Chapter Text
The fog makes Pluckley look like it’s trying too hard.
Simon stands at the edge of the village green with his hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, watching the sodium streetlamps bleed orange into the mist. Everything is softened, edges gone, outlines blurred. The church tower appears and disappears as though it can’t quite decide whether it exists. He grins into the dark.
Perfect.
He adjusts the recorder clipped inside his coat and presses his headphones properly over his ears. The world dulls slightly; his own breathing grows louder in the cups, steady and theatrical. “Alright,” he says softly, warming up his voice. His breath clouds thick and bright in front of him, making him look as though he’s narrating something important, which, to be fair, he is.
He clicks record.
“Good evening,” he says, his voice dropping into that familiar register, the one that wraps around listeners instead of projecting at them. “This is Simon Snow, and tonight on Dead Air we’re in Pluckley.” He pauses, letting the name settle. “It’s a gorgeous and historic little village by day, but if you believe the brochures, and several aggressively enthusiastic websites, it’s the most haunted village in England.”
He walks slowly down the lane, boots crunching against damp gravel. There’s no traffic, only distant sheep shifting somewhere beyond the hedgerows. “Pluckley boasts at least a dozen named spirits,” he continues. “A highwayman at Fright Corner, allegedly pinned to a tree with his own blade. The Screaming Man of the old clay pit. The Red Lady of the Dering family. The White Lady, said to be buried in seven lead coffins inside an oak sarcophagus. A monk, possibly two monks, depending on your accounting standards.”
He smiles, and it isn’t mockery. It’s affection. He loves this part: the naming, the layering, the way villages collect stories like moss. The fog presses close to the hedges. His breath blooms and fades. Bloom and fade.
“Now,” he says, “there’s some debate about how Pluckley earned the title of ‘most haunted.’ Some sources claim the reputation stretches back centuries. Others point to a surge in reported activity in the twentieth century.” He turns toward the churchyard gates in the distance, iron-black against the haze. “And what I find interesting,” he adds, lowering his voice, “is not whether the ghosts are real.”
He smiles again, softer this time.
“It’s why certain places collect more stories than others.”
He likes saying that. It feels clever without being smug, curious without being naïve. He steps slightly off the pavement to avoid a puddle. “Because repetition has weight. Dering Woods, also called the Screaming Woods, collects stories the way damp collects in brick. Hikers swear they’ve heard someone crying out near the old clay pit, but no one ever finds anyone. Stories told often enough don’t just linger; they settle.”
He pauses.
The fog seems thicker here. His breath comes faster for a second, and he laughs under it. “God, that’s dramatic.”
He hears it before he sees it.
Footsteps.
Not echoing. Not matching his rhythm.
Behind him.
Simon’s body goes alert immediately, not frightened, just tuned. He keeps his voice steady. “And sometimes,” he says into the mic, casual as anything, “the village reminds you that you’re not alone.”
He turns.
And that’s when he sees him.
Pluckley, if not exactly peaceful, is quiet in the way places with reputations tend to be.
Baz stands just beyond the wash of a streetlamp and watches the fog fold itself around the hedgerows. The village green holds narrative density like a basin, layered, settled, nothing volatile. Nothing unstable. Just accumulation. Residual pressure, faint and circular. Safe.
For him.
He slips his wand from his sleeve and presses the tip briefly against his palm, grounding himself in something familiar. The charge here is old and well-worn, grooves cut deep into the landscape. A loop site, not a breach site. He exhales and twists his hair back, securing it with the wand in a movement that looks careless but isn’t.
The cold rests against his skin without biting. It never does. The air settles over him the same way it settles over stone.
Then, across the green, a voice cuts cleanly through the mist.
Warm. Rich. Deliberately modulated.
“Good evening. This is Simon Snow”
Baz goes very still.
Of course it is.
He does not listen to the podcast. He is not a fan of the podcast nor its host. He monitors it. There is a difference he tells himself.
Dead Air is not incompetent, which would make things easier. It is structured. The topic choices are surprisingly thoughtful for a Normal production. Baz steps slightly closer, careful to remain outside the full spill of lamplight.
