#Walter the plague Ghost

[bbcghostssocialmedia]

GHOSTS ON SOCIAL MEDIA - part eleven

Plague ghosts edition

They deserved some spotlight (i say as i only added them so i could make Mick and Jemima act like siblings in future parts)

I'm also aware that Jemima isn't really a plague ghost but she is a ghost of a victim of A plague.. so she's here now.

[tamsinbeybey-she-no-porcupine]

I mean I have a vague idea on who might be the most popular ghost but 🤷🏻‍♀️

[phyllistines]

just when i think i’ve uncovered every single little detail in the six idiots fandom, you guys appear with “ben as a plague ghost appeared with different hair and outfits a couple times so now they’re actually triplets called walter dalter and malter :]]]”

[caps-clever-girl]

28 for Mike and bassment ghosts

questions from the ghosts ask game HERE!!! please send more i am very much enjoying these •w•

28: top 5 headcanons for [insert this character here]?

YES!!!! UNDERRATED CHARACTER QUESTIONS!!!!!! i fucking love mike, he deserves SO MUCH on this show, and kiell is SO FUNNY. he had me howling on taskmaster and he really is just playing himself on ghosts with a different name. LOVE the plague ghosts!!!!! i wish we had so much more (esp nigel he's my favourite), i loved them in the newest christmas special <3

MIKE

- adhd KING.

- mike is actually pretty good mates with julian and robin specifically - as good as you can be with incorporeal enteties you cant see or hear. he and robin both learnt a sort of morse code to communicate with general lights, and a stranger things system in one of the non-public rooms of BH. julian uses fridge magnets (word ones and letter ones) to talk to him, as well as keyboards. yes they often use their skills to take the absolute piss, but sometimes they INVOLVE him in their mischief.

- similarly, he can sort of communicate with mary? she walks through him if she really needs his attention, or sets off a smoke alarm (not the house ones, but extra ones they put at person-level). she always says good morning when he and alison come for breakfast :)

- even after he figures out the ghosts arent floating above him, he still looks up and away from them if they've been pricks just to piss them off.

- him and obi have known each other since nursery or reception. when alison married mike she FULLY understood that she was getting obi as part of the package. mikes parents ring obi every christmas and send him presents. they are like his second set of parents.

PLAGUE GHOSTS

- mick absolutely has a crush on cap after s4. cap is far too oblivious to notice though.

- geoff and jean are absolutely an item now. divorce wasnt really a thing back in their day? so geoff and his wife (lollys ghost) just kept on trucking until news of divorce trickled down to the basement (DECADES late) and they immediately were like "oh fuck this marriage." they're better friends now, and jean and geoff are happy :)

- speaking of jean, when walter left nigel behind during "about last night", jean absolutely tore him a new aresehole when she found out. nobody can stand a sad nigel and his big baby blue doe eyes.

- jemima isnt part of the plague pit. shes from a later plague, but she visits reasonably often because the basement folks are like her. she doesnt scare or disgust them, they're like a big family of uncles and aunts to her. however... she doesnt stay down there. she knows she makes the basement folk a little sad, since she reminds them of their own kids - none of whom have stayed as ghosts until the current time. so she drifts in and out. the basement folk are actually delighted by her visits and encourage her to stay more - yes, she does remind them of their long gone kids, and that is sad, but they dont hold it against her and love her company enough it doesnt matter. she doesnt quite believe them though :(

- nigel is very much a caretaker of the group. which is funny because ALL the other ghosts take care of him <3. especially jean. shes very much a mum of the group.

[ailendolin]

Title: Burgundy [AO3] - Part 1/2

Characters: Nigel/Thomas, Walter

Summary: When Walter confronts Nigel about his relationship with Thomas, things take an unexpected turn when he apologises for his past behaviour and offers to make amends by honouring an old medieval Easter tradition - the giving away of clothes.

A/N 1: Ever since 4x01 aired, Thomas announced his favourite colour is burgundy and the Plague Ghosts got excited about Walter's tunic matching that colour, I've been itching to write a clothes swapping fic where Nigel gets to wear Walter's tunic as a surprise for Thomas. A few days ago, I looked up medieval Easter traditions and this site mentioned the tradition of giving away clothes. Thus, this fic was finally born.

A/N 2: This is my 100th Ghosts fic (including prompt ficlets)! Insane and incredible!

————

Burgundy

Chapter 1: The Talk

“Nigel? Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Nigel felt dread pool in his stomach. The last time Walter wanted to talk had been seven hundred years ago after he’d caught Nigel kissing his younger brother. He still vividly remembered how small he’d felt when Walter towered over him and made the love he’d felt for Ned sound like something vile and horrible. The aftermath of the incident hadn’t been pretty, and he’d steered clear of Walter as best as he could in the months and years that followed.

The tension between them became less tangible and biting after death forced them together and decades turned into centuries but it never quite faded away. It hung like an invisible, unspoken thing between them whenever they locked eyes across the room, and more often than not Nigel found himself shrinking back from Walter’s glare just like he had on that beautiful summer’s day when breathless kisses had turned into heartbreak in the blink of an eye.

His strained relationship – for lack of a better term – with Walter was also the reason why he hadn’t told anyone about this fragile, precious thing blooming between him and Thomas yet. He was terrified of history repeating itself and Walter ruining what had barely begun, and at the same time utterly ashamed that Walter’s opinion still had such a hold over him. It should not matter, not anymore, but it did, and every time Nigel gathered up his courage to tell the others about Thomas, one look into Walter’s eyes was enough to make the words die on his tongue.

It made him feel like a coward – as if his love for Thomas was something shameful he needed to hide when the complete opposite was true. Being with Thomas made him happier than anything else had in a very long time. It felt like coming home at the end of a very long and cold day and thawing up by the fire; like seeing the sun rise over the hills after a terribly dark night that had shrouded all light in shadows for so long it seemed like morning would never come, and like walking through the woods at dusk and watching the fireflies dance among the trees.

