Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“This was a great idea! I am brilliant! I-”

“Better shut up or you’ll get us caught.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth snapped shut, his voice still echoing in the darkness as it faded, bouncing off the trees. Enjolras looked livid, his breath misting in front of him as he walked – quick swift steps that made it hard for even Combeferre to keep up.

It was even harder for Courfeyrac, hauling their sound equipment along and jogging for a few seconds at a time before falling behind again, only to gain another quick burst of speed. Combeferre had the camera hoisted on his shoulder, so he too, was having some trouble keeping up with their leader’s long strides.

Enjolras hadn't been enthusiastic about Courfeyrac’s suggestion at first, thinking it too cliché, but after some arguments (or discussions, as Courfeyrac would call them) they’d finally changed his mind. He still wasn't completely convinced, but he’d arranged everything willingly enough.

The building loomed up above them as Enjolras easily and nimbly scaled the fence, the barbed wire adorning the top having come loose and fallen off completely in some places.

The rest of them waited – Bossuet and Combeferre with the cameras, Courfeyrac with the recording equipment, Joly with the medical equipment (just in case, since they’d been injured in haunts before), Feuilly with bolt cutters, Bahorel and Jehan – as Enjolras unlocked and opened the gate from the inside.

It groaned in complaint and didn't open too willingly, but Bahorel’s brawn fixed that easily enough. They didn't bother with more than about a foot of space before they all squeezed inside.

There was no grass now, instead their shoes clicked loudly on the concrete. It looked like it might have once been a basketball court of some kind, but most of the painted lines had come off or faded.

The building walls weren't white anymore either. Enjolras could picture how they might have once been, but from the weather and disrepair, they were now a dull grey colour.

A morose colour.

He frowned in displeasure, as he still wasn't sure about this haunt, but he’d brought the whole team along and they seemed eager, so he wasn't going to disappoint them. But come on.

A mental asylum.

An abandoned mental asylum.

Courfeyrac wasn't really renowned for being the most creative of people, a bit hyperactive perhaps, but definitely not creative.

So it was almost no surprise that he would suggest somewhere like an abandoned insane asylum. To look for ghosts.

Enjolras was tolerant at the best of times, and now here he was, breaking into said abandoned asylum.

Correctional facility.

Whatever you wanted to call it, he despised having to touch it knowing the kind of things that would have taken place inside.

He took the bolt cutters from Feuilly again to snap the chain on the double doors, not bothering with the large padlock, instead just flinging it aside and pulling one of the doors open.

It looked like something out of a horror movie, the reception he walked into. Combeferre and Bossuet immediately switched the cameras on and Courfeyrac did the same to the recording equipment, swinging the microphone around as if expecting it to pick something up as soon as he stepped foot inside.

In the middle of the room sat a large wooden desk, with a little lamp and a little computer. He rifled through the drawers, but found nothing worth noting. A pot sat beside it, but the plant that had once been planted there was long since dead.

‘Like everything else in this ridiculous place’

Enjolras thought bitterly, withdrawing a torch from Combeferre’s backpack and switching it on as he approached the closest door. It was one of those doors that you pushed on and it would swing shut of its own accord.

He heard Bossuet swear when he got stuck in it and smiled despite his sour mood.

The hallway they entered was straight, with a T-intersection at the end and five doors on both the left and the right. All of the doors had a little window, though they were covered in so much grime it was almost impossible to see inside.

They periodically opened doors as they walked, Combeferre, Bossuet and Courfeyrac entering every room in the hopes of encountering something.

When they reached the intersection, the left only had a door on either side and was then a dead end, what was probably once a mural painted on the wall though it was now disfigured and eerie. Enjolras didn't think there was much use in going that way, but since he was the one with the torch and everyone else wanted to he didn't have much of a choice.

Both rooms were unsurprisingly empty, so he turned and headed the other way with an almost palpable impatience.

He wanted to get this run over and done with as soon as possible, analyse the data and get no definitive results and go home to finish his essay.

And it was cold.

Colder in here than it was outside, and he was shivering even through his jacket and scarf. Thankfully, he wasn't shaking enough to affect the torch, but it still had him wrapping himself up in a tighter bundle of clothes.

He doubted there was any insulation and everything looked like it was made of concrete. He’d prefer to sit in one of the padded cells all night just to stay warm. His teeth were almost chattering.

“Enjolras, fuck man, slow down!”

Bahorel exclaimed as he and Jehan also retrieved torches from Combeferre. Jehan didn't like just tagging along, they always preferred having at least something to do. Bahorel had just fallen so far behind he couldn't see anything.

There were no windows except for the ones on the doors, and not one light seemed to want to turn on, so it was incredibly dark inside. It wasn't pitch black, and everyone’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom, but the torches certainly helped.

Enjolras stopped abruptly with a dissatisfied huff. Why were they all so excited about this place? It wasn't even interesting. It was almost exactly the same as all the hospitals they’d explored one time or another, there were just less windows.

His agitation had him fidgeting, specifically with the torch. It started flickering and he frowned, hitting it on the wall a few times. He stopped fiddling with it after that in case he accidentally broke it.

No one would appreciate that.

This hall ended in another set of swinging double doors. They really didn't help the whole hospital feel that they had going on.

Jehan clung to Courfeyrac, even though the sound equipment obviously wasn't benefited by the torchlight. Enjolras decided not to question, since their relationship was usually quite professional while doing runs and they rarely ever kissed and/or purposefully distracted everyone else with their frankly horrendous flirting.

Bahorel followed along after Bossuet, illuminating wherever he turned the camera, while Enjolras did the same to Combeferre, except from the front.

They didn't talk much during runs, in case their voices went over any possible supernatural sounds, so their shoes on the linoleum floor echoed eerily loudly down the corridor.

There was another mural on the wall, though this one was less faded though no less macabre. Combeferre got a pretty good sweeping shot of it as he went past.

What they entered next seemed to be a cafeteria of some kind. What was once an illuminated sign above even more double doors (there seemed to be a lot of double doors in this place) read ‘kitchen’. A long steel bench sat to their left, with sinks behind it.

The room was massive, so large that even if Enjolras held the torch above him the beam didn't brighten the opposite wall, and it was filled with tables and chairs. They weren't strewn around as if everyone had gotten up in a hurry, in fact they all sat neatly tucked under the tables, in perfectly straight rows.

Enjolras stopped everyone with a raised hand and they all huddled into a circle around him.

“Ok, here’s what’s going to happen – this room is huge, and it’ll be more productive if we split up, so everyone grab a partner and investigate, and when you’re done come meet Combeferre and I in the kitchen, alright?”

Everyone nodded in agreement and then they all split up into groups of two to cover the whole room. Enjolras and Combeferre headed for the kitchen, while everyone else separated, Bahorel with Bossuet, Jehan with Courfeyrac and Feuilly with Joly, though they just sat at a table and watched everyone else.

The door to the kitchen wasn't as easy to open as the others, but with some force Enjolras and Combeferre managed to get it to cooperate and stepped inside.

It looked very surprisingly professional, like one out of some fancy cooking show or something, and everything was still in place as it had been left – ladles, pots, cutlery. Combeferre tried to catch shots of the kitchen from every angle.