Simon Snow walks as he speaks, boots damp against gravel, breath blooming theatrically white in the cold. He gestures with his free hand without seeming aware of it. His voice shifts registers subtly, drawing listeners inward rather than projecting outward.
He is good.
That is the problem.
“…why certain places collect more stories than others.”
Baz closes his eyes briefly. He feels it when Simon names the White Lady, a small tightening in the field. Not a surge. Just attention focusing.
Reckless.
Simon steps off the pavement, still recording, still moving. Toward the churchyard gate. Alone.
“Behind me is St Nicholas’ Church,” Simon continues, tone measured, “thirteenth century in origin, though like most English churches it’s been patched and rebuilt repeatedly. The Dering family, who owned much of this village for centuries, are buried here. Depending on the account, one of their daughters may be the White Lady. Depending on the account, she’s also deeply, aggressively, entombed.”
The fog doesn’t move, exactly. But it listens.
“Sometimes the village reminds you that you’re not alone.”
The words settle like a stone dropped into shallow water.
Baz steps forward before he consciously decides to. Gravel crunches beneath his boots.
Simon turns.
And for the first time, Baz sees him properly.
Curly bronze hair damp at the edges. Blue eyes startling even under sodium light. Broad shoulders filling out a worn leather jacket. Breath bright and human in the cold air.
Annoying.
Infuriatingly so.
Baz adjusts his cuffs, schooling his expression into mild disdain. He will correct one detail. Only one. Then he will leave.
“Mid-twentieth,” he says evenly. “The sightings were catalogued in the 1950s. The Guinness claim followed decades later. Post-war tourism did the rest.”
Simon startles.
Good.
Baz steps fully into the lamplight, posture immaculate, gaze steady. He does not comment on Simon’s visible breath. He does not comment on the way Simon’s pulse thrums fast and strong in his ears. He definitely does not comment on the warmth radiating from him like a hearth.
“Not medieval,” Baz adds calmly. “As is so often implied.”
Simon blinks at him, irritation flashing, and something else.
Interest.
Baz folds his hands loosely before him.
He is here for research. For his own writing. That is all.
“By all means,” he says. “Continue.”
Simon hates being startled.
Not because he scares easily - he doesn’t. He’s done enough overnight recordings in derelict buildings to know the difference between nerves and danger. But being caught off guard makes him feel sixteen again, scrappy and braced.
So when the voice behind him corrects his timeline, precise and cool as if it’s annotating him, Simon’s shoulders go tight before he can stop them.
He turns.
And then promptly forgets what he was going to say.
The man standing just outside the lamplight looks like he’s stepped out of a cologne advert.
Tall. Dark hair pulled back, though a few strands have slipped loose at his temples. A long grey coat cut so sharply it looks expensive even in bad light. Hands bare despite the cold.
His face-
God.
Sharp mouth. Pale skin. Eyes that look almost silver in the sodium haze.
Simon realises he’s staring.
He adjusts his headphones as if that was the reason.
“Sorry?” he says, buying himself a second.
“Mid-twentieth,” the man repeats. “The claim gained traction post-war. The Guinness entry appeared in the 1980s. Most of the sightings were catalogued in the 1950s.”
His voice is low and even, like he’s not trying to win anything. Which is worse.
Simon pulls one earcup off, because he refuses to be condescended to in surround sound.
“Right,” he says. “And you are…?”
The man steps closer into the light.
His boots catch Simon’s eye first.
Doc Martens.
Purple laces.
Simon’s brain lights up in a very specific, very recognisable way.
Oh.
He hopes that’s deliberate.
Hopes the man knows what he’s flagging and his favourite colour isn’t just purple.
“I’m correcting a detail,” the man says smoothly. “Not auditioning.”
Simon snorts before he can help himself.
“Brilliant. Love that energy. You wait until I’m recording and then fact-check me live.”
“You were about to imply medieval origin.”
“I was setting tone.”
“Yes. Vaguely.”
Simon narrows his eyes.
The man’s mouth twitches, just slightly, like he’s enjoying this more than he wants to admit.
Simon becomes acutely aware of his own breath fogging thick and visible between them. The other man’s-
Isn’t.
It should be.
It’s cold enough.
