My breath fogged the windowpane, a small, transient cloud against the permanent frost etching the glass. It smelled like old dust and something metallic, like burnt copper, despite the house being quiet, cold. Outside, the endless white stretched, punctuated by skeletal trees, their branches clawing at a sky bruised purple with oncoming night. Carter’s place. Not a place, really, but *the* place. The ancestral estate, he’d called it, with a wry twist of his mouth that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His eyes were doing something else entirely; they were fixed on me, from across the cavernous drawing-room, the kind of stare that felt less like seeing and more like… ownership.
A shiver, not entirely from the cold, ran down my spine. The house, even with its gaudy, tinsel-heavy Christmas tree leaning drunkenly in one corner, felt like a forgotten thing. The velvet drapes, faded and heavy, blocked out most of the weak winter light, leaving pockets of gloom that swallowed sound. Every floorboard creaked under my worn boots, a mournful sigh. He’d told me, ‘It’s a bit much, but it’s home.’ He hadn’t said it was a mausoleum disguised as a seasonal Hallmark card.
“You’re cold.” Carter’s voice, low and resonant, cut through the heavy quiet. It wasn’t a question. He was already moving, crossing the vast expanse of antique Persian rug with a silent grace that always unnerved me. He wore a thick cable-knit sweater, the kind that made him look softer, but his movements were precise, almost predatory. My heart did that stupid flip-flop thing it always did around him. God. It was Christmas. I was supposed to be feeling… jolly, or something. Instead, I felt like a moth drawn to a flame, knowing it would probably singe its wings.
He stopped in front of me, a wall of warmth and scent—pine, old leather, something distinctly *him*. He didn’t touch me, not yet, but the air between us crackled, taut and vibrating. The `BL spark`, as some people called it, but here, in this suffocating house, it felt like static electricity building before a lightning strike. My cheeks felt hot. I hated that. I hated how easily he could make me react, how my body betrayed every attempt at nonchalance. He saw it all, I knew he did. Every flush, every quickening breath.
“Just… the draft,” I mumbled, my voice a little rougher than I intended. I shoved my hands deeper into the pockets of my hoodie. Carter’s gaze didn’t waver, just intensified, like he was trying to read the words written on my skin. He leaned in, closer than was strictly necessary, and I could feel the faint brush of his sweater against my arm. A shock, small but potent, shot through me. My breath hitched. He smelled even stronger up close. And it was just… too much. Too much Carter, too much house, too much silence.
“There’s no draft here, Finn.” His voice was a murmur, barely audible over the distant ticking of some unseen clock. His eyes, dark and intelligent, searched mine, stripping away my pathetic defenses. My gaze dropped, drawn to the sharp line of his jaw, the slight stubble that always seemed to be there, no matter how recently he’d shaved. He was so ridiculously handsome. It wasn't fair. The perfect skin, the strong jaw, the way his hair fell just so, dark against the pale winter light filtering through the heavy drapes. He looked like he’d stepped out of a Gothic romance novel, a dangerous, alluring figure. And I, with my ratty hoodie and perpetually anxious posture, was hopelessly out of my depth.
He straightened slightly, the pressure on my arm easing, but the tension remained. “Come on. I’ll show you your room. It’s the least… drafty.” The sarcasm was light, a brief flicker of humor in his otherwise serious demeanor. He turned, expecting me to follow, and I did, drawn by an invisible thread. The silence stretched again, a living, breathing entity in the house. Every step we took echoed. The air grew colder as we ascended the grand, sweeping staircase, its banister smooth and dark under my fingertips. Dust motes danced in the sparse light from the tall, arched windows on the landing, making the air feel thick, ancient.
My room was at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway, lined with portraits whose eyes seemed to follow us. They were all stern, unforgiving faces, ancestors of Carter, probably judging my very existence. The door groaned open, revealing a large room dominated by a four-poster bed draped in heavy, faded brocade. A fireplace, black with old soot, stood cold in one wall. A single, bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting stark shadows. It felt less like a guest room and more like a carefully preserved historical exhibit.
“Cozy,” I managed, trying for a lightness I didn’t feel. Carter walked past me, pulling open the drapes with a decisive tug. Moonlight, sharp and silver, flooded the room, illuminating dust dancing in the air, the intricate pattern of a moth-eaten rug, and the peeling wallpaper. A thin layer of ice coated the inside of the windowpanes. This was the 'least drafty' room? My chest tightened. I had a bad feeling about this, about the whole Christmas holiday. My own parents were… complicated. Carter knew that. This was supposed to be an escape. But it felt more like a deeper plunge into something unsettling.
Carter turned, his silhouette framed by the moonlight. “There’s a small space heater in the closet. The central heating… it’s temperamental.” He didn't elaborate. He rarely did. That was Carter. The grounded partner, always with a poker face, always holding his cards close to his chest. He was the one who initiated, who closed the distance, but he did it with an almost unsettling calm, leaving me to flail in his wake. He was the still point in my rapidly spinning world, and sometimes I hated him for it, for his composure, for making me feel so exposed.
