about the Spanish being emotional and emotive, but for how loud his family got, they weren't very good communicators. The whole honesty thing had been daunting and left him drained.

He felt the room becoming cool.

Cesare sat up, expecting to see perhaps Micheletto or one or both of his brothers watching him.

Instead it was two young men, both a little younger than himself. One had a mop of brown hair and big dark eyes. The other was a middle-eastern boy with beautiful eyes and black curly hair.

Cesare felt a certain knowing then. These boys knew his sister.

"You both," he said, his voice hoarse, "you look after my sister."

"Yes," they answered.

"I'm Djem."

"I'm Paolo."

Cesare grimaced but remembered his father's words. Maybe this would be good practice in being polite to Lucrezia's current, living boyfriend.

"Hi," he said, "nice to meet you both. Thank you for taking care of her."

"Taking care of her means taking care of you too," said Paolo, the pair moving closer to Cesare.

"I don't swing that way, but thanks all the same."

The boys smirked. "Not like that," said the one called Djem, "your father isn't being entirely open."

Cesare's heart sank a little, "what's new? Ok, so what is he not telling the whole truth about?"

"He's talking to someone now," said Paolo.

"To someone from an asylum," said Djem.

Moments later, Cesare stormed into his father's office just as he'd put down the phone.

"Where are you sending me?" Cesare demanded.

Rodrigo held up his hands in surrender, "now calm down Cesare…"

"Where? You said you were going to take me away! I thought you meant with you and Lucrezia! I didn't want to leave my family here! Micheletto and Joffre! And Juan! But you said and I thought…" he struggled for a moment before biting out, "I thought I could trust you!"

"You can. I'm arranging for you to spend some time in a place called Briarcliffe."

"We agreed I wasn't a psychopath!"

"But you can still be ill Cesare. It's in Naples by the coast."

"No!"

"You won't be there forever."

"No!"

"You'll be with specialists. We'll visit you, me Lucrezia…"

"NO!"

Cesare flew at his father in a rage. They slammed into Rodrigo's desk, Rodrigo hitting his back against it hard. They thrashed around, Rodrigo reaching out and eventually grabbing a lamp. He smashed it over Cesare's head to little avail. Cesare clawed at his face, his eyes wide and dark like an animal's. Rodrigo cried out in pain, smashing the lamp against his son's head again and again until at last the boy slumped to the floor, his head bleeding, the lamp smashed to pieces.

1895

Ferdinand Trastamara arrived at the house, his lovely wife Bianca by his side.

"I know it's a change for you," he said, "being all the way out here."

"I told you I'd support you no matter what," she smiled, "and I mean it. It's a new day for us, these people will have to get used to being Italians, and to seeing us as allies."

"Still, poor people are proud."

"We won't take that pride away from them, don't worry Ferdinand, all will be well."

He nodded and smiled at her.

They arrived at the mansion. It was small by her usual standards, but she made no criticism. It was raining lightly, but the servants were still lined up outside. A Butler, two maids, a housemaid, a cook and under-cook and a footman. It was small, but this was the fashion nowadays anyway. Plus, Ferdinand had a small fortune and he didn't want to fritter it away on dozens of unnecessary staff. Most of his inheritance had gone into building the house, which had been beset with bad luck, many of the contractors injuring themselves and the building process meeting so many problems that it took a lot longer for the mansion to be built than expected.

He and Bianca were kind to the servants, sparing them each a smile and a nod, even the moor Gildo. Mrs. Russo received an extra friendly smile from him as he knew her already. She went bright red and giggled like a school girl, that very nearly set off him and Bianca. They'd always considered Mrs. Russo to be hilariously inappropriate for a servant.

"Please, everyone," he said, "get inside and get warm. I would not wish anyone to get ill. My wife and I would like an early night, as I'm sure all of you will, and so after supper we shall go directly to bed."

The servants curtseyed before hurrying inside, relief on all of their faces.

It was an unusual household to be sure; two giggling maids, a moor, only six members. All of them from different states of the once ununified Italy. But it suited them.

He kissed his wife at the front door gently on the cheek.

"It is a new day for us," he confirmed, warming at her smile.