His love for Thomas was not meant to be kept secret; it was meant to be shared in smiles and laughter for all the world to see, and Nigel desperately wanted to hold his hand without having to worry about who might see them. Thomas deserved that; they both did.

It was that thought he kept in his mind as he silently followed Walter through the closed basement door into the narrow space between the staircase and bookshelves. He’d kissed Thomas there, once – just on the cheek to bid him goodnight but his lips had tingled for hours afterwards and Thomas’s cheeks had been burning bright red in the dark as he’d ducked his head with a shy smile and mumbled, “Goodnight,” in return.

Nigel had a feeling that whatever bone Walter had to pick with him today would not become such a fond memory.

“Look,” Walter said gruffly after several beats of awkward silence. “All this sneaking around is getting very tiresome for all of us. I know whatever’s going on between you and Thomas is not any of my business but–“

Fear, sharp and searing as hot iron and so sudden it nearly took his breath away, lodged itself in Nigel’s throat.

“N-Nothing’s going on!” he blurted out, panicking. “Thomas and I – we’re just friends.”

He stumbled over the last word, over the lie he’d never wanted to tell, and something shifted in Walter’s eyes. They softened, turned gentle like they hadn’t in years, not since the day Walter’s daughter moved on and left behind a bitter shell in place of a once kind and joyful man.

“Nigel,” he said quietly. He took a step towards him and Nigel instinctively flinched back, nearly passing through the wall behind him in his attempt to bring some distance between them. He almost felt bad when Walter froze in shock, his hand hovering mid-air in the space between them. Almost. Seven hundred years weren’t nearly enough to make him forgot how close Walter had come to breaking his arm back then when he tried to separate him and Ned.

Letting his hand drop to his side, Walter stepped back to give him some space.

“Sorry,” he whispered, sounding genuinely remorseful. “I didn’t think the others were right but – they are, aren’t they? You haven’t told us because of me.”

Nigel swallowed hard and glanced at the floor – a silent admission in itself.

“God, Nigel, I – I was scared back then. Terrified something would happen to you both,” Walter said, silently begging him to understand. “You know the world wasn’t kind to people like you, and you were both so carelessly stupid. I mean, I caught you kissing behind the barn where anyone could have seen you! What were you even thinking?” He wiped a tired hand across his face and deflated. “I was just trying to protect you idiots.”

That old wound in Nigel’s chest, the one he had carried with him ever since Ned had left the village without saying goodbye, ached as if not a single day had passed.

“You broke my heart and you never let me forget,” he whispered, feeling his eyes burn. “You punished me for loving him.”

“No,” Walter choked out with a shake of his head. “No, Nigel. Not for loving him. For putting him in danger.”

Nigel squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away, shameful and guilty. “I didn’t mean to. I’d never–”

“I know,” Walter said softly, surprising him. “You were just young and stupid – we all were.” He sighed. “I never meant to make you think that loving him – or anyone else – was wrong, Nigel. I was just afraid of losing my brother. It didn’t even occur to me that your story could end in anything but persecution and death – that with a little support, you might have lived a happy life together. And for that I’m sorry.”

Part of Nigel wanted to believe him if only to be finally able to put this whole mess behind him for good. Most of him, however, wanted to curl protectively around his heart and keep both it and Thomas as far away from Walter as possible. It had taken him so long to find that happiness Walter spoke of again, to find someone who made him smile with nothing but a glance and a curl of lips. Even now, it still sometimes felt like a dream to him when he looked at Thomas and found his eyes crinkling at the corners just for him; and every time, without fail, that old, familiar fear of having this little bit of happiness he managed to carve out for himself snatched away again welled up from deep within him. He knew Thomas was battling similar insecurities and that made it a little easier to open up about them and accept that these scars were a part of him, just like the plague sores and frayed edges of his cowl.

Until today, Walter’s reaction to finding out about him and his brother had been one of those scars – barely scabbed over, ready to break open again at the slightest of touches. No matter how sincere Walter sounded just now, Nigel knew it would take time for him to learn to trust him again. A lifetime, probably. Maybe even longer.

It was a good thing they had all the time in the world.

He must have been silent for too long because Walter began to shift awkwardly on the spot before he glanced down at his feet. “I’m not asking for your forgiveness here – that’s not what this is about. But I’d like to try and make amends, if you’ll permit it.”

Touched and just a little bit curious, Nigel tilted his head to the side. “How?”

“Do you remember how we used to celebrate Easter?” Walter asked.

The question took Nigel by surprise. He knew the festival was coming up but if he was being honest, he hadn’t thought about Easter in years. Memories of times long gone flashed through his mind – his father explaining to him that they weren’t allowed to eat any eggs between Ash Wednesday and Easter, followed by his mother taking him and his younger brother by the hands on Easter Sunday to collect their chickens’ eggs for the first time in weeks, turning an otherwise mundane task into an exciting event.

“Of course I do,” he said softly as he remembered the smell of freshly made eggs and his brother’s toothy grin across the table.

Walter shook his head.

“I’m not talking about the eggs,” he said with a knowing smile. “I mean the clothes.”

In some distant part of Nigel’s mind, another memory stirred: his father staring up at Walter’s father with a look of reverent awe on his face as he was presented with a cowl as a gift – the very one Nigel was still wearing today, centuries later. His father had considered the gift giving of new clothes on Easter Sunday one of the highest honours someone like him – a lowly peasant – could receive and always held Walter’s family in the highest regards afterwards. Years later, when Nigel came of age, he had bestowed the same gift upon him, and no matter how tattered and worn the cowl had become over time, Nigel had always worn it with pride.