There was an obnoxious dripping coming from somewhere, and Enjolras being Enjolras, searched every tap until he found the leaking one and turned the knobs until the dripping stopped. Combeferre muttered something about it being unnecessary but Enjolras’s glare quickly quietened him.

“I’ve had enough of this place.”

He suddenly stated, sighing as he sat the torch down on a kitchen counter. Combeferre did the same with his camera, looking sympathetically at his friend.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a tourist attraction. They literally do ghost tours in here, it’s obvious that all the ‘supernatural phenomena’ is all falsified information. We’re wasting our time!”

Enjolras started gesticulating wildly and Combeferre had to duck out of the way so he didn't get hit in the face.

“Enjolras, calm down, I’m sure we’ll be done soon.”

He placed a comforting hand on Enjolras’s shoulder, but removed it and turned when he heard the tap dripping again. Enjolras’s scowl deepened. He picked up the torch and went back to it, to see that the knobs hadn't been turned but it was definitely dripping again. Combeferre hauled his camera over with a sigh.

“These taps are incredibly old Enjolras, you can’t just expect them to work probably, so please don’t hold a grudge against them.”

He continued to stare at the tap loathingly in silence, apparently having ignored Combeferre’s attempt at comfort. It was no secret that Enjolras was obsessive-compulsive, and there was also no way he was going to leave the room until he’d stopped that infuriating tap.

Yet as soon as he reached for it again, the dripping turned to a sudden cascade of hot water. Hot enough that Combeferre could see steam rising from it as Enjolras yanked his hand back with a startled sound.

“Did it get on you?”

Combeferre asked, grabbing Enjolras’s hand to make sure he hadn't been burnt.

“No I just- it shocked me was all.”

He replied, shaking himself and then turning away from the gushing tap. He looked furious, and Combeferre pressed his lips together so he didn't laugh at the poor man’s misfortune.

“Don’t take it personally.”

This just earned him another glare as Enjolras stormed out, pushing the door open forcefully enough for it to slam against the wall, surprising those who’d gathered by the kitchen as instructed.

His torch was flickering again, more noticeably than before and Bossuet insisted on catching it on his camera, which only darkened Enjolras’s mood further.

“I was fiddling with it before Bossuet; I dislodged the batteries. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Everyone exchanged looks, obviously wondering what could have affected Enjolras so drastically. Combeferre sat the blonde at one of the tables and instructed him to stay there, in complete silence, until he could think kind thoughts again.

He didn't seem particularly pleased with this, but did so anyway without complaint. It took a good few minutes before he succeeded in reigning in his temper, and after he’d managed to do so he approached Combeferre and apologized.

The other man graciously accepted, also explaining that it wasn't really necessary but that he was glad Enjolras was taking responsibility for his outburst.

Once everyone agreed that they’d seen enough of the kitchen, they all headed out into the next hall. It looked the same as all the other hallways they’d been through so far, except these doors didn't have windows and there were only small flaps that food would have been pushed through for the patient to eat without having to interact with another person.

Most of the doors were either locked or refused to open, and the rooms they did manage to see inside were very small, empty cells, containing only a mattress on a wire frame. Some had blankets and pillows, either on the bed or on the floor.

There were a few that had marks on the walls, drawings or long scratches gauged into the sides or floor. It was incredibly unsettling and the temperature was only dropping further.

Enjolras was visibly trembling, but no one else seemed to be feeling the cold so much. He took a few deep breaths, wondering why it smelt so rancid. This whole area seemed to be just generally unpleasant and he wanted to get through it as quick as possible.

Which left everyone in a state of shock when he suddenly stopped.

“Enjolras, you Ok?”

Courfeyrac asked when he almost walked into him, swinging the microphone wildly so he didn't knock anyone with it.

“Yeah…”

He sounded distracted, staring ahead. One of the doors was open, and it was the only door in the whole facility they’d seen that wasn't shut and they definitely hadn't come down here before and left it open.

He approached it, ignoring the other doors before it, and went inside. The room looked the same as all the others, empty except for one of the threadbare beds.

There was no logical reason for the door to have been open and there was nothing else in or around the room that could indicate otherwise.

He shook his head and sighed, about to turn around and just walk out when his blood suddenly felt like ice in his veins, so cold it physically hurt.

He swore, the torch dropping from his fingers and clattering loudly as it hit the floor, the beam of light skittering madly and landing on the bed.

The blanket was bundled on the ground and it definitely hadn't been there a few seconds ago, the pillow had been ripped to shreds and strewn all over the room, and his torch flickered a few times before the light went out and he was plunged into blackness.

Chapter Text

He didn’t move.

His laboured breathing filled the room, loud in his ears and drowning out the startled sounds of his friends, their voices calling to him.

He stood there for a good few seconds, gasping, his hands clenching and unclenching until the shock had worn off and he managed to regain control of his limbs, though his heart still thumped heavily as he bent down and picked up the torch.

His movements were slow and calculated – wary almost – as he went to turn the torch back on, except it already was. He hadn’t turned it off, but it still wasn’t working.

After a few deep, calming breaths he walked out of the little cell to see Les Amis gathered in the hallway around the door.

“Enjolras, what happened are you alright?”

Combeferre gripped Enjolras’s arms, gazing at him intently as he nodded sluggishly.

“Yeah um, yeah I’m fine.”

His torch suddenly came back to life, the unexpected beam of light startling Enjolras.

Nothing else seemed to be out of place, and when he turned back to the room, the blanket was on the bed and the pillow rested atop it, perfectly intact.

Had he been hallucinating? Had he just been imagining the whole thing? No one had been in the room with him, so there was no way they would have caught it on camera to tell for sure.

Combeferre was still talking to him.

“…-olras! Enjolras, are you sure you’re Ok?”

He felt faint, staring at a spot over Combeferre’s shoulder and the man shook him gently.

He pushed on Enjolras’s shoulders until he sat, resting his head on the wall and shutting his eyes until he could open them again without the world spinning.

They were all discussing leaving early, and Enjolras surged to his feet unsteadily.

“Yes please, let’s do that.”

He cringed at the sympathetic looks his pleading gained, swinging his torch around for emphasis as he stalked back the way they’d come.

The cafeteria looked different, and for the second time Enjolras stopped without warning.

He wasn’t sure what was actually different about it however. The closer he looked the more it seemed to be exactly the same, but…

He shook his head and kept walking, down the other hallway, turning and then finally finding the exit.

The slight breeze outside was a welcome respite from the chilly atmosphere he’d almost grown accustomed to. The wind in the trees was loud after their relative silence inside, and the sun was coming up.

Wait what?

It had been almost one am when they walked in, they couldn’t possibly have spent five hours in there.

No one else seemed to notice, so he just headed for the van without any comment. Until he saw a bunch of people gathered around said van.

They didn’t look like news reporters, they didn’t have any cameras or microphones, but they were still all gathered.

Like penguins huddling for warmth.

He snorted, opening the van so they could place (throw) all the equipment inside.

“I’m going to have to ask to see your permit for being on these grounds.”

Great. Just what they needed.

Enjolras took a deep breath, resting his hands on his hips as defiantly as he could possibly manage, staring down the dogged Inspector, who glared back unflinchingly. Even though he wasn’t wearing a police uniform, he was unmistakable nonetheless.

“Of course, Inspector.”

