Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

—“Hals, what did I say about catching spiders and throwing them at Peter?” — Tony said, exasperated, placing his coffee mug on the hotel kitchen counter. The smell of damp wood and old coffee filled the air, mixed with the distant sound of dripping water in the second-floor hallway.

Harley, leaning against the counter, feigned innocence. —"I just... thought he needed company. His room seemed very empty."

—“Eight-legged mortal companionship isn’t the kind of friendship I’m looking for, thank you,”— grumbled Peter, still trying to get the web out of his hair. America laughed loudly, sitting at the table with a plate of pancakes and a sketchbook.

Stephen entered the kitchen at that moment, yawning. —“Please tell me no one is trying to sacrifice anyone before eight in the morning.”

The silence was broken only by the flickering of a light bulb on the ceiling. Everyone looked up at the same time. The light blinked, once, twice, three times, and then went out completely.

—“Great,”— muttered Tony, —“first week at the hotel and the lamps are already so much more possessed than Hals.”

Stephen sighed and went to the power panel in the corner of the kitchen, lifting the rusty lid. —“It’s just the circuit breaker… I hope.”

Stephen frowned as he placed his finger on the power panel. —“Tony, when you said this hotel needed a ‘minor electrical renovation,’ I didn’t imagine the circuit breaker was from the Victorian Era.”

Tony leaned against the counter, taking a sip of coffee. —"It's vintage. It has personality. And maybe a slight desire for murder, but who doesn't, right?"

-"You."

-"Fair."

A dry crack echoed, and all the lights came back on, a bit yellow. Harley jumped, dazed. Peter let out a “finally” and went to get a glass of water, but suddenly stopped.

—“Uh... dad?”

Stephen turned around.—“What?”

Peter pointed to the kitchen window. Outside, the courtyard was foggy — nothing unusual, considering the hotel's location, right in the middle of the mountains. But there was a silhouette there. Standing still, in the middle of the fog.

America leaned forward in his chair, trying to see. —“Maybe it’s the postman?”

—“Hopefully,” said Tony, —“or maybe it’s the ghost that ruined the shower in room 3 yesterday.”

Stephen put the board cover back on and wiped his hands. —“Ok. Suggestion: we pretend it’s just a curious tourist and carry on with our day as normal.”

—“What if he’s not a tourist?”— insisted America, with a small voice.

—“So,”— Tony said, smiling and picking up the pot of coffee, —“we charge extra for scares. Paranormal marketing, remember? ‘Come and experience the full scare, with coffee included’.”

The fog didn't move. The silhouette outside seemed to be waiting.

Stephen rested his hands on the counter and gave Tony a look—that silent look of someone halfway between “go outside and sort it out” and “if it's a demon, it's your fault.”

Tony sighed, placed the coffee mug in the sink and walked to the back door. —"Okay, I will. But if it's a vengeful spirit, I hope he accepts cards."

Harley snorted. —“I can go with you.”

—“No way.”— Tony raised his hand, cutting the boy off. “—Last time you tried to ‘help,’ you lit a circle of salt with a lighter and almost blew up the laundry room.”

—“It was an accident,” —Harley grumbled, but the hint of a smile gave away that he wasn't sorry.

Tony opened the door. The cold morning air invaded the kitchen, making the mist mix with the coffee steam. He took two steps into the courtyard, his shoes sinking slightly into the damp ground.

—“Hello?”— he called.

Nothing.

The silhouette moved. It was a girl — or she seemed to be. Thin, with dark hair and period clothes, the dress torn at the edges. She watched him, without blinking.

Tony stood still for a second. —“...Okay. That’s not in the welcome leaflet.”

Stephen appeared in the doorway behind him, crossing his arms. —“Is she... alive?”

Before Tony could respond, the girl turned her head in a too-dry movement, and disappeared into the mist.

America shouted. Peter dropped the glass and it shattered on the floor.

Tony took a deep breath. —“Right. Good point: we don't need marketing yet. The hotel just sold itself.”

______

Later, Harley searched the second floor hallways, an old flashlight in hand. The floor creaked with each step. —“If it were a spirit, where would I hide...?”

The light blinked. A shadow crossed the corridor. He froze. —“Peter?”

Nothing.

Sound of footsteps — behind him.

When he turned around, he saw the girl's reflection in the mirror at the end of the hallway. Just the reflection. She whispered something, and the flashlight went out.

Harley backed away, her heart racing. —“Okay... you can stop with the theater...!”

The mirror cracked. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose. He wiped it off with his sleeve, confused—and laughed nervously. —“Cool. Now I bleed out of nowhere. Typical.”

________

In the kitchen, Stephen tried to remain calm. America drew what he had seen—the dress, the colorless eyes, the way the figure disappeared into the fog.

—“She didn’t seem bad,” —said the girl. —“He looked... sad.”