Almost absentmindedly, he reached up to touch the soft fabric resting over his shoulders. “Your father gave this to mine when I was seven.”

Walter nodded. “It was meant to strengthen the bond between our families.”

“And it did,” Nigel said quietly.

“But only for our parents,” Walter said. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “I’d like to rectify that, and I’d like to do it by honouring tradition.”

Not sure he was understanding what Walter was saying, Nigel frowned. “But how? We’re ghosts, we can’t give away our–“

The mischievous glint in Walter’s eyes made him falter.

“Or can we?”

[historicalsnail]

Oh.

They got rid of Walter the Plague Ghost from season 2, because his wife was played by Katy, and half his character was him bickering with her.

[captains-swaggerstick]

No thoughts, just... Walter

[nightingaletrash]

thinking about Sparrow and how both times she reunites with someone from her past, it just makes her feel like a ghost in someone else's skin.

When Derrick greets her in Old Town, its like he's mistaken her for someone else entirely. She's not the little girl who ran around with her big sister, collecting warrants for a gold piece, but she can't bring herself to say so. She doesn't have the words yet, doesn't quite understand where the discomfort is coming from. She brushes it off as a symptom of returning to her childhood home. She's come home, but she and home are different now and she can't really explain it.

But then she comes back from the Spire, and she's changed once more. Before she was hurting. Now she's broken. A bundle of survival instincts wrapped up in the skin of a woman who has come back wrong, and she will never be the same again. She comes home to a husband and a child who don't know her, and she doesn't know them either. She loved them once, and they loved her. But now she's a stranger and she's broken, and nothing matters anymore. Nothing but killing Lucien at all costs. She can't love them the way she used to. Love is for people, and she's not a person. She doesn't know what she is besides her goal.

[m0ose-idiot]

Important question for the Ghosts community!

[pupsmailbox]

ZOMBIE ID PACK

NAMES ⌇　ada.　adrien.　aiden.　aj.　alice.　altair.　ambrosia.　amy.　angel.　apparition.　appendix.　arius.　arrow.　arthur.　ash.　asher.　aspen.　atticus.　augusta.　bane.　barrett.　ben.　benny.　bernadette.　bones.　brain.　brains.　briar.　caden.　caleb.　callan.　carl.　carlos.　casey.　casper.　ciaran.　claud.　claudia.　clay.　clementine.　coffin.　corps.　corpse.　corpsie.　dakota.　damion.　david.　dearil.　decay.　diego.　doom.　dustin.　echo.　edward.　elkridge.　ellie.　ember.　emilee.　emily.　ethan.　eveline.　everett.　flesh.　frail.　frailesse.　frailette.　frailita.　frank.　frankie.　ghost.　ghoul.　ghoulette.　ghoulia.　ghoulita.　grant.　grave.　graves.　gravestone.　grayson.　griffin.　grim.　grimm.　gutesse.　harper.　hazard.　helen.　horrell.　horrelle.　hunter.　husk.　jesse.　jill.　joel.　john.　judith.　jules.　kade.　kaiden.　kilian.　klaus.　kyle.　lee.　leon.　liam.　lily.　luke.　lurk.　maggie.　maggot.　mangled.　mara.　marcus.　marion.　marionnette.　max.　maxwell.　medusse.　mera.　merle.　mira.　mist.　misty.　mona.　morb.　morbesse.　morbette.　morbid.　morgan.　morganna.　morgue.　morguesse.　morguette.　mort.　morte.　morticia.　mould.　muerta.　muerto.　mura.　mutt.　myra.　myrtle.　necro.　necros.　nemesis.　neo.　nick.　nikolai.　nox.　nyk.　nyx.　octavia.　ophelia.　parker.　perseus.　plague.　priscill.　quille.　rain.　raine.　rayne.　resurrect.　resurrection.　revenant.　riley.　rob.　roman.　rookie.　rose.　rosemary.　rosie.　rot.　rotesse.　rotette.　ruin.　ryan.　saifu.　sam.　scar.　scaresse.　scarette.　scarlett.　scottie.　scratch.　shade.　shadow.　shaun.　six.　skull.　slash.　slashesse.　slashette.　slug.　star.　stitch.　stitches.　stitchie.　stitchy.　strike.　sydney.　tank.　thorn.　thorne.　tomb.　trickie.　valentine.　vamp.　vertebrae.　vex.　victor.　violet.　virus.　walter.　wesker.　wren.　wyatt.　z.　zack.　zed.　zeke.　zob.　zoe.　zomb.　zombesse.　zombette.　zombina.　zombita.　zomblita.　zon.

PRONOUNS ⌇　axe/axe.　ba/battle.　bite/bite.　bleed/bleed.　bleugh/bleugh.　blood/blood.　bo/bone.　bone/bone.　brain/brain.　break/break.　chain/chain.　coff/coffin.　coffin/coffin.　cor/corpse.　corpse/corpse.　corr/corrupt.　craw/crawl.　dark/dark.　de4/de4th.　de/de4d.　dea/dead.　dea/defeat.　dead/dead.　death/death.　decay/decay.　decay/decayed.　dir/dirt.　empty/empty.　end/end.　es/escape.　evil/evil.　fa/fate.　fang/fang.　freak/freak.　fright/fright.　fungi/fungi.　ghou/ghoul.　gloom/gloom.　gore/gore.　grave/grave.　green/green.　grim/grim.　grim/grime.　gun/gun.　gut/gut.　ha/harm.　holy/holy.　hor/horror.　horde/horde.　hurt/hurt.　hx/hxm.　hy/hym.　infect/infect.　it/it.　ix/ix.　k1/k1ll.　ki/kill.　kill/kill.　lab/lab.　li/lich.　lurk/lurk.　mo/mold.　mold/mold.　morbid/morbid.　mou/mourn.　mould/mould.　mu/mutant.　mutant/mutant.　nec/necro.　prey/prey.　rain/rain.　reap/reaper.　rib/rib.　rip/rip.　rot/rot.　rot/rotten.　rotten/rotten.　sa/sacrifice.　sa/save.　scar/scar.　sea/search.　shatter/shatter.　shoot/shoot.　shx/hxr.　sick/sick.　slit/slit.　snarl/snarl.　thxy/thxm.　thy/thy.　tomb/tomb.　tri/tricked.　un/dead.　undead/undead.　vamp/vamp.　vi/virus.　viru/viru.　zo/zombie.　zom/zombie.　zomb/zomb.　zomb/zombie.　zombie/zombie.　⚰️/⚰️.　🍖/🍖.　🧟/🧟.　🧠/🧠.