He hissed, withdrawing the document from his breast pocket and handing it over.

He wouldn’t say that Inspector Javert was a ‘corrupt policeman’, he was actually quite the opposite in his upholding of the law, but he suspected the man had a grudge against the Amis for what they did.

He had a way of finding them whenever they were at haunts and insisting to see their permits to be on the grounds as they were more often than not private property, and though they hadn’t once been unable to show a permit, he never gave them a break.

Javert checked it to make sure that it wasn't fake – like they'd go through the effort to fake a permit – and then shoved it back towards him. Enjolras scowled, folding it and tucking it back into his pocket.

“Look, we respect that you’re just doing your duty or whatever, but could you please leave us alone?”

Javert’s expression twisted at Combeferre’s words, but instead of arguing he simply turned and walked off.

Enjolras relaxed, getting in the driver’s seat and starting the van as everyone buckled their seatbelts.

Courfeyrac was itching to turn the camera on and go through their film to see if they’d picked anything up, to listen to all the audio they’d captured and discover whether they’d picked up any paranormal sounds.

He was practically bouncing up and down in the chair, his hands gripping the sides of his seat as Enjolras steered them towards the Musain.

It was first and foremost a café, where Joly and Bossuet’s girlfriend Musichetta worked behind the bar, but its vacant back room had been converted into their workspace, of sorts.

Combeferre, who was often described as their tech expert, immediately started uploading all of their recordings from the night.

They sat scattered in couches, waiting for the files to finish transferring before they could analyse them. Musichetta brought them drinks and then they hooked the computer up to the projector so they could watch everything they’d caught on camera.

They started with Combeferre’s footage, since it would be considerably less shaky than Bossuet’s and stayed in focus a lot more often.

The first few minutes were as uneventful as expected, and only depicted the empty hallway they’d been walking through, but when it got to the sweeping shot he’d taken of the mural…

There was no mural.

It was a shot of a completely blank wall, as grey and plain as the rest of the ones they’d seen. Combeferre paused it, staring at the expanse of grey, rewinded and played it again, but there was no paint.

He switched to Bossuet’s, and even though he hadn’t paid much attention to it, when they got to the part where they walking past, there was still no mural.

But they’d definitely seen it.

All of them had been past and took notice of it, they’d observed its eerie lines and flaking paint, yet it didn’t show up on film.

“That’s it, that’s gotta be paranormal shit!”

Courfeyrac exclaimed, pointing at the screen enthusiastically. Feuilly offered him a bowl of chips to calm him and occupy his mouth.

Combeferre wrote the times down for each one and then returned to his footage and pressed play again.

Enjolras, who took up a whole couch on his own by sprawling across all three cushions, had an arm draped over his eyes, which also happened to be closed. He couldn’t care less about this run, he just wanted to go to sleep.

So he didn’t see what happened when they walked into the cafeteria. Combeferre paused it again and then set it to half speed.

The whole screen was covered in white dots. They would have easily been mistaken for lens flares, except for the fact that there was no sunlight that could made them happen. They didn’t move with the camera either, instead staying fixed in the frame.

It was unnerving.

Combeferre wrote down the time and then set it back to normal speed as he followed Enjolras into the kitchen.

There were no white orbs now. The room looked as normal as the hallways had, but only for a few seconds.

The camera started to glitch, like a game that didn’t have a video cable plugged in all the way. The image kept flickering, but there was no way the camera could have been malfunctioning.

They checked their technology for bugs, viruses and any other possible technical difficulties before each run to make sure they were working at a full, and completely reliable capacity.

The flickering lasted until Enjolras reached for the tap, and Combeferre slammed down on the space key to pause the video right as the hot water burst out.

There was a figure standing behind the tap, a few inches shorter than Enjolras with matted black hair. Their skin was unnaturally pale, but no more of their features could really be made out except for the fact that they seemed to be a man.

Feuilly swore, Courfeyrac made a sound somewhere between shock and excitement – muffled by the chips in his mouth – Joly gave a startled gasp and Enjolras uncovered his eyes to see what had caused all the commotion.

He sat up quickly, staring at the figure on the screen. He was absolutely certain it had only been Combeferre and himself in the kitchen, no one else had followed them inside, and he was completely positive no one had been standing there.

“What the fuck is that?”

Bahorel demanded, pointing accusingly at the figure. If anyone noticed that he was gripping Feuilly’s hand, they didn’t mention it.

“I have no idea.”

Combeferre admitted, taking his glasses off, cleaning them with his shirt and perching them back on his nose.

Jehan, who’d remained otherwise completely still and silent the whole time, leaned forward.

“That’s a person.”

They said, scooching towards the projector so they could point at the screen using their shadow.

“Look, see? That’s their hair, that’s their face, there’s their arms and that’s their body.”

They then shuffled back to sit between Courfeyrac’s legs again on the floor. There was a beat of silence.

“You better screenshot that.”

Feuilly said, as Enjolras looked down at his hand. It was starting to come up red and blotchy, but from he could recall, the hot water hadn’t hit him and he therefore shouldn’t have been burnt.

He went to the bathroom to put his hand under cold water, but it wasn’t helping the steadily growing itchy uncomfortable feeling. He returned to the back room only to declare that he was going home. It was almost 3am when he tucked himself under the covers and switched off his lamp.

When he woke up the next morning, it was to his alarm clock blaring. He groaned, fumbling to shut it up before rolling over to check the time. 6am. That was horrible.

He made an irritated noise and promptly fell back to sleep. This time, he was satisfied when he got up to see 10am.

He had a long and hot shower, emerging with only a towel wrapped around his waist and padding into the kitchen. The cupboard door was open, but there was no food set out and neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac were puttering around making breakfast.

He sighed, pushing it shut and then making himself a much needed cup of coffee. He still felt half-asleep, sitting at the kitchen table and opening the newspaper.

He always tried to avoid being in the paper, as the reports were more often than not fanciful or derogatory, and he was glad to see no reports anywhere, even after going through it twice.

By then, he’d realized that no one else had come out for breakfast, so he went down the hall, only to find that both Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s rooms were empty and that they’d already left.

He huffed and returned to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway.

The cupboard was open again.

He turned back, looking down the corridor and once again at the kitchen cupboard. He’d closed it hadn’t he? He was fairly certain he’d closed it.

He shook his head, shutting it and then packing his bag full of books and heading to the library, where he planned on spending most of his day studying.

Their ghost-hunting didn’t often get them paid, so it wasn’t really a reliable job, but it was also something he usually enjoyed and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why he’d hated their last run so much.

Sure, the point of their explorations was usually to prove that the supposed ‘ghosts’ were in fact no more than false speculation, but he couldn’t figure out why he’d been so impatient and aggressive in that stupid asylum.

He could usually wait out the whole thing and was more often than not just as enthusiastic as everyone else, but there had just been something in there, and he wasn’t sure what it was, but he had just wanted to get out the whole time and it was really kind of weird.

He didn’t really want to talk to anyone about it, since everyone was allowed to not like things occasionally and there were a lot of things Enjolras didn’t like.

Mental asylums just happened to be one of them then.

Yeah, that was it. That must have been it. He nodded to himself and headed into the library, dumping his books on a solitary table and opening them, ready to study for his assignment for World History.