Simon squints.
Maybe it is. Just thinner. Less dramatic.
He looks back up quickly before he can look like he’s inspecting him.
“Look,” Simon says, lifting the mic again. “If you’d like to stand quietly while I finish, I promise to include your preferred century.”
A beat.
The man inclines his head. “By all means.”
He doesn’t move.
Simon has the ridiculous urge to smooth his hair. He doesn’t.
He lifts the recorder.
“As I was saying,” he continues, deliberately calm, “Pluckley’s reputation as England’s most haunted village rose sharply in the mid-twentieth century-”
He gestures lightly toward his uninvited guest.
“-thanks in part to increased tourism and printed folklore collections.”
There. Accurate.
He finishes the segment cleanly. Warm. A little amused.
“And wherever you are tonight,” he says, softer now, instinctively leaning into the quiet, “if you’re listening in the dark… maybe turn on a light.”
He doesn’t know why he says it like that. He just does.
He clicks the recorder off.
The silence between them feels thicker than the fog.
“Well?” Simon asks.
The man studies him like he’s deciding something.
“Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” he says finally.
Simon blinks.
“…You’re joking.”
“No.”
“That’s your actual name.”
“Yes.”
Simon bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself smiling.
“Right. And do you go by Tyrannus socially?”
“You may call me Baz.” He says, like he’s offering Simon a favour.
“Baz,” Simon repeats, tasting it.
It fits him disturbingly well.
“I’m Simon.”
“I’m aware.”
“Oh good. So you’re not just haunting random intros.”
Baz’s gaze flickers briefly toward the churchyard.
“You’re going there,” he says.
It’s not a question.
“Yeah.”
“You shouldn’t go alone.”
Simon folds his arms.
He hates that tone. The careful one. The almost concerned one. The one that assumes he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
“I’m not alone,” Simon says lightly. “I’ve got seventeen thousand listeners.”
Baz looks at him.
And Simon has the strangest flicker of heat under his ribs.
Not anger.
Something else.
“Podcast subscribers,” Baz says dryly. “are a famously effective defence against the unknown.”
Simon steps closer before he thinks about it.
Baz is taller. Annoyingly so.
“Are you coming,” Simon says, lifting his chin slightly, “or are you just going to stand here being cryptic?”
Baz considers him.
Then:
“I’ll walk.”
Simon’s pulse kicks once, hard.
Good.
The path to the churchyard isn’t wide enough for two people to pretend they aren’t aware of each other.
Simon realises this about five steps in. The pavement thins into a gravel verge bordered by hedges that lean inward like they’ve been listening for decades. The fog presses low and close, swallowing the cottages behind them. The sodium glow fades to a dull wash at their backs, and Baz falls into step beside him without comment, too close to ignore, not close enough to touch.
They walk in silence for a few steps, their boots crunching out of rhythm. Simon’s breath blooms thick and theatrical in front of him. Baz’s does too, fainter, but there. Simon tells himself he imagined the difference earlier. He keeps his eyes forward.
“So,” he says lightly, because the silence feels charged in a way he doesn’t entirely trust, “you local?”
“No.”
“Academic tourism, then?”
Baz makes a small sound that might be a laugh if it were allowed to commit fully.
“Research.”
“On?”
“Folkloric persistence.”
Simon glances sideways.
“Which means?”
“How stories survive.”
Simon snorts. “By being interesting.”
“Not exclusively.”
There’s something in the way he says it, measured, precise, that makes Simon want to prod at it. Instead, he bumps his shoulder lightly against Baz’s arm, barely enough to register. He doesn’t know why he does it. To test something, maybe.
Baz goes very still.
Simon pretends not to notice.
The contact lingers in his awareness longer than it should. Baz’s coat is wool, smooth and dense. The fabric expensive. Structured.
Simon swallows.
“You’re the sort of person who corrects tour guides, aren’t you,” he says.
“If they’re wrong.”
“And if they’re charmingly wrong?”
Baz glances at him then.
Properly.
The look is sharp enough to slice through the fog.
“I’m not invested in charm,” he says.
Simon laughs.
“That’s a shame.”