[mask131]

Vampires before they were cool... (1)

Before talking about Dracula, before talking about the first vampire in literature, why don’t we talk about the first vampires in beliefs and folklore?

Everybody is convinced that they know what vampires are. And yet they don’t. People were so influenced by the literary and then cinematic depiction of the vampire as the undead seducer, as the demonic aristocrat, as the tortured soul who just looks like a human with some pointy teeth… They forgot what vampires started out as, and the “original” vampire is. Which is actually something quite close to the modern idea of what a “zombie” is today – with some elements of evil ghosts and murderous wraiths thrown in. A ghostly zombie, how cool is that?

Let’s start at the beginning of it all (and maybe we’ll even go before the beginnings): when did the figure of the vampire per-se appeared in Europe? (I won’t talk here of all the proto-vampires and all the beliefs that led to the apparition of the vampire, I’ll keep this for another time).

[Also just to specify, again, because people are going to raise their fingers: this is by no mean an extensive, well-researched, definitive scholarly work. I'm just scribbling notes here and there in case people didn't heard about this stuff or wish to discover new roads to explore]

As I am using the chronology established by Jean Marigny, I will begin with the 11th century. It was in this era that the first rumors about dead people whose corpse was repeatedly found outside of their grave, and untouched by rot, started spreading around. The bishop of Cahors shared a story in 1031, during the second Council of Limoges (it was later relayed by Collin de Plancy in his “Dictionnaire infernal”): according to him, a knight of his congregation who had been excommunicated before dying had his body found several times outside of his grave, as if he kept coming out of it. The blood-sucking or “life-stealing” element would come later: a mix of old “paganism” from the Norse and Celtic beliefs, and of the superstitions of medieval Christianity, the image of the vampire as we would know it today first truly appeared in the British Isles, in Iceland, and in other Scandinavian countries. As early as the 12th century, we find in England stories of dead people (usually excommunicated) who each night leave their grave to either torment their loved ones, or cause a series of unusual deaths. When upon investigation the graves of the deceased were opened, their corpse was found unrotten and covered in blood – to end the “curse”, people usually burned the corpse after piercing it with a sword. Tales of the sort can be found in works such as “De Nugis Curialium” (1193) by Walter Map, or the “Historia Regis Anglicarum” (1196) by William of Newburgh. Since there was no real terminology or word for these creatures, the chronicles usually described them as “cadaver sanguisugus”.

These early cases of vampirism were a recurring thing throughout the following centuries – similar stories can be found all the way up to the Renaissance, though they were usually so episodic and isolated that they did not leave a lasting impact on cultures or beliefs.

It would only be by the 14th century that vampirism would start to exist as an “epidemic” – with manifestations of mass phenomenon in areas such as Bohemia, Silesia or Eastern Prussia. This generalization of vampires, and the sudden “spectacular” nature of their manifestations, is easy to explain: it all coincides with the great plagues epidemics. It was well known that, out of fear of contagion, the dead were very quickly and hastily buried – sometimes before they were even dead… Just being sick and disease enough could lead you to get six feet underground. Of course, as a result, if the graves or vaults were opened a few days later, one would find the body untouched by rot but covered in blood – as the poor people probably tried to claw their way out, or actually died after their burial. These grizzly tragedies, in a 16th century filled with superstitions and tormented by many diseases, resulted in a true boom of the vampire belief. An interesting case showing how even the upper-class of society could not escape is the one of the Prussian baron Steino of Retten. After dying of the plague, he was buried in grandiose funerals with all the honors due to his rank… But the following days, many people claimed to have seen the baron outside of his graves, walking around as if he was still alive. This led to the baron’s grave being opened, and his body pierced many times with a sword to “allow his soul to go to rest”. Numerous similar cases were reported in Bohemia around the same time.

In Western Europe, meanwhile, vampire cases stayed sporadic and episodic… Until 1484. On 1484, the pope Innocent VIII approved the publication of the “Malleus Maleficarum” – while most known as the “witch-hunter manual” which turned the medieval persecutions into an absolute horror, this book by the Dominicans Jakob Sprenger and Heinrich Kramer (who notably got into a lot of troubles and fighting with authorities of the Church precisely due to some of the beliefs in this book contradicting the Church teachings) was also an investigation and study of cases of succubus, incubus and undead. When it was said and shared around Europe that the pope had accepted and “sponsored”, so to speak, this book, it was a HUGE wave of shock with lasting effects: it meant the Church was officially recognizing the existence of the undead…

Then, the Reformation would too strengthen the legend of the vampire, during the second half of the 16th century. You see, there was a belief going around (and born during the times of the great plague) that the dead in their graves would devour themselves, as things looking like bite marks or self-devouring appeared on corpses dug out after their burial (again, very likely result of hasty funerals). This led to an entire belief that the dead, when in their grave, would “chew” and “masticate” (many people claimed hearing the jaws of the dead work when passing by their grave), and that they would eat dirt in their grave, their own shrouds, or their own flesh. (The theory of the “masticating corpses” was notoriously illustrated by a 1728 work by Michael Ranft, “De Masticatione Mortuorum in Tumulis Liber”). Soon the belief came that, when the “masticating death” started eating things like shroud or flesh, they would gain evil powers, dark abilities to cause the death of the living being. This led to the tradition of placing things inside the mouth of corpses to prevent them from “chewing”. Luther himself knew and had talked about these cases – he had been told of them by the pastor Georg Röhrer. From 1552 onward, in Prussia and Silesia, it became common to put a stone or a pfenning in the mouth of the dead – and since, again, the term “vampire” did not exist per se, they were called by the German name “Nachzehrer”, a term which was equated with both “predator” and “parasite”.