He sat there for about ten minutes before he got up and searched the aisles until he found an old book extensively demonstrating the history of the asylum before it was shut down and became a tourist attraction.

He sat down again, opening it and beginning to read.

It had originally been built as a hospital in the Second World War, but fell into disuse after it ended, and was then converted into a mental institution.

Enjolras silently fumed every time he had to read that word; it always made him think of the unethical things that could have, and most likely did happen in there, especially during those few years during its opening.

There was a record of all the patients admitted while it was functioning as an asylum, but he skipped over that to continued reading.

It stayed open for about another twenty years before it was shut down for breaching multiple health and safety codes, all of the patients being sent to a different city. It stayed abandoned until only recently, when they started running ghost tours once a fortnight and once a week during tourist season.

He closed the book, not sure why’d he had the sudden urge to read all that, and put it back on the shelf.

They hadn’t kept a list of all those who’d died in there, but the death toll would have probably been in the thousands and it was no surprise that people would believe it haunted.

He checked the time to see it was just past lunch, taking out the books he’d originally planned on studying in the first place and burying himself in his work.

He didn’t return home for another four hours, tired and much in need of more coffee.

He actually smiled when he saw the cupboard wasn’t open, thinking back to this morning how he’d forgotten to close it. It bothered him a little, having the cupboard open when no one was using it.

He shook his head, boiling the kettle and idly contemplating getting a coffee machine so he could more efficiently make coffee, and wondering what had caused Combeferre and Courfeyrac to be away all day when it was a Saturday.

It was no surprise that Enjolras would be busy, Combeferre it was not a particularly big shock, but Courfeyrac almost never did anything on a Saturday.

It was strange.

The kind of strange that made him think they were plotting something, as ridiculous as that sounded. And if they were plotting against someone there was no doubt it would be him.

No doubt.

So he wasn’t surprised when the door flew open about half an hour later and Courfeyrac strolled in carrying plastic bags, Combeferre following behind.

“Guess what we bought.”

Courfeyrac was grinning ridiculously and Enjolras felt a spark of suspicion.

“Do I want to know?”

He pulled a large box from one of the bags and held it up, Enjolras almost dropping his coffee when he read the words.

“A Ouija Board? You’ve got to be kidding.”

Chapter Text

This was a stupid idea.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre had insisted they try out the Ouija Board that night, so they’d set up the board at almost 11:30pm, because ‘obviously it worked better at night’.

Enjolras had scoffed at the idea, but apparently majority rules and they’d managed to rope him into it, Combeferre claiming it was for science and to help solidify Enjolras’s disbelief of the paranormal, and Courfeyrac just wanted to have some fun.

Enjolras scowled as much as he could while they sat in a circle and lit the candles and set everything up. It looked so fake it was laughable. He probably would have laughed if he wasn’t so angry.

“Ok, there are a few rules to using a Ouija Board.”

Combeferre stated, reading off a piece of paper.

“Do not ask how the spirit died, do not close the board without saying goodbye and ending the session-”

Courfeyrac snatched the paper from him and threw it back in the box, ignoring Combeferre’s resulting glare.

“Yeah, yeah, no one cares about the rules – let’s get on with it.”

Enjolras made another huff of complaint, but was again ignored for the fourth time as they all rested their fingertips on the planchette.

Combeferre was the one who spoke first, only because Enjolras trusted him more than Courfeyrac not to fuck things up and because he was much more serious about it.

He took a deep breath, and his voice was steady and neutral as he spoke.

“Is anyone there?”

The planchette moved. Combeferre’s eyes widened in disbelief and Enjolras yanked his hands back. Courfeyrac started laughing.

“Oh my God that was great!”

Combeferre swatted Courfeyrac over the head. Enjolras just settled for glaring. He didn’t give away that his heart was thumping, heavy and fast and reverberating in his chest, his pulse rushing in his ears.

He didn’t give any indication that his palms were sweating and he felt too hot in just a shirt and jeans. He wasn’t afraid, because he wasn’t frightened of things like fake ghosts and stupid chunks of cardboard.

After they’d all calmed down – and Courfeyrac promised not to do any more tricks again – they returned their hands to the planchette.

Combeferre repeated the question, but this time it didn’t move.

They waited for at least a whole minute before he asked again, apparently determined to draw out some non-existent spirit.

Still nothing.

Enjolras sighed, tapping his fingers on the little piece of plastic.

“Look nothing’s going to happen, can we just not do this? I have important work to finish.”

As he spoke, he suddenly felt it tug, a jerky movement that had him rock forward from the force.

“Courfeyrac!”

He hissed, but the other man had gone pale and shook his head rapidly.

“That wasn’t me! I swear that wasn’t me!”

He was about to call him out on it, but it was moving again, in slow, uneven increments until it rested on yes.

Combeferre looked delighted, glancing up at Enjolras and Courfeyrac and upon seeing their expressions it must have solidified his surety of this being something paranormal.

“Hello!”

He exclaimed, and it slowly slid across the board, with a much less delayed response, until it landed on h, and then e, l, l and o.

Courfeyrac laughed and Combeferre was grinning. Enjolras was a lot less pleased by the proceedings, still a tiny bit of him thinking it was Courfeyrac playing a prank. He knew he was just refusing to believe what was really happening, but this was impossible.

Ghosts weren’t real.

The planchette went still again, staying on the o. Perhaps they were waiting for someone to speak?

“How old are you?”

Combeferre asked, the question coming off as kind of odd to Enjolras, but after a few seconds it moved again, to the 2 and then the 6.

So the ‘ghost’ was older than him. That wasn’t surprising.

“When did you die?”

He asked, the words coming out before he could stop them. He blushed madly as Combeferre stared at him, but even so it moved, spelling out ‘long ago’.

He’d been expecting something more specific, but before he could say anything it continued moving. He struggled to catch up with all the letters until it stopped again, having spelled ‘can’t remember’.

He took deep breaths, wanting to remove his hands to wipe them on his jeans or something and calm himself down, but he made sure his voice didn’t shake

“Can you prove that you are here?”

It didn’t move, and though Enjolras tried to remain patient, he could only wait for so long. He exhaled, a frustrated puff of air, and then he stared ahead.

His breath misted in front of him, and he looked up at Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They seemed to have just realized as well, that the temperature in the small apartment had dropped drastically.

The heater was still running, a pitiful attempt at warming up the room.

Enjolras looked down again.

“Can you do something to show us you’re here?”

He asked, rewording the question. The planchette shook a little but didn’t go anywhere. He raised an eyebrow, wondering if that was supposed to be it when there was a loud crash from the kitchen.

His head snapped up. The cutlery drawer was on the floor, knives and forks and spoons scattered around as if it had been pulled out roughly and dropped.

The goosebumps that rose on his arms were not from the cold.

“That’s, er, that’s one way of doing it.”

He was facing the wine cabinet, and he jumped when the doors swung open and wine bottles started being pulled by some invisible force and hitting the floor.

Combeferre twisted around and Courfeyrac whimpered. The lamp next to the coffee table flickered, and then went out entirely.

Everything seemed very quiet after the sudden chaos, wine bottles clinking as they rolling around.

“Was-was that you?”

Enjolras had a feeling it was a pretty stupid question, watching the planchette slide over – which much more ease – to yes.