Tony placed his hand on her shoulder. —“Sad or not, we need to know why she’s here.”

—“Maybe the hotel is trying to tell us something,”— muttered Stephen, looking out the window.

Tony raised his eyebrow. —“Great. Now the building has feelings too.”

—“Better him than me,” —replied Stephen, but smiled slightly.

Peter appeared in the hallway, panting. —“Harley is gone.”

The silence was instantaneous.

America stood up from his chair. —“What do you mean, it disappeared?”

—“He was on the second floor,” —Peter replied. —“His flashlight is still there...”

Tony and Stephen looked at each other. The air felt heavier, the sound of rain starting to patter against the windows.

Stephen sighed, closing America's notebook.

—"Okay. Plan of action: Tony, you come with me to the second floor. Peter, stay with your sister in the kitchen. And if the mirror starts talking, pretend you didn't hear."

Tony nodded, grabbing a flashlight. —“Honey, you know that pretending nothing's happening has been our plan A since day one, right?”

—“Good then,”—replied Stephen, as they climbed the creaking stairs. —“We’re in familiar territory.”

_______

The sun barely broke through the Hotel's fogged windows, but the house was already alive — or at least, something was.

The second floor had spent the night in silence. Tony and Stephen searched it all over, flashlight in hand, finding only Harley sitting on the steps of the stairs, staring into space. When asked what he was doing there, the boy simply replied:

“Waiting for her to come back.”

After that, no one brought it up again.

Peter was in the lobby, spread out on the table with notebooks and pencils, doing homework. —“Define temperate biome... define temperate biome... Okay, why is geography homework harder to deal with than a ghost moaning in the hallway?”

America, on the other side of the room, laughed as Harley balanced three coffee cups on her head and tried to cross the hallway without dropping them.

—“If it breaks again, you clean it up,”— warned Stephen, passing by with a tray of toast.

—“I’m training motor coordination!” —protested Harley.

—“You're training to be a kitchen accident,” —Tony retorted, pointing the vacuum cleaner toward the carpet.

Or rather — trying to point it out.

An octopus arm, emerging from inside the drain, wrapped itself around the vacuum nozzle and pulled it back with surprising force.

—“...Stephen?”— Tony's tone was already pure exhaustion.

The doctor looked up from his toast. —“If the pipe is clogged again, call the plumber.”

—“If the plumber answers and knows how to deal with spectral tentacles, I’ll marry him.”

—“you already married.”

—“So it’s going to be a triangle, congratulations.”

Peter turned in his chair, curious. —"Dad, do you think this is like... a sea spirit? Or just a manifestation of aquatic energy?"

America raised his hand. —“Or a ghost squid!”

Harley laughed, still balancing her cups. —“If so, I hope she washes the dishes with her tentacles.”

The arm pulled the vacuum cleaner out with a click and disappeared down the drain. A glupping noise echoed through the hall, and silence hovered for a moment.

Tony stared at the hole in the wall. —“You know, sometimes I really feel like the hotel doesn’t want to be cleaned.”

Stephen bit into his toast, unfazed. —“Maybe he’s just allergic to you.”

>>

The rest of the morning remained relatively calm — with the exception of an armchair that floated alone in the hallway and a radio that insisted on playing 1930s jazz.

At lunch, America drew in his notebook.

—“Look, daddy, I drew the girl in the fog.”—

Tony looked over his shoulder. The portrait was frighteningly detailed. Sunken eyes, torn dress, transparent hands.

—“Honey... have you seen her again?”

America shook his head. —"No."

Chapter Text

The reception bell rang with a metallic ding that echoed down the hallway. It was the first time the sound had actually rang out—not from a playful ghost, but from someone real walking through the door.

a Guest has arrived!

Tony looked at Stephen with a mixture of shock and pride. "We have a guest. A real one! This isn't a practice run!"

Stephen closed the logbook, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Or it's someone who got lost trying to find their way into town. And will run away when they see the floating chair."

“Trust me, love,” Tony replied, smoothing his wrinkled vest. “Peter, go find a room without a ghost, nothing unusual, America help him, Harley, get out of here,” Tony said, heading to the reception.

The man standing at the counter was tall, wearing a soaked overcoat, a hat in his hands, and a tired look in his eyes. “Good evening,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’d like a room.”

Tony blinked in surprise. “Yes! As long as you don’t mind… some unusual noises and maybe a slight plumbing issue.”

Stephen appeared right behind, his posture impeccable. “Welcome to the Neblina Hollow Hotel. We’re a small, family-run inn.” He nudged Tony gently, whispering

Tony waved his hand vaguely. “Sure, sure. Totally normal.”

______

In the hallway, Peter and America were looking for a “ghost-free” room.

“Room 2?” Peter asked, opening the door. The lamp turned on by itself.