However, the Protestants taking over these early cases of vampirism is fascinating because it led to a complete change of doctrine as to the origins of vampirism. You see, up until now the “cadaver sanguisugus” were treated by a Catholic angle, and under the Neo-Platonician idea of a “life after death”. The body was deemed a physical vessel, a container of flesh who after death corrupted and dislocated, while the soul kept on living in some afterlife or otherworld awaiting the End of Times. Through redemption, the soul of the sinners could be saved – and these souls were also protected if they received the Christian sacraments before their death. However, those that did not receive the sacraments, or those that simply did not receive the final sacrament (the extreme unction, the sacrament of death), or even those that were not buried in a holy ground (excommunication, death by suicide) were doomed to never know salvation. From this belief came the idea of the “undead”, of the “unresting souls”, of “those that return in the flesh” – dead people who did not belong in this world anymore, and yet had no place in the afterlife. These cases of vampirism were considered as souls who came back from the Purgatory or the afterlife, and inhabited again their earthly bodies. But Protestants? Protestants had a whole other way to see things (for example, for them Purgatory did not exist) and this whole thing of “the souls coming back in their bodies” as nonsense. Instead, they explained these Nachzehrer by… witchcraft.

This was mostly the work of the Reformation theologians of Switzerland, Calvin or Louis Lavater. In 1581, Lavater wrote a treaty about “wraiths and spirits of the night”, and in there he claims that the undead are not the dead coming back to life, but rather demons that take the shape of those that once were living. This idea actually came from 1597, and from the king of Scotland James VI (later James the First of England) – a studier of occult sciences, he had written about these “face-stealing demons” in his work “Demonology” (another work which also greatly strengthened and hardened the witch-hunts and witchcraft-justified persecutions). This Reformation concept led to the cementation of the vampire in European culture as “the servant of the devil”.

[lopsidedtreetrunks]

Finally FINALLY got round to finishing this art for @little-cereal-draws Button House Dog Rescue au! PLS go visit their blog for more info for their au!!

Dogs on the ground are (L-R): Captain - German Shepherd Kitty - Pomeranian Pat - Corgi Fanny - Chihuahua Thomas - Shetland Sheepdog Humphrey - Golden Retriever Robin - Irish Wolfhound Mary - Dalmation Julian - Weimaraner

I also hope you dont mind I added my own headcanons for the other ghosts in the photo frames. Mostly based off pure vibes 😆

In the long frame are the plague dogs; I think they would have been all rescued from a puppy farm together. L-R (for the ghosts that dont have names I've just used the actors' names so you know which is which): Jemima - Husky (puppy) Walter - Rottweiler Katy - Bichon Frise Mick - Boxer Nigel - King Charles Cavalier Spaniel Geoff - Afghan Hound Agnes - Staffordshire Bull Terrier John - Chow Chow Martha - Poodle

Then the ones in the circular frames (L-R): Annie - Jack Russel Terrier William - British Bulldog Maddocks - Whippet (the only one not based on pure vibes alone, but it'd have been remiss of me to not make our other Yorkshire lad a whippet bsjsjdk)

Anyway this took so long bc i took it upon myself to make a million more dogs bjdsfk I hope you enjoy it nonetheless :D

[tamsinbeybey-she-no-porcupine]

Walter, Dalter, Malter or dare I say Salter at last?🥺

[iiep-wop]

Help I'm on a ghosts poll craze

(also I got the names I didn't know off the wiki and that didn't even have Martha or Katy's ghost names 😭)

[caps-clever-girl]

so if walter knows for a fact that robin has a big hairy bum, despite said bum being covered up in furs all the time..... what im hearing is that walter and robin hooked up at some point yes?

[ailendolin]

Grace - Chapter 7/10

Title: Grace [AO3]

Characters: Thomas, Alison, Mike, Baby Cooper, the Ghosts, the Plague Ghosts

Summary: “Mike and I are going to have a baby.”

Baby Cooper’s arrival at Button Houses changes many things, and all for the better - at least at first. Or as Mary once said: babies can see ghosts sometimes but usually only up until they can walk.

Chapters: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

————

Grace

Chapter 7: The Portrait

Alison still feels half asleep when she picks up Grace the next morning and makes her way to the kitchen. It’s still dark outside and judging by the silence, no one but her and Grace is awake yet which means it must be early. Alison makes it a point not to look at the clock. 

She begins to prepare Grace’s breakfast, her movements led by muscle memory rather than conscious decisions, when Grace suddenly starts to squirm in her arms. “What’s wrong, love?”

“’Omas,” Grace says, pointing at something over Alison’s shoulder.

For one hopeful second Alison thinks Thomas is there and that Grace can see him like she always could but then she turns around and finds the kitchen just as empty as it had been a moment ago. Her face falls and all she can think is, God, I’m so stupid.

Except Grace starts squirming again and keeps repeating Thomas’s name, and then Kitty’s and Fanny’s and Julian’s, all the while pointing at something with her tiny finger and suddenly Alison gets it. “Oh, you mean the Ghost Chart!”