He was looking at me again, his gaze lingering on my face. My skin prickled. He reached out, slowly, deliberately, and I tensed, half expecting him to touch my cheek, to pull me closer. Instead, his fingers brushed against the collar of my hoodie, adjusting it subtly, as if smoothing a wrinkle. The touch was feather-light, barely there, but it sent a tremor through me, a jolt that went straight to my stomach. I swallowed hard. The air was thick, heavy with unspoken things. This was the electric tension. The physics of BL. The physical reaction before the mental realization. My brain was still catching up to what my body already knew: I was utterly, completely screwed.
“Dinner’s at seven,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Just… the two of us. And Mrs. Lundgren, if she’s feeling up to it.” Mrs. Lundgren was the housekeeper, a spectral woman I’d briefly met who had the unsettling habit of appearing and disappearing without a sound. She was elderly, her face a roadmap of ancient sorrows, and she moved through the house like a ghost, leaving only a faint scent of lavender and old tea in her wake. I nodded, unable to speak, my throat tight. Carter gave me a small, almost imperceptible nod back, then turned and left the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, leaving me in the stark moonlight, the pervasive cold, and the terrifying knowledge that I was alone in this enormous, decaying house with its secrets and its silence, and only Carter as my anchor.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. The air tasted of ice and something else, something I couldn’t quite place – dust, sure, but also something like… metallic sorrow. The surrealism of the scene was palpable. It felt like walking into a painting, a dark, melancholic masterpiece where I was merely a misplaced figure. The Christmas decorations, seen up close, were even stranger. A garland of dried, brittle holly, its berries faded, clung to the mantelpiece like skeletal fingers. A ceramic Santa, one eye missing, stared blankly from a dusty corner. This wasn’t festive. This was a slow, creeping horror.
I moved to the window again, pressing my palm against the frigid glass. The frost inside wasn't just on the panes; it felt like it was in the very bones of the house, in the silence, in the way the moonlight seemed to drain the color from everything. My reflection stared back, pale and indistinct, a phantom. I felt like a phantom too, caught in a dream I couldn’t wake from. Christmas. Supposed to be bright. Supposed to be warm. This was neither.
I found the space heater in the closet, a small, humming box that looked as ancient as the house itself. Plugging it in, I watched its coils slowly glow red, a tiny point of warmth against the vast, encompassing chill. It barely made a dent in the room’s temperature, but the sound, a low, consistent whir, was a small comfort, a fragile shield against the oppressive silence. I unpacked my meager bag, mostly sweaters and jeans, clothes designed for comfort, not for gothic mansions. Each item I pulled out felt out of place, an anachronism.
Seven o’clock came, or something like it. The house didn’t seem to adhere to conventional time. The only clock I’d seen was in the drawing-room, its face shrouded in shadow. I ventured back down the grand staircase, its wood groaning under my weight. The dining room was even more imposing than the drawing-room. A long, polished mahogany table, big enough for twenty, was set for two at one end. Two flickering candles cast long, dancing shadows. Carter was already there, sitting ramrod straight at the head of the table, his face illuminated by the candlelight, making him look even more intensely sculptural. He gestured to the chair beside him, and I slid into it, the heavy wood cold against my thighs.
Mrs. Lundgren appeared then, soundless as always, placing a soup tureen on the table. Her eyes, sunken and dark, met mine for a fleeting second, and I thought I saw a flicker of something… pity? Warning? Before she retreated into the shadows again. The soup was thick, hearty, but I barely tasted it. My awareness was entirely consumed by Carter, by the almost overwhelming proximity of his presence. His shoulder was inches from mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him, a stark contrast to the glacial air. He ate slowly, methodically, his gaze occasionally drifting to me, a silent question in their depths.
“So… your family,” I finally managed, the words feeling clumsy in the vast, echoing space. “They… don’t come for Christmas?” I knew his parents were often away, globe-trotting for their obscure academic work, but Christmas? He always talked about them in vague terms, almost as if they were theoretical concepts rather than actual people. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He took a sip of water, the clink of glass against teeth unnervingly loud. “They’re… occupied. With their research. It’s always been like this.” His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. But I saw the way his fingers, usually so steady, gripped the stem of his glass a little too tightly. A subtle crack in his grounded facade. A tiny spark of vulnerability I yearned to reach out and touch.
We finished the meal in near silence, a strange, strained ballet of silverware and unspoken tension. After, Carter led me to a smaller sitting room, where a fire crackled cheerily in the hearth, a welcome splash of warmth. He settled into a worn armchair, gesturing to the matching one opposite. “There are books, if you like. Or… we could just sit.” He always offered a choice, but it felt less like freedom and more like a test. I chose to sit, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to absorb the heat from the fire. The firelight played across Carter’s face, highlighting the strong lines, the shadows under his eyes. He looked tired, I realized. And… lonely. Terribly lonely.