As they closed the door, the image above the door, made out of stained glass, was of a sainted woman holding a bow and arrow facing up to the moon.

The meal they ate was rather sparse. The Butler, Mr. Dantonio, looked a little embarrassed.

"The village is the only place we could get supplies," he explained, "and the people there are very poor. A typhoid epidemic ran through a few years ago, and with the added misfortune of a few bad seasons…"

"I understand," Ferdinand smiled, "this is fine. But we should try and help the villagers. During the typhoid, what did they do for medical care?"

Mr. Dantonio became visibly uncomfortable, "I believe the people here subscribe to doing things The Way They've Always Been Done.A sort of ideology that merges the True Religion and the…older traditions."

Ferdinand, for the first time, looked angry, "witchcraft!" he gasped, putting down his knife and fork, "surely not! In this day and age? With the True Religion? Surely that is heresy?"

"The Church is still in discussion," said Bianca, trying to calm her husband, "it is not yet decided. Though a real doctor is necessary. Perhaps if we sponsor one to come, pay his wages for some time?"

Ferdinand drank deeply from his glass of wine before answering, "yes perhaps. My family do not have a good history with witches Mr. Dantonio. Please make sure that the staff know this. I do not want anyone getting any strange ideas from the villagers, and I know how this sort of ideology can be insidious, attractively showcasing itself to the weak willed. Our Lord is against witchcraft, and we are a Catholic household."

"Of course sir," Mr. Dantonio bowed, "all your servants are part of the Faithful Flock."

They went to bed early, as they promised the servants.

"My dear," began Bianca, a warning tone.

Ferdinand sighed, "yes?"

"I don't think you handled tonight that well."

They were in his bedroom. She had her own room next door, but for appearances sake they thought it would be a good idea to spend tonight together.

"The people here," she said, looking at him now, "what choice do they have but engage in this sort of magic? With no doctor and illness running rampant?"

"They have their church," he hissed.

"And they used their church!"

"Alongside magic!"

"It's one and the same to them." She argued, "they don't see it as magic, or breaking God's law. They see it as no different to what the Saints do or the Apostles when healing the sick. You cannot insult them for being ignorant. Even the Church has not spoken out about it."

He sat at the end of his bed, "witchcraft in all forms is dangerous."

She joined him by sitting next to him, "you said your family had experiences with witches? I have never heard about this with the Trastamaras?"

"My family is not just the Trastamaras."

Ah, this was dangerous territory, talking about his low-born family side. His father was a rich and powerful man. His mother had been a maid, barely old enough to have started her monthly bled before Trastamara Senior had his way with her and got her pregnant.

She remained silent, waiting for him to tell the tale at his own pace.

"The Trastamaras were from Naples, but my mother's family were from a city nearby. The city of Benvento. They lived near the Sabato river. My grandfather, my father – who was then just a child- and his little brother, were walking home after a long day's work. It was night, but the moon was full and round and bright, lighting the road. As they walked, they began first to hear music. Then, the words of a strange song. It was sung by women, interspersed with loud cackles of laughter and the spits of fire. My father and uncle, being just boys, wanted to see what the merriment was all about and were keen to join in, their aching feet and tired eyes forgotten about. But my grandfather was wiser, having heard the stories of the Janare. So he hid them behind some trees and carefully they crept forwards. Eventually, they saw it. A hoard of women, naked and filthy, with long wild hair and sharp nails, all dancing around a gigantic walnut tree. It was larger than any walnut tree seen before, always green, even in winter. There were fires around the tree in which the witches danced. And in those fires…" he paused, putting his hand over his mouth. He was sickened. She grasped the hand that still lay on his lap, "and in those fires," he continued, "were the burning bodies of babes. When they were done, the witches ate the babies' flesh and pummelled the bones and fat into a pumice which they rubbed onto their skins."

He got up suddenly, wrapping his arms around himself, "my grandfather took his children in his arms and ran. They ran home. Terrified. But my uncle, he became ill. Becoming thinner and thinner, no matter how much they fed him, until at last, nothing but skin and bone was left. He died. Thin and desperate. Just a boy. My grandfather went out with a number of men from the city and cut the tree down, burning it afterwards and putting blessed mud on top of the earth. It keeps growing back, but my father as a man cut it down and no doubt my half-siblings on that side will do the same. I might be adopted in by the Trastamaras, raised as one of them, but I still harbour the witch-hunting side of my other family. They may be lowly, but they are good people. Hating witches is in my blood."