“What’s your name?”

Courfeyrac interrupted when Enjolras went to ask another question. He shut his mouth, figuring it was actually a pretty good inquiry.

It moved over to r and stopped.

“R? Is that it? Is your name R? That can’t be it.”

Enjolras frowned, storing that away for memory. He was positive R wasn’t the spirit’s real name, but he didn’t want to press it.

“Are you a girl or a boy, R?”

There was no movement for a few seconds before it spelled out boy. So they had a male ghost in their place, it turned out.

He didn’t want to believe that it – R – was real, but from the evidence he’d seen it was hard to believe otherwise.

Courfeyrac couldn’t possibility have set the drawer up in the kitchen to fall out, and Enjolras had clearly seen that no one was touching the wine cabinet when it had opened.

It didn’t… feel right. Enjolras wasn’t really sure what the feeling was, but it wasn't particularly a pleasant one. It felt like bugs were crawling on his skin and there was an ache behind his eyes that he usually got when he was really tired, he felt kind of lightheaded and his eyelids were drooping.

However, neither Courfeyrac nor Combeferre seemed to be feeling the effects.

“Can we, er, take-take a break?”

His tongue was sluggish, his words a little slurred as he swallowed thickly. Combeferre’s calm rather quickly became concern and he nodded.

“Of course.”

Courfeyrac looked up, frowned and then pulled his hands away.

“See ya man.”

He took the planchette and shut the board. Almost instantly the candles blew out. Combeferre shew his head.

“Courf you weren’t supposed to do that!”

He cried, reaching for the board as if he were about to open it again, but Courfeyrac was already packing it away.

“You have to say goodbye and end the session before you close the board.”

He didn’t look calm anymore. Courfeyrac scoffed, waving his hand.

“He seemed like a nice guy, I’m sure he won’t be offended or anything.”

Enjolras wobbled to his feet, having to grab onto the couch for support. Combeferre stood, gently taking his elbow.

“I think it’s time we all went to bed.”

---

Enjolras woke up in pain.

It felt like his head was splitting in two or something equally as horrid, a shooting pain that surged down his neck when he tried to sit up.

It felt like someone had smashed him with a cricket bat multiple times and also kicked him in the ribs while he was down.

“Combeferre!”

Even his throat hurt, aching when he called for his friend.

He wasn’t sure why everything hurt so much. He hadn’t done anything the day before or been hurt in any way.

The door opened and Combeferre walked in, confused.

“Enjolras? It’s 3 in the afternoon! You finally woke up, we tried to wake you but you were dead to the world,”

“Combeferre, I- do we have painkillers?”

It must have been his voice or expression, for Combeferre walked over and sat beside Enjolras on the bed.

“Are you in pain?”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t possibly describe it. His chest was heavy, as if someone were standing on him, stopping him from moving and the pain was completely horrific.

Combeferre didn’t ask any questions, returning with painkillers. Enjolras shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping the bedsheet.

“I can’t sit up.”

The Guide’s concern returned as he rested the glass on the bedside table.

“I don’t think painkillers are going to help you then, Enjolras, tell me what’s wrong,”

“My head, and my chest.”

He scowled deeply, resting his hand to Enjolras’s forehead and ignoring the gasp doing so elicited from the blonde.

“You don’t have a fever, but Enjolras if you are experiencing severe chest pain I should be taking you to hospital.”

Enjolras hated hospitals. He hated going to hospital and having doctors fawn over him and he almost always refused to go, even when he’d broken his arm during a protest one time he had Joly treat it at home.

“Please don’t make me go.”

He shook his head disapprovingly, and as he moved, so did the weight on Enjolras. It suddenly lifted without any kind of warning and he could breathe again.

He inhaled reflexively, and though his head pain was still excruciating it was much more pleasant to breathe easy.

“Enjolras? Enjolras!”

He blinked, his gaze focusing on Combeferre again as the man gently tapped his cheek.

“Sorry, what? I didn’t hear you,”

“Are you alright? You must have zoned out or something, you didn’t close your eyes or lose consciousness.”

Enjolras groaned, releasing some of his grip on the sheet.

“My chest doesn’t- it’s just my head, can I- I’m going to try and get up now.”

He was told to be careful and there were careful hands guiding him as he sat up, took the painkillers and then slowly stood.

It was more bearable now, though his head was still throbbing and bright lights hurt his eyes.

It was almost as if he were hung over, but he was quite positive he’d had absolutely no alcohol. He sighed, ushering Combeferre out of the room as he searched for clothes.

Getting dressed had never been such a chore, the jeans not wanting to get over his hips and his hoodie refusing to fit through his arms.

He winced after he’d managed to get dressed, sitting on the bed again and taking a few deep breaths before tackling his essay that needed revising.

Of course he got to the Musain early for their weekly meeting, setting out all his papers on the table as everyone trickled in and occupied the table, drinking and laughing merrily.

All the loud noise wasn’t helping his migraine, pounding in his head and making it incredibly hard to concentrate on what he was saying when he started.

He got up on the table, knowing he wasn’t going to get in trouble since Musichetta was the only person besides them to come into the back room and she liked him too much to tell him off.

Everything had been going fine for a few minutes and he wasn’t really sure what had happened, but his vision had blurred, the world tilted at a funny angle and he heard Joly calling his name.

When he opened his eyes again, he was staring at the ceiling. He sat up, disoriented, only to be pushed back down again and told to relax and ‘take it easy’.

“You fainted.”

Joly told him, appearing in his line of sight and smiling slightly. He sat up again, a bit slower this time and running a hand through his hair.

His head still hurt.

“You gave us all a good shock Enjolras, try not to do that again.”

He gave Joly a frown, but the medic didn’t seem deterred, sitting beside Enjolras on the couch.

“I’m not quite sure what caused it, but Combeferre told me you were feeling ill earlier today?”

Ill was an understatement, he’d felt terrible he’d-

On a table in the corner of the room, one they never used, had been carved an elegant ‘R’.

He got up and walked over, ignoring his friends as he ran his fingers over it. But that couldn’t be right, R – the same R from last night – couldn’t possibly have done that.

He shook his head, turning away. It must have been there all along and he’d just never noticed it. Yeah that was it, that had to be it.

No one else had seen it, either that or they just hadn’t paid it any attention. He went down to the bar where Musichetta was working and sat on a stool.

“Enjolras? What can I get ya darlin’?”

She asked, smiling as she tucked a few strands of dark hair behind her ear. Musichetta was a lovely young girl, she gave all of the Ami discounts, especially for her boyfriends.

“Actually, there’s a table in the back room with an R carved into it, do you know anything about it?”

She gave him a puzzled looked and shook her head.

“Not really, sorry. The table’s been there for, jeeze, 50 years at least apparently.”

Then it must have been there the whole time. Had the same man carved it into the table when he was alive?

“Um, thanks ‘Chetta.”

Combeferre insisted on helping him home, and he wasn’t insulted really, but he didn’t want someone treating him like an invalid.

He got out of the car, slamming the door with a little more force than was necessary as they pulled up, grabbing his keys and shoving them in the lock.

He pushed the door open, and then dropped his books, standing frozen in the doorway.

“Oh my God.”