We sat like that for a long time, the silence less oppressive now, softened by the crackle of the fire. My eyelids grew heavy. The events of the day, the long drive, the unsettling house, Carter’s intense presence – it was all catching up to me. I must have drifted off, because I woke with a jolt, Carter’s hand on my arm, his thumb gently stroking the skin just above my elbow. My entire body hummed with awareness, blood rushing to my ears. He was leaning forward, his face close to mine, his eyes dark, unreadable in the shifting firelight.
“You fell asleep,” he whispered, his voice soft, almost tender. My heart hammered against my ribs. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face. Every nerve ending in my body was screaming, alive. The moment was suspended, fragile, electric. This was it. The precipice. The high stakes, electric romance. I was falling, utterly and completely, into the depths of him, into the darkness of this house, into the unknown that was Christmas with Carter. And a part of me, the terrified, reactive part, wanted to run, to scream. But another part, a deeper, more primal part, wanted to lean in, to feel the press of his lips, to be consumed.
He didn’t move. Just watched me, his thumb still stroking my arm, a slow, hypnotic rhythm. The fire crackled, casting our shadows huge and distorted on the wall, two figures intertwined in a grotesque dance. My gaze dropped to his lips, then back to his eyes, searching for an answer I knew I wouldn’t find. Not yet. Not from him. He was the pursuer, yes, but also the keeper of secrets. And this house… this house was full of them. The air was thick with them, like invisible dust.
Suddenly, a loud, jarring thump echoed from upstairs, followed by a creak, long and drawn out, like a coffin lid opening. My head snapped up, eyes wide with fright. Carter’s hand tightened on my arm, his thumb digging slightly into my flesh. His eyes narrowed, a flash of something hard and protective passing through them, before settling back into that familiar, unreadable mask. He didn’t release me. He just held me there, anchoring me to the terrifying reality of the house, of the secrets it held, of the boy who held them all, especially me. My heart raced, a frantic drum against my ribs. The Christmas cheer had officially curdled.
“What was that?” I breathed, my voice barely a whisper. Carter's face was a study in stillness, his gaze fixed on some point beyond me, beyond the fire, as if listening to something only he could hear. The thumping came again, closer this time, followed by a soft, dragging sound, like something being pulled across the floorboards directly above us. It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the house settling. It was deliberate. And it was coming from my room. My blood ran cold. Carter’s grip tightened further. His face, illuminated by the dying embers, was a mask of grim determination. He was protecting me. Or perhaps, he was protecting the secret.
I yanked my arm, trying to pull away, a primal fear seizing me. “Carter, what’s going on?” His head turned slowly, his eyes meeting mine, and for a fleeting second, I saw something there, something raw and desperate, before it was swallowed by the shadows. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came out. Only a heavy sigh escaped him, a sound filled with weariness, and a deep, abiding sorrow. The dragging sound upstairs continued, growing fainter now, moving away from my room, towards the deeper, darker reaches of the house.
He finally let go of my arm, the sudden release leaving my skin tingling, cold. He stood up, his tall frame looming over me, casting me in shadow. “It’s nothing, Finn. Just… the house.” His voice was low, too calm, a perfect lie. My mind, already reeling from the surreal blend of Christmas cheer and gothic dread, spun faster. Nothing? That sound was definitely something. Something deliberate. Something… wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The silence that followed felt even more ominous than the noise. The fire sputtered, its warmth now seeming like a cruel joke in the face of the encroaching chill.
I stood up too, stumbling slightly, my legs wobbly. “No. That was not ‘just the house.’ What is it?” My voice was shrill, barely recognizable. Carter walked to the fireplace, leaning his hand against the cold stone mantelpiece, his back to me. He was shutting me out. Closing off. It was infuriating, and terrifying. The cold seeped into my bones, a physical manifestation of the dread unfurling in my gut. I wanted to scream, to shake him, to demand answers. But the words died in my throat, choked by the oppressive atmosphere of the house, by the weight of Carter’s silence.
He turned slowly, his eyes still shadowed, but his mouth set in a hard line. “It’s Christmas, Finn. Let’s try to enjoy it.” His voice held a note of finality, a quiet command. But there was also a hint of something else, something I couldn’t quite decipher – desperation? A plea? I stared at him, my mind racing, trying to reconcile the protective intimacy of moments ago with this cold, distant stranger. The house was alive with secrets, and Carter was at its heart, a beautiful, terrifying enigma. I was caught, trapped in a gilded cage of old money and unspoken horrors, and Christmas hadn't even truly begun. The snow outside was falling harder now, obscuring the world, isolating us further.
The distant toll of a bell, impossibly deep and resonant, vibrated through the floorboards. One, two, three… it kept going, a slow, mournful chime that seemed to echo from the deepest foundations of the house, counting out the seconds until… what? Midnight? The final unraveling? My breath caught in my throat. Carter watched me, his gaze unblinking, his face utterly devoid of expression, even as the chilling sound continued to reverberate around us. The air grew heavier, thick with an ancient, palpable sorrow. The house wasn't just old; it was cursed. And I, somehow, was now a part of it.