The churchyard gate emerges ahead of them like it’s been sketched into existence. Iron bars damp and black, the fog threading through them like breath through teeth. Somewhere inside, the bell ropes hang slack in the dark.
Simon pushes it open.
It creaks, not theatrically, just old.
Baz reaches past him to hold it steady.
Their hands brush.
Just for a second.
Simon’s skin is warm. Always has been. Runs hot even in winter. His pulse jumps like he’s stepped off a curb unexpectedly.
Baz’s hand is-
Cold.
Not painfully so.
Just cool in a way that makes Simon’s brain register it twice.
He looks down before he can stop himself.
Long fingers. Pale. Clean nails. A faint tension in the tendons like he’s holding himself very carefully in place.
Simon realises he’s staring at Baz’s hand.
He looks up.
Baz’s eyes are already on him.
There’s a flicker there, not embarrassment. Not apology.
Calculation.
Simon lets go of the gate first.
“Cheers,” he says casually.
Baz inclines his head.
The churchyard swallows them.
Inside, the fog is thicker. The gravestones rise unevenly from the grass, damp and leaning. The world beyond the iron fence disappears entirely. It feels like stepping backstage, the village set folded away behind a curtain.
Simon becomes aware of how alone they are.
No traffic hum. No distant television through cottage windows.
Just the sound of their breathing.
His loud.
Baz’s almost not there.
“Still think I shouldn’t be here?” Simon asks, softer now.
Baz doesn’t answer immediately.
“I think,” he says carefully, “you underestimate risk.”
Simon smiles, because he doesn’t know what else to do with that.
“I’ve been doing this for years.”
“That doesn’t make you immune.”
Simon turns to face him properly now.
Up close, Baz’s eyes aren’t just grey. There’s something else in them, depth, like smoke under glass. His hair has come slightly loose at the nape of his neck. There’s a strand brushing his collar.
Simon has a sudden, absurd urge to tuck it back.
He clenches his hands instead.
“Are you always this ominous,” he asks, “or am I special?”
Baz’s mouth curves, just barely.
“You’re underprepared.”
Simon’s irritation flares.
“Underprepared how?”
“You record invitations into the dark.”
Simon laughs.
“Mate, that’s my job description.”
“It’s a choice.”
The fog shifts faintly around them.
Simon shrugs it off.
“Relax,” he says. “It’s a sign-off.”
Baz’s gaze flickers over his face, assessing, searching for something Simon can’t quite name.
Simon steps closer without meaning to.
They are inside each other’s space now. Not touching. But near enough that Simon can see the faint shadow beneath Baz’s eyes. The tension in his jaw.
“I don’t scare easily,” Simon says quietly.
Baz’s expression changes.
Not mocking.
Not dismissive.
Something like-
Recognition.
“I can see that,” he says.
For a second, neither of them moves.
Simon becomes intensely aware of the size of Baz’s hands. The line of his throat. The fact that he smells faintly like cigarette smoke and something colder underneath.
He realises, with startling clarity, that he wants to kiss him.
Which is ridiculous.
They’ve known each other for approximately six minutes and half of that has been argumentative.
Simon clears his throat and looks away first.
“Right,” he says briskly. “Churchyard. White Lady. Let’s see what she’s up to.”
Baz watches him for one beat too long.
Then nods.
They move deeper between the stones.
The fog closes behind them like a curtain.
The churchyard doesn’t feel dangerous.
It feels watched.
Not by something active - not prowling or waiting. Just… aware of itself. Like a room holding its breath.
Simon walks between the gravestones slowly now, recorder still running though he hasn’t spoken in a minute. He likes letting the quiet sit on tape. Listeners lean in when nothing happens.
Baz follows half a step behind him.
Not crowding.
Not distant either.
Simon can feel the space between them the way you feel heat from a radiator, a defined boundary. If he leaned back an inch, he’d touch him.
He doesn’t.
A crow shifts somewhere in the dark trees beyond the wall. The fog presses low to the grass, catching around the bases of the stones.
“You always do this alone?” Baz asks finally.
Simon glances over his shoulder.
“Mostly.”
“Why.”
It’s not judgmental.
That makes it worse.