Chapter Text

Enjolras was well aware that they hadn’t cleaned up the cutlery drawer or the wine bottles after the incident with the Ouija Board, but instead of seeing said cutlery and bottles on the floor, the whole kitchen and living room were a mess.

The couch had even been tipped over. And it was cold, stepping inside the temperature made an extremely noticeable drop.

He took a deep breath, picking his books up again and placing them on the kitchen table as Combeferre followed him.

“The whole place is ransacked!”

He exclaimed, pulling the couch upright again. Enjolras nodded, and then dashed to his bedroom to see if whoever had done this had stolen his computer, since they’d left the TV.

His room was just as bad. His blanket had been pulled off the bed and his pillows ripped open, as if someone had slashed them with a knife.

His thoughts went back to that room in the asylum and he swallowed.

Nothing had been stolen and there were no signs that the place had actually been broken into at all, the windows closed and the doors still locked.

Enjolras turned his laptop on and set it up on the kitchen table. It booted up, a thankful piece of normalcy in the sudden chaos.

By the time an hour had passed, the living room and kitchen were relatively clean, and Enjolras was busy typing on his computer.

Combeferre sat at the table with Enjolras, who lowered the lid of his laptop to talk.

“I’m not really sure what happened right now, we just came home and found it a mess – it was much worse than this before. We thought that we’d been broken into but the doors were locked and the windows were shut.”

Enjolras stated. Combeferre raised an eyebrow, giving Enjolras a questioning look before he spoke.

“Whatever happened, it happened from the inside.”

---

The protest the next day had been going relatively well.

Courfeyrac had his camera on his shoulder, set to record everything that was going on. The council were trying to demolish an old hotel and replace it with some kind of new accommodation, and Les Amis weren’t the only ones opposed to the idea.

It had been quite calm, not a single fight as they started the protest.

Enjolras was standing on the brim of a large fountain, waving his notes around enthusiastically as he spoke, most of the general public enraptured by his voice and appearance.

He’d been talking for quite a while and a large crowd had gathered, and Courfeyrac was glad that he was filming when it happened.

Since the whole ordeal with the Ouija Board, he hadn’t experienced any kind of paranormal activity, and he was a little disappointed that he hadn’t had any kind of contact from R. He seemed like a nice guy.

He hoisted the camera up further on his shoulder and turned to film Enjolras, right as something startling happened.

If it had been Bossuet, then he perhaps wouldn’t have been so surprised, but Enjolras’s balance was impeccable.

Even so, he suddenly toppled backwards into the fountain. There was absolutely no warning, he simply cut off mid-sentence and fell backwards, but it was the way he fell that surprised Courfeyrac the most.

His shoulders had stayed still, but his chest had gone back first, before the rest of his body followed, as if someone had pushed him forcefully.

Feuilly had been the closest one to Enjolras when he had fallen, and he immediately jumped into the fountain to help him back to his feet.

His head hadn’t hit the concrete centrepiece as he fell, so he was lucky to have not been unconscious but he did seem to be a bit dazed by what had happened, holding onto Feuilly’s arm as he climbed out of the fountain, shaking his head.

The peaceful protest quickly descended into chaos after that, punch ups breaking out as the Amis quickly fled.

Both Combeferre and Joly were concerned for Enjolras, as he was still acting kind of bemused, stumbling when he walked and still needing Feuilly for support.

They made it back to the Musain, sitting Enjolras down as the medical students fussed over him.

“What happened dude, you just fell in!”

Bahorel threw his hands up as a towel was draped over the shivering blonde man.

“I don’t know what happened, it felt like someone pushed me.”

He blushed, clutching the towel and bowing his head.

“It sounds ridiculous I know, but I swear someone shoved me into the fountain.”

Courfeyrac informed them that he’d caught it on camera and they quickly put what he’d recorded up on the projector.

They all clearly saw that no one had been near enough to Enjolras to touch him, little alone push him with enough force to make him fall backwards.

Even though everyone agreed he’d just slipped, Enjolras continued to claim that someone had pushed him, and he said that it had been with enough force to be painful.

At the mention of chest pain, Joly insisted on examining him.

It was an interesting afternoon for the Amis.

---

Combeferre had decided to spend that evening at the library, so he had made dinner for Enjolras (because he couldn’t cook even if you gave him all the ingredients and detailed instructions. He could burn water) and said a quick goodbye.

This, obviously, left him home alone, which he didn’t have any objections to. There would be no noise, no distractions from his work.

Or so he had thought.

It had been about 8pm, and he had only just remembered that Combeferre had made him food, so he ambled into the kitchen in his warm pyjamas. He only owned one pair, and they were pink with little Eiffel towers on them.

He yawned as he stuck the whatever it was, lasagne? In the microwave, grabbing a knife and a fork and just happening to look into the living room while he did so.

His breath caught in his throat.

A man was sitting in the armchair, facing him. He appeared to be rather short, shorter than Enjolras but about the same age, with dark curly hair. He sat with his legs crossed, one elbow leaning on the armrest and his chin resting on his hand.

Enjolras did not recognise the strange man and, like any sane person, panicked. He didn’t move though. He felt frozen to the spot, staring back at the man who was watching him.

He couldn’t really see his eyes, but he could sense it. The kind of feeling that made the hairs on his arms prickle.

There was no movement from the other man either. It didn’t even look like he was breathing, and his clothes were odd, all white but kind of dirty looking, while his lips – a hideous shade of red, almost black, like blood that didn’t have enough oxygen – were quirked up in a vicious-looking smirk.

His skin was unnaturally pale, or the tiny sections of skin that weren’t covered by the clothes anyway,

Enjolras wanted to grab his phone and call Combeferre and ask him to come home as soon as possible, and another, irrational part of him didn’t in case the man disappeared.

The microwave dinged, the sound breaking the sudden crushing silent stillness as Enjolras turned to open the door and take his dinner out. When he glanced into the living room again, the man was gone.

His distorted smile was burned into Enjolras’s retinas. He could still see it whenever he blinked and he could only eat half of his meal.

He felt must too nauseous.

Combeferre still wasn’t home by 10:30, so Enjolras decided to go to bed and get some much needed sleep.

He went to bed, only to wake up at midnight to the sound of footsteps outside his bedroom door. Dragging steps, as if someone was scuffing their feet on the floor.

He knew instantly that it wasn’t Combeferre, the man hadn’t walked like that once in his life, and Enjolras was the only person home.

He held his breath, staring at his closed bedroom door only to see it suddenly swing open and for some intruder to walk into his room.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his blankets when the sound of heavy steps and breathing stopped.

He opened his eyes again, but his bedroom door was closed. He got up, opening it and looking out into the hall, but it was empty.

He made a shaky sigh, going into the kitchen, only to see Combeferre making a cup of tea.

“’Ferre, why did you come into my room?”

He looked up, a puzzled expression on his face as he disposed of the tea bag.

“I didn’t, I only just got here.”

Enjolras frowned, absolutely sure that someone – or something – had opened his bedroom door and walked in, and if not, had been traversing the hall.

He hadn’t heard Combeferre open the front door either.

He decided to sleep with his bedside lamp on. It wasn’t because he was frightened. Enjolras wasn’t frightened of things that didn’t exist.

He was just being cautious is all.