He made the sign of the cross, as did she.

"It is why I fight so hard against temptation," he said at last, "because I do not want to be put into their ranks. I do not wish to be damned."

She came up behind him, wrapping her arms around him so he didn't have to self-sooth. He put his hands on hers and they stayed together like that for some time.

"We might not be in love," she said at last, "but I am and will always be your dearest friend." She kissed the back of his neck. "Shall we sleep separately tonight, allow you some space?"

"Thank you," he turned to her, kissing her forehead.

When she went into her own room, adjacent to his, she saw the maid cleaning the hearth. A pretty girl, with pale lips and blonde hair. Cold blue eyes.

She stood and curtseyed. Her face gave away nothing but she must have over-heard their conversation. This servant reminded her of the ones in the castles and palaces she had lived all her life; remote and cold and distant, but knowing.

"What is your name?" Bianca found herself asking.

"Francesca My Lady."

Bianca nodded, unsure of what she wanted to say. The girl left, brushing past her.

The room felt too warm. Overheated, Bianca pulled off the thicker blanket from the top of her bed before settling in. She had expected things to be strange in this house, a new way of living. Italy was changing all over right now. But this…element of the supernatural was not what she had anticipated. She closed her eyes. It would all be normal again tomorrow.

Present Day

Someone was knocking on the door urgently. Lucrezia put down the diary and ran down the steps, part way down the stairs when Catherina opened the door to Rodrigo. He looked a mess, streaks of dried tears and scratch marks down his face and filth all over his trousers.

"Papa!"

"Oh thank god," he slumped by the door at seeing Lucrezia alive. He turned to Catherina, "thank you so much for taking her in."

"It's not a problem. Rodrigo what happened to you? Come in-"

"No, I must go immediately," he said, "It's Cesare…he's…very bad. I'm going to go and get him some help."

"What do you mean?" asked Lucrezia, sinking down to sit on a stair.

"Lucrezia, he cannot be kept in that house. He," he looked at Catherina for a moment before deciding that the truth would eventually come out anyway, "he killed Juan. And I think Micheletto too. He isn't safe around people," he continued as Catherina swore and then made the sign of the cross. "There's a place called Briarcliff. It's near the sea. He'll like it. He can recover there. But I need to go now."

"I shall take care of her-"

"-wait-" interrupted Lucrezia.

Catherina barrelled on regardless, pushing Rodrigo out of the doorway, "And Gio too. Come back as soon as you can."

"Of course, of course. Good bye Lucrezia!"

And he was gone.

Lucrezia was now at the bottom of the stairs. "He could have just called them up," she cried incredulously to Catherina, "he looked hurt. You should have let him in."

Catherina turned to face her, her expression curiously cold, "It was clear that his mind is made up. Trust me, it's better to let him go. Think about it, if he is out there, driving all night to Briarcliff, then he will not be in the house during Halloween. Cesare was never going to leave that house, so if he survives tonight, Briarcliff will be the best place for him."

She shut the door, Lucrezia noting that she had several locks, and that she locked all of them.

"What is Briarcliff?" she asked.

Catherina looked back up at her, "it's an asylum."

Lucrezia stared. Asylum. Not mental health facility or well being centre. Asylum.

"I don't want him to go there," she breathed.

"My dear," Catherina sighed long-sufferingly, "he may not have a choice."

In the house, Cesare opened his eyes. He felt groggy and unwell.

It took a moment for him to realise that he was tied up. He head was bandaged (sloppily) and throbbed with pain. His arms were tied around his back. His ankles were tied up also.

Around him was a line of white stuff. Salt. A circle of salt around him. He grunted in confusion. What in the hell?

Then, to make things more annoying, he heard someone tapping.

He looked up and saw Alfonse sitting with his phone in his hands.

"What are you doing with my phone?" he hissed angrily.