Simon shrugs. “Logistics. No one wants to stand in a freezing churchyard at midnight while I talk about Victorian death records.”
Baz looks at him like that isn’t an answer.
Simon sighs. “And it’s quieter alone.”
“For whom?”
Simon smiles faintly.
“For the place.”
Baz studies him.
The look is different now. Less cutting. More… curious.
Simon feels something warm and bright in his chest at that.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never gone somewhere by yourself just to see what it felt like,” Simon says.
Baz’s mouth presses thin.
“I prefer to know what something feels like before I enter it.”
Simon laughs softly.
“That sounds exhausting.”
Simon turns fully this time, walking backwards a few steps so he can look at him properly.
The fog softens Baz’s edges. Makes him look less carved, more human. There’s a faint tension at the corner of his mouth, like he’s permanently holding something back.
“You’re not what I expected,” Simon says.
Baz arches a brow. “You expected something? We’ve only just met.”
“I don’t know,” Simon admits. “A man named Tyrranus sounds proper tweedy. Elbow patches. Mildly resentful of modern media.”
Baz’s mouth twitches.
“I own no tweed.”
“Tragic.”
Simon steps back too far and his heel hits a slight dip in the grass. He wobbles.
Baz moves instantly.
A hand at his elbow.
Firm. Precise.
Cold.
Simon’s breath catches, not from fear. From proximity.
Baz’s fingers tighten just enough to steady him.
Their faces are closer now.
Simon can see the faint shadow beneath Baz’s lashes. The way his pupils contract slightly in the low light. The sharp line of his cheekbone.
“Careful,” Baz says quietly.
The word lands somewhere deeper than it should.
Simon swallows.
“I’ve got good balance,” he mutters.
“Evidently.”
Neither of them moves.
Simon is very aware of Baz’s hand still at his elbow.
And of how easily he could lean forward that last inch.
He steps back instead.
Baz drops his hand immediately.
The loss of contact registers like the air shifting temperature.
Simon clears his throat.
“See?” he says, gesturing vaguely around them. “Not so ominous.”
The fog slides between the gravestones.
The world narrows further.
And then-
A sound.
Soft.
Measured.
Gravel shifting.
Not under Simon’s boots.
Not under Baz’s.
Simon freezes.
Baz goes utterly still beside him.
They listen.
There it is again.
Crunch.
Pause.
Crunch.
Footsteps.
Slow. Even.
Somewhere to their left.
Simon feels the grin bloom before he can stop it.
“There,” he whispers.
Baz doesn’t answer.
The footsteps continue.
Not rushing.
Not reacting.
Just… walking.
Simon turns his head slowly.
Through the fog, beyond the low stone wall at the edge of the churchyard, a pale shape emerges.
A woman.
Her dress is long, narrow at the hem, the cut old-fashioned without being theatrical, late Victorian mourning, if Simon had to guess. No shawl. No lantern. Just white fabric that seems to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Her head is slightly bowed as she walks in a straight line across the field.
She does not look at them.
She does not hesitate.
She does not falter.
Simon’s breath blooms thick and bright in the cold air. He can hear his pulse in his ears, steady and loud.
“Oh,” he breathes.
It’s not fear.
It’s wonder.
The woman reaches the far hedge.
Turns at the exact same angle, toward where Rose Court once stood, long demolished but still present in old parish maps.
And vanishes into fog.
Silence.
Then-
Crunch.
Pause.
Crunch.
The footsteps begin again from the starting point.
Identical.
Simon laughs softly, reverently.
“That’s textbook.”
Baz’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Simon glances at him.
Baz isn’t watching the woman.
He’s watching the pattern.
Simon steps closer to the wall without thinking.
Baz’s voice comes low and sharp.
“Don’t.”
Simon stops.
The footsteps continue.
Unbothered.
Simon looks at him, eyebrows raised.
“What?”
Baz hesitates.
Just for a second.
“It’s repeating,” he says evenly. “You don’t need to interfere.”
Simon tilts his head.
“I wasn’t interfering.”
“You were about to cross the boundary.”
Simon looks down at the grass, at the subtle shift where churchyard gives way to field.
He hadn’t noticed it consciously.
He grins.