She readjusts her hold on Grace and walks closer to the chart she created what feels like a lifetime ago. Grace’s face lights up and she reaches out to touch the crude drawing of Thomas with her tiny hand to clumsily trace the crude lines with her fingertips. She looks so happy in that moment that Alison feels her throat close up, especially when Grace repeats Thomas’s name with a wistfulness no almost-one-year-old should have to express.  

“I know you miss him, love,” she whispers against Grace’s hair. “I miss him too.”

Grace makes a soft sound Alison chooses to interpret as confirmation. She presses a kiss to her daughter’s temple and makes to turn away from the Ghost Chart. Grace’s face scrunches up in distress immediately.

“We can’t stand here forever, Grace,” Alison tells her softly.

Her daughter gives her a look that seems to say, Try me. 

Alison chuckles. “Alright. I guess breakfast can wait a little longer.”

When a little longer turns into long enough, Alison decides to be pragmatic about it: she takes down the Ghost Chart and brings it over to the table with them so Grace can see it from her high seat while she eats.

“Happy now?”

The grin her daughter gives her would be adorable if there wasn’t also a disgusting amount of mashed up fruits dribbling down her chin and onto her onesie. Alison laughs anyway.

“What are my two beautiful girls up to this morning?” Mike asks around a yawn as he steps into the kitchen. Grace offers him the same lovely grin and eagerly points at the Ghost Chart.

“’Omas!” she says around a mouthful of banana.

Mike drops a kiss onto the top of her head. “That’s right, that’s Thomas. And look, Robin’s there, right next to him!”

Grace peers at the Ghost Chart for a moment before she declares, “Dooka dooka!”

“Yeah,” Alison says quietly. “Dooka dooka.”

Perhaps she should revise it, she muses as she looks at the rather pitiful drawings of Thomas, Mary and Robin.

And I really should add Humphrey as well, she thinks guiltily. Poor guy always gets left out.

As Mike takes over feeding Grace the remains of her breakfast, an idea slowly begins to take shape in Alison’s mind: what if she’d make Grace her own Ghost Chart? She could paint proper portraits of all the ghosts and adorn them with colourful, child-friendly borders. Grace would love that, she’s sure, and the portraits would be so much better than that newspaper clipping of Pat’s death or the tiny group shot of the Captain’s army unit, no matter what Thomas had said all those years ago about her drawing skills when she gifted him his portrait.

Alison freezes.

Of course, she thinks. Thomas’s portrait!

Mike squints at her, his spoon full of baby food hovering precariously in the air. “Something’s just happened. Ghosts stuff?”

“Yes and no,” Alison says, barely able to contain her excitement. “Remember that Christmas when Nick was here and I did that portrait?”

“Of Thomas?” Mike mouths, careful to keep Grace distracted with her breakfast.

Alison nods and pointedly looks between the Ghost Chart and their daughter back and forth. It takes Mike a second to catch on but when he does his eyes grow wide and a grin lights up his face.

“Do you have some wrapping paper left?”

Alison huffs out a laugh and leans over their daughter to give him a kiss.

————

An hour later she’s down in the basement, looking for Thomas’s portrait. She’s not quite sure how it ended up in the darkest corner–

“Mike moved it there,” Mick explains with a happy smile.

“About a year ago, perhaps?” Nigel adds.

–or why it is covered with one of the old drapes she thought they’d thrown away–

“That was Mike as well,” Geoff’s wife sighs wistfully, earning herself a reproachful look from her husband in the process.

–but Alison is relieved to find it completely undamaged. She looks at it, takes in the many hours of work and countless brush strokes that make up the gentle lines of Thomas’s face, and remembers the day Thomas posed for her. He had chosen the most extravagant pose – of course he had – and she finds herself smiling a little as she thinks of him trying (and failing) to hide how difficult it was to hold it.

She misses that Thomas, misses his silliness, his penchant to burst into terrible poetry at the most inopportune times and the wonder in his eyes when he sees something truly beautiful that anyone else would deem common or mundane. She misses him so much she doesn’t know how she’ll go another day without seeing him or talking to him, even if it’s just for one second. A simple, “Hello,” would be enough, she thinks, as long as she gets to hear his voice. She misses that, too.

“Why were you looking for the portrait?” Jean asks softly, bringing her back to the present.

Alison quickly wipes her eyes and tries to ignore the small, understanding smiles the villagers offer her. “Grace discovered Mike’s Ghost Chart earlier so we thought we’d give her this–“ She points at the portrait. “–for her birthday tomorrow. We’re hoping it will make things a little easier for her.”

Most of the villagers nod in understanding. Nigel is the only one who crosses his arms in front of his chest and frowns at her. “It belongs to Thomas.”

Alison gives him a confused look. “Well yes, but he probably doesn’t even remember it exists.”

“He does,” Nigel says. The others shuffle a bit to the side to allow him to step forward. “Thomas used to come down here at least once a week to look at it before Mike covered it up.”

“That’s true,” Walter confirms.

Alison glances between them, feeling as if her worldview has just been shaken a little bit. Nigel’s face softens. “He never told you, did he?”

All Alison can do is mutely shake her head.

Nigel sighs. “Damn his stubbornness.”

“He told us what happened, the first time he came down here,” Geoff explains.

Mick nods. “We told him he should talk to you but–“

“That fool obviously chose not to,” Walter says with a shake of his head. “Sometimes I wonder why we ever put up with him.”

His wife turns to him and levels him with a glare Alison is glad not to be on the receiving end of. “Because he happens to be a kind young man unlike you, you bloody sod.”

“Now come on, dear,” Walter says but stops when Mick clears his throat and raises his arm. “Yes?”