"Just inviting a few people over," sang the boy merrily, "we all heard your sad story about having no friends." (Cesare blushed horribly.) "So I thought I'd help you out!"

"We should get Micheletto."

Cesare jumped to the sound of the soft voice being so close to him. He turned to see a hockey mask with a smiley face drawn on it looking at him. The person behind the mask chuckled lightly before pulling the mask to the side of their head.

It was the annoying boy with the black curly hair and pretty eyes. Pascal.

Cesare rolled his eyes. Bound and surrounded by two people he disliked. Great.

"So," he began, looking back at Pascal, "are you in cahoots with the spirits here?"

Pascal looked at Alfonse and grinned.

"Haven't you worked it out?" he asked, looking back at Cesare with those horribly blank eyes, "you saw the newspaper article. All those weeks ago. About this house. The Murder House."

Cesare could hardly remember. It seemed years ago.

"I'm a ghost," stated the boy slowly, as if Cesare was an idiot. "I died here back in the eighties. The best era, by the way, though everyone thinks that about the time they died. Alfonso died too, back in the fire."

Cesare looked up at Alfonse, flinching slightly as he now saw that Alfonse was covered in burns.

"I don't show you this side of me," he said, his mouth a gaping maw between sizzling red and black skin, swollen with blisters, "and this isn't me at my worst. My eyeballs melted in the fire originally," he giggled, "so before I could control my appearance I was pre-tty scary to look at! Mama still loved me though."

Pascal nodded, "Rufio was impressed by her unwavering love. Very maternal."

"Jesus," muttered Cesare, leaning his hot, pained head on the cool floor of the foyer.

"Your friends are coming," smiled Alfonse, his face back to normal, "they're bringing as many others here as possible. Everyone wants to be brave enough to visit the Murder House on Halloween!"

Cesare lifted his head again, "why? What are you planning?"

"This is the best night for us," answered Pascal, "we get to be almost alive for a night. People can see us!"

Suddenly, Cesare heard a door open. The two boys scrambled to their feet.

"Get the fuck out of here!" roared a male voice.

The boys ran, both giggling hysterically as they fled upstairs.

Cesare watched as a pair of feet clad in trainers came up to him.

The person bent over him and began to untie him, the salt circle doing nothing to stop him.

Eventually Cesare was free.

He stood and saw a small man with light brown hair.

"Thank you."

"Your welcome. My name's Roberto. I live in the kitchen." Roberto looked up. Cesare followed his gaze and saw the balcony was littered with people watching them.

"Micheletto's in the kitchen too," said Roberto, "come on…come with me."

1895

The months crept along.

Ferdinand walked into the lounge to find Bianca staring out of the window. He repressed a sigh and was about to quietly leave when she asked, "am I really such a burden to be around?"

"No," he answered slowly, caught now, and turning slowly to look at her. She was staring at him, her eyes ringed with darkness and her skin pale.

"I just think we're getting a bit tired of one another," he said, "it's perfectly normal. After all this time, with just each other to talk to."

She sighed, "it has been hellish. I love you to pieces but my god, we could do with some different company! I cannot see why we are being ignored! I may ask again if our letters are being delivered. We've done nothing to offend anyone, why won't they come?"

Ferdinand leaned against the couch, "maybe go outside for some fresh air. Tend to your garden."

"I told you before," she said with frustration, "nothing grows! I can understand why the farmers are damned. How can they grow crops when I can't even grow daisies?"

The door was knocked politely. They turned to see Francesca standing there politely, a tray of small cakes and coffee at the ready.

"I was told refreshments would be desired."

"Yes, of course, thank you Francesca."

She wheeled in the tray quietly and began arranging the things at the table. The couple sat, settling into their usual places on the couches.

"We should maybe go to them instead," he suggested, "the city is not so far. We should go there for a few days. Take a break from all this quiet country living."

She smiled sweetly, "that would be lovely! A little bit of hustle and bustle!"

"We could reacquaint ourselves with the newest fashions," he met her grin with his own.

They sipped on their coffee, and he realised suddenly how quiet, more so than usual, it had been that day.

"Francesca?" he asked.

"My Lord."

"Where is Sara? She's usually out and about giggling with Mrs Russo!"