“Worried about me?”
Baz meets his eyes.
“Yes.”
The word lands between them like something dropped and not yet examined.
Simon’s stomach flips.
He looks away first.
The woman walks again.
Unchanging.
Unaware.
Simon exhales slowly.
“Okay,” he says, softer now. “Residual. Local accounts usually place the White Lady closer to the church itself,” he murmurs. “Near the graves. Near the tower. But folklore migrates. Ghosts rarely stay where the pamphlet puts them.”
Baz doesn’t correct him.
They stand side by side, watching the loop play out again.
Not touching.
But close enough that Simon can feel the faint cool of Baz’s presence at his sleeve.
The fog presses in.
The field repeats.
And for a moment, the world feels small and contained and strangely intimate.
The woman reaches the hedge.
Turns.
Vanishing point.
Crunch.
Pause.
Crunch.
She begins again.
Simon waits until she’s midway across the field before he steps closer to the low stone wall. Not crossing it. Just nearer.
Baz shifts with him instantly.
Close enough now that Simon can feel the faint brush of wool against his sleeve.
“Hello?” Simon calls softly.
His voice carries strangely in the fog. Not echoing, just… absorbed.
The woman does not look up.
Does not falter.
Crunch.
Pause.
Crunch.
Simon glances sideways at Baz.
“Worth a shot.”
Baz says nothing.
Simon watches the figure reach the hedge again.
“Can you hear me?” he tries.
No change.
The rhythm remains identical.
It’s almost beautiful, in a bleak sort of way.
Simon lowers his voice slightly, instinctively respectful.
“What happened to you?”
Nothing.
The question falls flat in the damp air.
The woman walks.
Turns.
Disappears.
Simon exhales, visible and bright.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s solid.”
Baz’s jaw tightens just slightly.
“It isn’t listening,” Baz says quietly.
Simon tilts his head. “Most residuals don’t.”
“Most.”
Simon catches that.
He looks at him.
“You say that like you’ve tested a few.”
Baz’s mouth curves faintly.
“Observation is not the same as participation.”
“That sounds suspiciously like someone who’s tried talking to ghosts.”
Baz doesn’t rise to it.
Simon studies him instead.
There’s something different about Baz when the woman walks. Not fear. Not awe.
Attention.
Precise. Focused.
Like he’s reading a graph only he can see.
Simon steps back from the wall, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets because he suddenly needs to do something with them.
“She’s not responding,” he says. “No variation in stride length. No environmental disturbance. No temperature drop beyond baseline.”
Baz’s eyebrow lifts.
“You took readings.”
“Of course I took readings,” Simon says, mock offended. “I’m not just vibes and a microphone.”
Baz glances at the small digital device clipped to Simon’s belt. EMF reader. Standard issue.
“Your baseline calibration is off,” Baz says absently.
Simon stares at him.
“It is not.”
“It is.”
“You don’t even know what model-”
“It’s reading the sodium interference.”
Simon looks down.
It is.
He frowns.
Baz doesn’t look smug.
Which is worse.
“You could’ve led with that,” Simon mutters.
“I preferred to observe.”
Simon huffs.
The woman walks again.
“Right,” Simon says briskly, shifting tone back into presenter mode. “Classic residual. Repeating path, no environmental reaction, no acknowledgement of external stimuli.”
He gestures vaguely toward the field.
“She’s not here with us. We’re here with her. Pluckley isn’t haunted because something died here,” he says quietly. “It’s haunted because people kept watching.”
Baz’s gaze flicks to him sharply at that.
Simon doesn’t notice.
“Simon lifts his recorder, his voice shifting instinctively into presenter mode. “Pluckley’s White Lady appears to be exactly what local accounts describe, a loop. A replay. No attempt at communication, no awareness of observers.”
The footsteps crunch.
The fog holds.
“And that,” Simon says, smiling faintly, “is sometimes more unsettling than a response.”
He clicks the recorder off.
Silence.
They stand there another loop.
Neither of them speaking.
The intimacy of it creeps up quietly.
Two men. One repeating ghost. Fog closing the edges of the world.
Simon rubs his hands together for warmth.