“She’s right – Thomas has always been kind. At least he was to me,” he says quietly. “He taught me how to read, remember?”

The basement falls silent.

“He did?” Alison asks softly. She hadn’t known that. There are a lot of things she doesn’t know, it seems.

Mick nods his head, his eyes wide and earnest, but it is Nigel who explains, “Thomas spent a lot of time down here with us after he died. He couldn’t stomach being upstairs and watching the lady of the house live her life without him.”

Oh, Alison thinks. She’s never really given it much thought – that time after Thomas’s death when his cousin wooed and eventually married Isabelle. It must have been awful to see her every day and have no hope of her ever realising he was still there and had not forgotten about her. And even worse, to watch her fall in love and grow old with someone else.

In hindsight, Alison doesn’t find it so surprising that Thomas had reached a point where he couldn’t take it anymore and sought refuge somewhere quiet and rarely frequented by the living, especially those from the upper class. She just wouldn’t have thought he had found it with the plague ghosts. Suddenly, them joining the search and staying by his side even after he’d been found made a lot more sense.

“It sounds like you’re quite close,” she says quietly.

The villagers nod in unison.

“He’s our friend,” Mick smiles. Then his face falls and he adds in a more subdued voice, “I don’t like seeing him sad.”

Yeah, Alison thinks. Me neither. 

“None of us do,” Nigel says quietly and gives Mick’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he turns back to Alison. “I know we can’t really stop you but – please don’t give his painting away. At least not without asking him first.”

Alison glances down at the portrait with a heavy heart.

“He still hasn’t talked to me, Nigel,” she whispers.

Nigel’s face softens. “How about I come with you, then? I could talk to him first, see if he’s up to seeing you.”

Hope sparks in Alison’s chest, warm and bright and terrible. “You would do that?”

“Of course,” Nigel smiles. “I wanted to look in on him anyway. Now I have an excuse to do that.”

Alison doesn’t think he really needs an excuse, not with what she just learned about Thomas’s relationship with him and the others, but she’s too grateful for his help to say anything. Maybe, just maybe, Nigel will be the key to bridging that awful gap between her and Thomas that seems to be growing with every passing day. Hope, she knows, is a dangerous thing but it’s all she has right now, and if there’s just the tiniest chance that Nigel will be able to convince Thomas to talk to her, who can blame her for holding onto it with everything she has?

So she leaves the painting behind for the time being and silently follows Nigel up the stairs. Grace and Mike’s voices filter into the hallway from the kitchen. She’s babbling happily about the Ghost Chart, Alison assumes, while Mike is telling her what a good girl she is when she almost pronounces Thomas’s name correctly. Nigel’s steps falter for a moment, and a shadow passes over his face before he clears his throat. “It’s good to hear her laugh again.”

“It is,” Alison quietly agrees.

“Children are remarkable, aren’t they?” he muses softly. “They go through something traumatic and still manage to find joy where all we see is sorrow.”

He takes a deep breath and walks on, leaving Alison to wonder if he’s talking about his own experience as a child or if, perhaps, he once had children of his own. She realises she doesn’t know and at the same time thinks, Thomas probably does.

They reach the hallway that leads to Thomas’s room and Alison stops, still several feet away from Thomas’s door.

“I’ll wait here,” she says, not wanting it to look like she’ll be eavesdropping.

Nigel nods in understanding. “I’ll call for you when he’s ready.”

When, not if, Alison notes and holds onto the little words like a lifeline. It’s as if Nigel is sure Thomas will talk to her and that spark of hope inside her chest flares up and burns as brightly as the North Star while she waits.

She doesn’t know what’s going on inside the room, doesn’t know that Thomas and Lady Button are sitting together on the windowsill when Nigel enters. She doesn’t see Thomas lift his head or his tired, red-rimmed eyes soften a little when they land on Nigel, and she isn’t privy to the quiet conversation that follows.

“Alison is here to talk to you,” Nigel says as he sits down on Thomas’s other side. “There is something she wants to ask you.”

Thomas is quiet for so long that Lady Button feels the need to say, “You don’t have to talk to her if you’re not ready, Thomas. Alison will understand.”

“Is she … alone?” Thomas finally asks. His voice is hoarse and brittle from disuse and nearly breaks on the last word.

Nigel nods. “She is. But–“

“Her request concerns Grace,” Thomas whispers and this time his voice does break. He tries to mask it with a trembling smile that has no hope of reaching his eyes. “Tell her to come in.”

“Thomas,” Lady Button begins but Thomas reaches for her hand before she can truly protest.

“It’s okay,” he says, as if saying it aloud will somehow make it true. “Will you – will you stay?”

Lady Button gives his hand a squeeze. “Of course.”

“And so will I,” Nigel says with a smile before Thomas can ask.

Thomas takes a deep breath and, after giving them both a heartbreakingly grateful look, stands up. He straightens his waistcoat, brushes a trembling hand through his hair and nods.

Alison almost jumps when she hears Nigel calling for her after anxiously waiting for what felt like hours but has probably only been five minutes at most. She closes her eyes and takes a moment to gather herself before she walks up to Thomas’s door and gently knocks on the wood, giving Thomas one last chance to change his mind.

“Come in.”

They’re the first words she has heard Thomas say in days and even though he sounds differently – subdued, sad, worn down – every cell in Alison’s body aches with sheer relief when he hears that beloved voice again. She slowly pushes the door open and there he is, standing by the window, flanked by both Lady Button and Nigel. The warm glow of the morning sun lights up his face and Alison suddenly remembers another morning from years ago when she stood outside with Thomas and watched the sun rise over Button House. A lot has happened since then. Too much perhaps, she thinks as she takes in the paleness of his skin not even the sunlight can hide and the pain in his eyes she knows will never go away no matter how much time passes. It’s not fair.  