He was lying there for about ten minutes at most when there was a click and the brightness against his eyelids turned dark.

His lamp had turned off. Someone had turned his lamp off.

He remembered seeing the man in the living room and, despite his better judgement, got up and headed for the living room.

He wanted to see him again, despite how unnatural he had looked and how much he had unnerved him, so he sat on the couch and gazed at the armchair in the complete darkness, hoping to make out that figure again.

He somehow ended up falling asleep like that, and when he woke up again it was still dark. He blinked and yawned, looking opposite him and-

The man was there, and now he was much closer, barely six feet away.

Even though there were no lights on, his skin was still pale, so much so that it was almost luminescent. His hair was shorter than Enjolras first guessed, coiling around his nape and curling down past his ears, the kind of messy as if he’d been running his fingers through it.

Speaking of his fingers, they were long and delicate, like those of a pianist or an artist, and he was drumming them on the armchair, his eyes locked on Enjolras.

He opened his mouth, but his voice failed him for once as those lips stretched into another smile.

“Are you R?”

He finally asked, and though he didn’t reply, he ducked his head in what Enjolras could only assume was a nod.

“Did you push me into the fountain?”

He could distinctly remember the feeling of being shoved hard by some invisible force. R’s grin widened. His teeth were menacing.

He had a feeling that R couldn’t talk for some reason, or couldn’t communicate through words.

Which was ridiculous because he was a dead man and therefore should not be able to communicate at all in the first place.

He turned his head, and Enjolras followed his gaze as his laptop turned on by itself.

He frowned and went over to it as it stopped halfway through its boot-up sequence, going black as the screen suddenly filled up with nonsense letters and numbers.

The letters started to form words and the, finally, it went black again before, in small white letters, it appeared as if someone typed ‘hello’.

He stared at the screen, and then back at the couch, but R was gone again.

“Hello.”

He said into the empty air, sitting at the kitchen table.

The cursor blinked a few times and then the letters continued to appear, although no one was typing on the keyboard.

‘you are Enjolras’

He smiled and then picked the computer up, carrying it into the bedroom and getting back under his bedcovers, leaning against the headboard with the computer in his lap.

“Yes, my name is Enjolras, and you’re name is… R?”

There wasn’t a reply for a few seconds, the cursor just blinking repeatedly.

‘that is not my real name but that is not for you to know’

Enjolras scowled at the screen and went to reply, but a stream of numbers and letters came up again. He wasn’t sure whether that was R trying to express emotion or something.

“Are you from the asylum?”

He asked, and almost instantly it stopped again.

‘you tell me’

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was that a yes? Was he already supposed to know the answer?

He was shivering, even though he was tucked up under the blanket and the warmth of the computer was radiating onto his legs.

‘you should go to sleep’

Then came up on the screen, and Enjolras glared at the laptop for a few seconds before it turned itself off.

Chapter Text

Enjolras awoke up with a start, sweating and panting and swathed in blankets. It felt like they were restricting him, choking him, and he flung them off the bed with a surprising vigour, his chest heaving and his hands shaking.

He sat up, grabbing fistfuls of his tangled hair and pulling, waiting for his pulse to return to something akin to normal.

“Fuck.”

He sighed, getting up and heading into the bathroom. His reflection wasn’t a particularly pleasant sight to see – his hair a matted golden mess atop his head, bags under his eyes and his lips looked remarkably pale.

He scowled at himself for a few seconds before stripping, carefully folding his pyjamas and resting them in a little pile on the floor before stepping into the shower.

The hot water pounding on his back helped to relieve some of the tension in his neck and shoulders, and carding the knots out of his hair was a relaxing experience in lieu of his unpleasant awakening.

Dark figures and endless white halls burned into his skull and his hands were shaking as he turned the shower off a little bit too violently, shivering in the sudden cold.

He had goose bumps, and after a few seconds of standing perfectly still he realized that he hadn’t brought clothes into the bathroom with him.

He sighed again and padded down the hall back to his bedroom, getting about halfway there when someone wolf-whistled.

He spun around, his eyes wide as he figured out it was Courfeyrac, who raised his eyebrows in response to the probably strange reaction.

“You Ok Enj?”

Instead of asking what the heck Courfeyrac was doing here or how he even got inside, since it was obvious Combeferre was still asleep, he just continued over to his bedroom and the Irishman followed him like a lost puppy.

“Yes Courf,” he said after a reasonably long silence, “I’m fine.”

He pulled a pair of red jeans and a grey sweater out of his cupboard, haphazardly pulling the clothes on.

Courfeyrac sat on his bed and gazed up at him as he grabbed a brush and started brushing his hair.

“You don’t look fine,”

“I’m seriously, perfectly Ok. Why are you here and how did you get in?”

He frowned, obviously picking up on the subject, but deciding to just go along with it.

---

The kitchen cupboard was open.

He paused, placing his bag and books on the kitchen table before going over to close it. He was just reaching for the handle when a loud bang reverberated behind him. He jumped, making a high-pitched yelp of surprise as he turned to see that the front door had slammed shut.

He went back over to it and tried to open it, jiggling the hand and tugging insistently, but it refused to move, as if it had been somehow jammed from inside.

Which was impossible.

He leaned against it, facing the kitchen again and still jiggling the handle as if it would just open all of a sudden.

The kitchen cupboard door then slowly swung closed with a soft click.

“R?”

He called, his voice quiet and shaking as he scanned the room, hoping and dreading to see that shadowy figure, even though he’d been studying at the library, so it was only just past midday and he’d only seen him so far at night.

Nothing happened for a few seconds, so he cautiously ventured into the kitchen, and then down the hall towards his bedroom.

His whole body was tingling, a prickling feeling under his skin, like hundreds of tiny bugs crawling all over him. Was it from R?

“R, is that you? Are you here?”

He tried again, checking Combeferre’s empty room and then returning to the kitchen, going through his bag for his phone.

It wasn’t often that Enjolras felt fear, and of course this wasn’t one of those times. It wasn’t like that time they were at a rally and the cops were called and he was pepper sprayed in the eye. Or the time he was locked in a cell overnight. Or the time he was drugged at the pub crawl.

Enjolras was not frightened.

“I’m not scared of you.”

He said aloud, speaking into the empty apartment as he clutched his phone, unlocking it and opening Combeferre’s number.

“You can’t hurt me.”

He continued, starting to type out a message to Combeferre about coming home immediately when a message popped up.

I wouldn’t be so sure about that
- R

He swallowed convulsively, looking around again until something slammed into the back of his head, sending his phone skittering across the floor as pain bloomed behind his eyes.

He swore loudly, teetering forwards as he reached desperately for his phone, the message from R having already disappeared as he fell to his knees.

It had been a book that had hit him, having somehow sailed across the room from where it had previously been sitting on the coffee table.

He rubbed the back of his head, wincing at the stinging pain as he sent the text to Combeferre, hoping he had his phone on him as he looked around himself dizzily.

“What- R please, I didn’t mean it.”

He heard laughter and glanced up to see the ghostly figure before him. It wasn’t a nice kind of laugher. It was more self-deprecating than amused. He could see R even better, now that he was crouching in front of him.