Bianca chuckled, as Francesca drew herself up primly. They were both respectful of Francesca, appreciating that she was a professional, but they both couldn't help but find her a little bit funny. She was fantastically up-tight. It was only when Mrs Russo privately told them that her family member nearby was ill, hence why she was in such a small home, that they felt they understood her a little.

"She's ill Sir."

"Oh," he and his wife shared concerned looks, "nothing too serious?"

She smiled tightly, "no. Just a headache. I am going out this afternoon to collect items to create a balm for her sir. As soon as my chores are done."

"You must be working very hard today," said Bianca kindly, "to hurry through your work and then going out to help your friend."

"It is nothing My Lady."

Bianca smiled softly at the icy maid. "You will permit me to accompany you today? My garden bears no life, so perhaps if I see what grows naturally I can think of what would survive the soil in my garden?"

"Of course, I'd be honoured My Lady."

"Should we not get a doctor?" asked Ferdinand, looking at the Maid strangely.

"What?" scoffed Bianca, "over a simple headache? By the time we get one from Rome she'll be healed. No, no, a balm is most sensible. Let me get ready and I shall meet you this afternoon!"

The bargain set, the women both left the lounge, leaving Ferdinand alone with his concerns.

Later that day, Bianca found herself out in the forest with Francesca.

The air smelt sweet with late summer blooms. It had been a cold summer, overall, and nothing had grown right, but that afternoon was at least pleasantly warm.

"Have you always been fond of gardening My Lady?"

Bianca thought of her time back in her family home, "yes. I started properly when I was around fourteen or so. But even before then I loved flowers. Whenever the weather was good outside, or even passable, I would insist on Master Ferdinand or Lady Maria joining me in playing outside."

"Lady Maria?!"

"Yes," Bianca gave Francesca, who had turned a light pink, an odd look, "Maria is Master Ferdinand's sister. We all grew up together."

"Oh…I see…" The pink blush grew to a deeper red.

"Is there a problem Francesca?"

"No My Lady. Here, there are bountiful amounts of rue." She began to pick the wild, yellow flowers, placing them in her wicker basket.

"Francesca, I would like to know what has bothered you so much. Please, as your Mistress your welfare matters to me."

"I thank you kindly My Lady. It is nothing at all. I just…hear his Master sometimes talking in his sleep as I clear the hearth in the mornings. He calls out for his sister."

A pause.

"Well he loves her very much," Bianca said awkwardly, "he misses her so he dreams of her."

"Of course, I agree My Lady. A devoted brother and husband."

But both ladies knew that wasn't quite true.

That night, Bianca slept uncomfortably. She dreamt of Maria, with her inky black eyes and long brown hair, a riot of curls like her brother. Unlike her brother, she looked less like a Trastamara and more like the lower rank family. But it made her exotic. She dreamt of Maria's slim, tan legs, of her red lips and wicked grin.

And as, in the early hours of the morning, she gasped and moaned Maria's name, in the corner of her bedroom Francesca stood in the shadows, watching her coldly with dark blue eyes.

The following morning bought pleasant surprises.

"Cancel the trip to Rome," cried Ferdinand, coming into the Breakfast room where Bianco was sipping her morning coffee, "we have a response at last, and from a dearest friend!"

He placed an envelope in front of her. She took out the letter and saw that it was none other than Maria saying she wished to visit and stay over the winter season.

"How wonderful!" she cried, leaping to her feet and hugging him tightly.

"The three of us," he smiled, "together again! How it should be!"

As they hugged, she opened her eyes and saw Francesca in the hallway watching them. The girl moved on when seeing she had been caught.

Bianca pulled him to her a little more tightly.

"Ferdinand," she said, "be careful. I don't want those ugly rumours spreading again."

He broke the hug suddenly, his hands on her shoulders as he peered at her with a frown on his face.

"Why would you say that now, so suddenly?"

She bit her lip, "one of the servants heard you cry out Maria's name in your sleep," she whispered.

He rolled his eyes and walked away, "so what? It just means I dreamt of her. Nothing so sordid. Only people reading too much into it are sordid!"

"I agree," she said, coming to his side and kissing his cheek, "but you know how these things are. Be restrained. At least in public."