She swallows hard and offers Thomas a small but heartfelt smile. “Hi.”

“Hello, Alison.”

He sounds almost normal, and Alison doesn’t know what to do with that. She searches for the right thing to say, her hands sweating nearly as badly as they did the day she asked Mike out for drinks for the first time. How are you? seems inadequate and inappropriate – she knows Thomas is not well. It’s glaringly obvious. But cutting straight to the chase feels wrong too. She didn’t come here just for Grace, and she needs Thomas to know that. And yet she has no idea how to start, how to say anything without somehow mentioning the elephant in the room.

Her mouth opens and closes for several seconds without making a sound and something in Thomas’s eyes shifts, making them look softer, and sadder.

“How is Grace?” he asks at last. His voice is shaking and he’s squeezing his hands so tightly his knuckles are turning white. His gaze doesn’t falter, though, and despite how fragile he looks in that moment he’s radiating a strength Alison can only marvel at.

She has to clear her throat before she can answer him. “She’s … she’s trying to make sense of the situation in her own way. To her, it’s all a big game of hide and seek at the moment and I think that comforts her. But – she misses you, Thomas. She misses you very much.”

And so do I, she thinks but doesn’t add.

“I know,” Thomas whispers. He swallows hard. “I hear her crying at night.”

Both Fanny and Nigel look at him in surprise, and Alison’s chest suddenly feels too tight. She thought they had managed to shield Thomas from that.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Lady Button asks softly, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

Thomas turns to look at her. “What would it have changed?”

Lady Button doesn’t have an answer to that. She looks as stricken as Alison feels and Thomas gives her hand, still on his arm, a brief squeeze before he turns back to Alison. “Nigel said you wanted to ask me something?”

There’s a lot Alison wants to ask him in that moment: Where have you been? Why did you run away? Why do you keep so many things close to your heart and never talk about them?

But now isn’t the time for any of those question. This conversation isn’t about her, it’s about Grace and Thomas, and Alison doesn’t want to make this any more painful than it has to be. So she clasps her restless hands in front of her body and tells Thomas about Grace’s reaction to the Ghost Chart. “It brings her so much joy and seeing as it’s her birthday tomorrow, I was wondering if you would mind if I gave her the portrait I did of you as a present.”

For a moment, Thomas doesn’t say anything. He stares at Alison unblinkingly, his gaze far away, lost in some memory Alison isn’t privy too.

“I think it would help her, Thomas,” she adds desperately. “I really, really do.”

Thomas visibly shakes himself out of whatever place and time his mind had taken him to and offers her a smile that is so obviously fake Alison feels a shiver run down her spine.

“That old thing?” he asks with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. “Of course she may have it. Was that all?”

Instead of feeling relieved that she’s gained Thomas’s permission Alison’s heart begins to ache. Thomas is downplaying his attachment to his portrait for her sake, for Grace’s sake, and as if that’s not bad enough Alison is fairly sure she wouldn’t even have noticed if Nigel hadn’t told her about Thomas’s visits to the basement earlier. It hurts even more to realise that Thomas, someone who has always worn his heart so unfailingly on his sleeve, has taken to hiding his feelings behind a smile and forced calmness. He’s no longer an open book to read, neither for her nor for anyone else, and Alison has no idea how she’s supposed to react to that. She loves her daughter with every fibre of her being and wants to see her happy, but she doesn’t want that happiness to come at the price of Thomas’s own. The portrait clearly means a lot to him, more than Alison has ever thought possible, and for that reason alone she needs to be certain he’s really okay with Grace having it. “Are you sure? Because if you’d rather have it in your room, it’d be no problem to hang it up here.”

Thomas is visibly surprised by her offer but recovers quickly.

“No, it’s alright,” he says, and when he goes on, his voice is softer, more sincere, than before. “If it makes her happy, I want her to have it.”

Behind him, both Fanny and Nigel nod, silently telling Alison it’s okay, that she can and should believe Thomas. The last thing either of them needs right now is a disagreement over this, so Alison sighs and drops her hands to her side.

“Thank you, Thomas,” she says. She takes a step forward and stops abruptly when she realises what she was about to do. “God, I wish I could hug you.”

The frail smile on Thomas’s lips trembles. “I’d like that very much.”

“Maybe one day,” Alison murmurs. She looks down at her shoes and, not knowing what else to say, points behind herself and says, “Well, I better go and wrap up the painting, then. Thank you, Thomas. It really means a lot, and I know Grace will be delighted when she sees it tomorrow.” She pauses, hesitating. “Will you be there? When we celebrate her birthday?”

Thomas freezes. Alison can see he’s getting lost in what-ifs and would-have-beens and starts to apologise when he suddenly nods. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

His devotion to Grace, even now – especially now – is overwhelming. No matter what words she might choose Alison knows they will have no hope of even coming close to what she feels in that moment, so she simply says, “Thank you,” again, hoping Thomas will hear all the things she doesn’t know how to express underneath the words.

They exchange one last look and then Alison leaves, making sure to close the door behind her. It may not help much to shield Thomas from Grace’s cries but it’s the least she can do. As she retraces her steps down to the basement, she’s unaware of Thomas’s carefully constructed façade breaking just seconds after she closes the door. His legs give out and he drops to the floor, gasping for breath as if he had just run a mile.

“Easy now,” Nigel murmurs, gently rubbing Thomas’s back. “It’s over.”

“That was very brave of you, Thomas,” Lady Button adds, a hint of admiration in her voice. “And very kind.” 

Thomas’s shoulders begin to shake under her hand.

“I just don’t want her to feel like I do,” he says around a sob before he buries his head in his hands.

Lady Button and Nigel share a look over his head before they join him on the floor and hold him through the storm.