He had a crooked nose, as if it had been broken and not set again properly, his eyebrows low over his eyes, which seemed to be a very dark shade of green. He was barefoot, and the sleeves of his shirt – jacket? He couldn’t tell what it was, as if he were looking at R through a veal over his eyes – had been pulled up to his elbows.

The marks on his wrists were unmistakable, and Enjolras felt it impossible to look away once he’d seen them, trying to imagine what the man must have gone through. He quickly reminded himself again that R was not alive, and was in fact a dead man.

“I do not frighten you?”

His voice echoed slightly, and sounded far away but also very close at the same time, his words enunciated slowly and carefully. He didn’t blink, and it was more than just a little unnerving as his lips stretched into a grin. One of his teeth were missing.

Enjolras’s phone started ringing, and R looked down at it before standing up straight and then stepping on it. Enjolras’s eyes widened and he gasped as his phone crunched under the weight.

“Then you do not comprehend.”

A horrible dread was starting to pool in the pit of Enjolras’s stomach as he watched R crush his phone with what seemed to be a twisted kind of satisfaction.

“Listen to me, Enjolras.”

He crouched down again, so close that his breath ghosted (how ironic) over Enjolras’s face.

“We fear the unknown, that is what is natural to us – to mankind – so your façade seems to indicate that you feel as if you know me.”

His face contorted into something extremely dark and unpleasant.

“Do not make that mistake.”

His head was throbbing painfully, and he blinked rapidly at the sight of red dots on the floor. Was he bleeding?

He looked up again, but the kitchen was empty and his vision was tunnelling and his legs gave out under him.

---

His head hurt. His head hurt a lot.

He opened his eyes with some effort. Was this what it felt like to be hung over?

“Hey Enj, how are you feeling?”

He blinked, spotting the source of the voice and working through the disorientation to figure out where he was.

He was in his bedroom, lying in bed, and Combeferre was sitting in a kitchen chair beside him.

“What happened?”

He asked instead of answering, spotting the painkillers and glass of water on the bedside table and reaching for them.

“I have no idea.”

Combeferre shrugged, looking relieved to see Enjolras awake, as if he’d been in a coma or something and not temporarily knocked out.

“You texted me about coming home quickly but when I tried to call you your phone must have been off or something.”

He paused as Enjolras swallowed the painkillers.

“And then I open the front door and you’re on the ground, unconscious, and bleeding from a head wound. Courfeyrac almost had a panic attack, and I’m being completely serious.”

Enjolras winced, putting the glass down.

“I think the flat is, um, haunted.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not joking ‘Ferre, I didn’t just trip and hit my head or something, a book hit me and R stepped on my phone and- my phone!”

He sat up suddenly enough to feel dizzy. Combeferre placed a hand on his chest and gently pushed him back down.

“Your phone is fine, Enjolras, I’ll go get it.”

Enjolras watched Combeferre head out and relaxed back into the pillows with a heavy sigh. His eyes hurt when he tried to keep them open, but when he closed them he kept seeing R in his mind, kept seeing those dark eyes and tortured expression.

Was R ever tortured? He sat up again, leaning back against the headboard. R was from the asylum. He wasn’t sure how he suddenly came to that conclusion, but he was sure of it. Positive of it, and that place hadn’t been particularly renowned for the well-treatment of its patients.

He grabbed his laptop and turned it on. He could hear Combeferre and Courfeyrac talking outside his bedroom, but ignored them as he opened an online database of the patients that had been admitted to the hospital.

He knew that looking up R wasn’t going to get him absolutely anywhere, so he searched his description instead and came up with a few results.

He scowled at the screen until he came up with a specific entry that almost exactly matched R’s appearance.

It described him as being 5’2 (was he really that short?) with short dark hair and claimed that his real name was Grantaire. He had been admitted in the early 50’s – by his own parents no less – at the age of 23, and stayed there for three years before being found dead in his room.

Could the same Grantaire be haunting his home? But why? What had Enjolras done to make him so upset?

He slammed his laptop lid shut in his sudden frustration.

And then he remembered.

He got up, storming into Combeferre’s room and grabbing the Ouija board, stomping back out and dropping it on the kitchen table, where Combeferre and Courfeyrac were both sitting.

Combeferre didn't seem bothered, holding his phone out to him, an offer that he refused.

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

They both looked at him as if he’d spoken a language completely foreign to them.

“Enjolras? You should still be in bed-”

He shushed Combeferre impatiently, making impatient motions with his hands.

“You didn’t say goodbye when we did the Ouija board, don’t you get it? You were supposed to say goodbye, and you didn’t and now Grantaire is still here!”

Combeferre frowned and Courfeyrac started looking a bit panicky. Enjolras was sure that Courfeyrac’s mistake was what had caused his troubles, that his impatience was the source of the man literally haunting him.

It had to be it; that they’d trapped Grantaire here by not saying goodbye and now he was angry and spiteful about it.

Did he want revenge? Was that what he was looking for, some kind of revenge for what they’d accidentally done?

He couldn’t deal with this right now, his head still hurt and was too emotionally drained. He didn’t hear a word either of them said, returning to his bedroom.

---

It was dark when he woke up again, his blinds drawn and his clock reading 3:21am. He blinked, grabbing his phone when he saw its screen light up on his bedside table.

He’d received a text apparently.

If you wake up at 3am there is a highly likely chance that someone or something is staring at you
-R

Enjolras’s skin crawled and he looked around, feeling highly unsettled. There was a figure standing in the corner of the room. He couldn’t make out the features, but he knew it was R.

“Is your name Grantaire?”

He sat up, looking down at his phone again and expecting to see another text, but instead the shadow moved closer until he could make out Grantaire’s form.

“How do you know that?”

He was standing right by the bedside now, and Enjolras had to tilt his head back to look up at him. His expression was indecipherable, his lips turned down slightly around the edges and his eyebrows furrowed in what seemed to be confusion but could just as easily be something else.

“I did some research, and you were- I mean there was electroshock therapy and that’s really unethical now, I can’t imagine what it must have been like strapped to a table and electrocuted.”

Grantaire’s expression softened and Enjolras heard him exhale.

“Did you- they found you dead in your room,”

“Yes,”

“Your arms-”

“Yes, Apollo.”

Enjolras stopped short, blinking in shock at the nickname and not quite sure why he’d been called it. Grantaire didn’t look like he was joking or trying to tease or mock him, staring back in complete solemnity.

He’d been in that place for so long, discarded by his own parents and treated so badly. He opened his mouth, but Grantaire raised a hand.

“Don’t say anything, you can’t possibly empathise with me, not even in the slightest, and I don’t want your pity,”

“No, I was just going to ask why you called me that.”

He paused, his lips parted as his eyelids fluttered. He seemed surprised, flustered almost as he flailed for an answer.

“Don’t you know about the Greek God, Apollo?”

Enjolras shook his head. He’d never really had any interest in the Greek mythology and his knowledge of it was basic at best.

Grantaire’s lips stretched into a grin, but not like the one he’d seen on him before. This one wasn’t malicious or spawned from spiteful amusement.

“Go back to sleep Apollo,”

“But why did you wake me up?”

“Go to sleep.”

He repeated, before turning around.

“R!”

He didn’t listen, taking a few steps and then seemingly vanishing.

Enjolras remained sitting on his bed for a few minutes, confused and conflicted.

“What did you mean?”