Poor Sara did not heal from her malady. Day by day she grew worse. No one could figure out what was wrong with her. Despite how much she ate, she seemed to get thinner each day. Her once pretty, creamy skin became blotched and dry. Her lovely dark eyes grew dim.

One morning, Sara did not rouse from her bed.

The screams of a horrified Mrs. Russo echoed through the mansion.

She was buried a day later.

Mrs. Russo sobbed heartily, comforted by Mr. Dantonio. Ferdinand and Bianca were suitably mournful, but did not cry as that was not befitting members of their class. Francesca stood by Gildo.

"Are you well Madam?" he asked quietly, the first words he'd ever said to her other than relaying orders from the Master and Mistress.

"A little shook up," she responded, looking at him coolly, "but yes, I am well. Poor Sara. If only we had a doctor."

He made a hmming sound of agreement. "The people complain that she should have gone to the healer in the woods."

She was a little surprised that the local people spoke to him at all, considering his appearance. But perhaps he wasn't any more exotic to them than any of the people that lived in the Trastamara Mansion. Perhaps, with his low birth rank and the suffering his kind went through, they related to him more than even the Trastamaras.

"The Master would never agree," she said. "He hates anything connected to magic. I suppose your people believe in such things?"

"I was raised in Sicily and came to Rome as a young adolescent. I only know this culture. I do not know what 'my people' would have believed."

She looked back to the coffin, which lay deep in the ground. "Poor girl. She was so young. Quite taken with you. She always sighed over you rebuffing her."

"I'm a professional," he said stiffly, but she saw him glance over to Mr. Dantiano.

And Mr. Dantiano looked back at him and smiled ever so softly.

Francesca allowed herself a slight smirk.

Modern Day

"Didn't Lucrezia say she could not come to tonight's party?" Frederigo asked Alphie.

They were both in the bathroom, preparing their make-up for the night's activities. Frederigo was going as a bloodied Butcher, Alphie as a Frankenstein Monster.

"Yes," Alphie responded slowly, a question in his tone, "some sort of family emergency."

"Well, Cesare has just sent out a mass invite to his house. It's spreading like wildfire. Everyone wants to go, just for a little while. Get a load of this scary house. See what fucked up Collona so badly."

Alphie lowered the green stick of paint he'd been using on his face, "she lied to me…"

"Most likely," sighed Frederigo with no sympathy, "and now he's rubbing it in our faces. No one will come to our party now, or they'll come late."

"There must be more to the story! She wouldn't embarrass me like that. She isn't that kind of girl. Cesare though… he's slippery."

"You've only known her a couple of weeks and yet she's got you wrapped around her little finger," sneered Frederigo, "it's pathetic!"

Alphie felt the sting of that. He was aware that he was coming on too strong, that it made him look stupid and that it was even annoying her a little. But he couldn't help it. She was the first girlfriend he'd ever had. And she was the girl of his dreams. Beautiful, fair-haired, blue-eyed, slim, funny and clever. How he even attracted her was a mystery. And he didn't want to lose her! Especially to…

"There's something weird with that family," mused his brother, "something odd. Him and her. Cesare and Lucrezia. They're weird together, you must admit."

Alphie turned to look at Frederigo, "so what do you want to do?"

The older Trastamara smiled nastily, "I want to go to that house. I want to see what she has to say for herself. I want you to grow a spine and stand up to Cesare. And even if you don't, I will, he's making all the Old Families look foolish. Then, we come back here and finish the party at ours."

Alphie took in a deep breath, "ok, fine. Let's go."

Though Alfonse had only texted a few people off Cesare's phone, the invite spread to the young people of Burckhardt's School of Excellence. Old Families, New Money Families all received information. Party at the Infamous Murder House. Cesare, feared by many and lusted after by more, was hosting. His sexy sister was bound to be there too. And maybe even the equally sexy and dangerous Juan.

Danger and sex, two of the biggest sellers to teenagers.

And so, dressed up and with the sun setting, dozens of teens began to make their way to the Roman neighbourhood, to the house where the ghosts were waking up, to where they were now at their most powerful, and where they could now be seen.