“Oh no, it’s the one about the little old man who likes to sing boleros at three in the morning.”

“Room 5?” America tried. The window slammed shut twice. “That one has the invisible cat.” “I’ll pass.”

They reached the end of the hallway. Door 7 was ajar. Everything was quiet. Peter looked at his sister. "I think this one will do."

“It smells musty,” she said, holding her nose. “Mudty smells good. It means it’s alive, not dead.”

they adjusted the sheets

______

The sound of the rain was still beating rhythmically on the windows when Tony handed the key to the visitor.

“Room seven,” he said, with the most professional smile he’d ever managed in the face of a likely impending paranormal event. “Clean sheets, a view of the courtyard… and, um, if you hear someone singing in the hallway at three in the morning, just ignore them. It’s… part of the experience.”

The man nodded impassively. “I’m used to old places.”

His voice had a strange weight—as if each word dragged memories back. He grabbed his key and climbed the stairs, his wet boots scuffing the hardwood floor.

Tony followed him with his eyes until he disappeared down the hallway, then let out a loud sigh.

“Okay. A real guest. Breathe, Tony. Don't scare the customer. Don't mention the ghosts, don't mention the tentacles, don't mention the 1930s radio.”

Stephen appeared nearby, crossing his arms. “You just mentioned everyone.”

“Technical detail.”

______

Upstairs, Peter and America were finishing up room 7. The musty smell was, in fact, the least of their problems.

Peter lifted the pillow and found an old, folded letter with a yellowed corner.

“Hey, look at this.”

America peered over her brother's shoulder. "It says 'Eleanor' on it."

Peter opened it slowly. The writing was thin, almost faded:

> ' Darling, I still wait for you at the window. The cold doesn't scare me anymore. Come back before the fog takes everything away'

“Ew,” said America, “romantic and tragic.”

Before they could comment further, the hallway seemed to grow colder. A light breeze blew past, and the bedroom window creaked open by itself. The fog outside seemed thicker—alive.

“Peter...” America whispered.

He closed the letter, tucking it into his pocket. "Let's finish this quickly. If Dad finds out we're messing with the dead people's things, he'll freak out."

_____

Back at reception, Tony was trying to update the guest book, which proved impossible: the pen kept writing incomplete sentences on its own.

>' He came back. The window. The cold doesn't scare me anymore.'

“Stephen...”

"I saw."

They both looked at the pen lying motionless on the counter.

"Okay," Tony said, forcing a smile. "Either the hotel is trying to communicate, or this is the most dramatic way possible to ask for a room upgrade."

Stephen picked up his pen, glanced at his book, and then at the wall clock. “The guest in room seven arrived just as this started.”

Tony frowned. “You think he’s the reason?”

“Or the reason came back with him.”

_______

Later, almost at night, Harley appeared at the reception.

“Did you feel it too?”

Tony looked up. “Feel what?”

“The hotel. He’s... restless.”

The tone was different—lower, more distant.

Stephen approached, alert. “Harley?”

The boy blinked, as if coming to, and gave a half smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

But his reflection in the window glass didn't move with it.

______

The clock read almost nine o'clock at night.

Peter yawned, dropping his geography books onto the table. The homework seemed endless—and the thunder outside didn't help his concentration.

He got up and went to the kitchen, grabbing a glass.

The sound of water filling the glass was interrupted by a hoarse, polite voice:

“Young man, are you drinking without offering me a sip? What a lack of etiquette.”

Peter froze. Slowly, he looked to the side.

An elderly man stood there, wearing a worn suit, round glasses, and a weary gaze—half transparent, half solid, as if the light refused to make up its mind. He held a book, and a pen floated around him.

Peter blinked. “Uh... excuse me, are you...?”

“Professor Hargreeves,” the spirit replied, with a slight British accent. “And apparently, still stuck in this... failed educational establishment.”

“It’s a hotel,” Peter corrected, half-automatically.

“Oh, sure. And you would be the... student of the semester?”

Peter looked at the cup. “Technically, I’m trying to do my homework...”

The old man smiled. “Excellent. Then may I correct it?”

“You can try.”

The ghost hovered over Peter's notebook, adjusted his glasses, and began scribbling notes—which, oddly enough, were accurate.

Peter's eyes widened. "Do you know modern geography?"

“I taught modern geography. In 1894.”

“So not so modern after all.”

The spirit let out a sound that might have been a laugh or a hiss. "Kid, education is eternal. Now, about the temperate biomes..."

______

Outside, America and Harley crouched near the soggy garden, armed with glass jars and flashlights.

“If Peter finds out we’re catching bugs, he’ll freak out,” America said quietly.

“That’s why we’re not going to tell,” Harley replied, with a mischievous smile.

A firefly landed on the lid of her jar.

“I got it!” America shouted triumphantly.