“Alright,” he says, turning toward Baz. “Academic verdict?”
Baz considers the field.
“Stable,” he says.
“That’s it?”
“You want a flourish?”
Simon grins. “I do enjoy a flourish.”
Baz’s mouth twitches.
“It’s contained,” he says. “No escalation. No deviation.”
Simon studies him.
“You sound disappointed.”
Baz looks at him then - properly.
“I don’t enjoy escalation.”
Simon holds that gaze a beat too long.
There’s something in Baz’s expression that isn’t about ghosts at all.
“Fair,” Simon says softly.
The woman turns again.
The loop plays.
Simon rocks back on his heels.
“Pub?” he says suddenly.
Baz blinks.
“Pub,” Simon repeats. “We can argue about whether repetition is comforting or tragic somewhere warm.”
Baz hesitates.
The fog swirls faintly around them.
Simon feels the space between yes and no stretch.
“You drink?” Simon adds lightly.
Baz’s eyes flicker.
“Yes.”
There’s something careful in the way he says it.
Simon clocks it.
Files it away without knowing why.
“Brilliant,” Simon says. “Because I refuse to be corrected sober.”
Baz exhales something that might almost be a laugh.
“Lead the way.”
Simon turns toward the gate.
He doesn’t look back at the field.
Baz does.
Just once.
The woman walks again.
Identical.
The village feels different when they step back through the churchyard gate.
Not less foggy. Just less intimate.
The cottages return in soft, smudged outlines, their windows glowing faint amber through the mist. The pub sign creaks lazily on its chain, the sound small and ordinary after the hush of the field. Simon becomes abruptly aware of the cold now that they’re moving again, as if stillness had insulated him from it.
Simon becomes abruptly aware of the cold now that they’re no longer standing still.
“Right,” he says, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “You win on the calibration thing, by the way.”
“I’m not competing,” Baz replies.
“That’s exactly what someone who is competing would say.”
Baz glances at him sidelong, and the corner of his mouth lifts despite himself.
They walk the short stretch in a silence that isn’t awkward so much as… charged. Simon keeps drifting half a step too close, aware of the brush of wool near his sleeve, then deliberately not correcting it. The door glows warm at the end of the lane.
Baz stops just before it.
“You go in,” he says.
“Why?”
“I’ll join you.”
Simon studies him for a second before noticing the cigarette already poised between Baz’s fingers.
“Ah,” Simon says. “Terrible habit.”
“Yes.”
Baz produces a lighter from his coat pocket. Silver. Sleek. It catches the lamplight as he flicks it open.
The flame flares warm and bright against his face, throwing sharp shadows along his cheekbones. For a moment he looks carved from contrast and firelight.
Simon watches.
Baz draws in slowly. The ember glows. Smoke spills pale into the fog, curling upward in thin ribbons.
It looks almost like breath.
Instead of going inside, Simon leans one shoulder against the pub wall.
Baz notices. “Cold?” he asks mildly.
Simon shrugs. “You’re standing out here.”
Baz exhales again, gaze following the smoke as it unravels. He holds the cigarette like he’s assessing it rather than enjoying it, posture immaculate even in something as careless as this.
“You don’t look like a smoker,” Simon says.
“And you look underprepared.”
Simon laughs.
“Fair.”
A small, suspended beat passes between them. Simon lets his gaze drift, carefully casual, downward.
Boots.
Doc Martens.
Purple laces vivid even in sodium light.
He looks back up.
“So,” he says lightly, “you got a favourite colour?”
Baz looks faintly puzzled. “Maybe blue?”
Simon’s eyes drop pointedly.
Baz follows his gaze.
There’s a flicker, quick and sharp, of recognition. Then a slow, deliberate smirk spreads across his mouth.
“My aunt’s an old punk,” he says smoothly. “She made sure to educate me on lace code.”
Simon’s stomach flips in a way that feels dangerously like anticipation.
“Oh yeah?”
“Mm.”
“And?”
Baz takes another drag. The ember flares again, briefly illuminating the planes of his face.
“And,” he says evenly, “I prefer clarity.”
Simon feels heat rise to his face that has nothing to do with the cigarette.
He pushes off the wall, stepping closer without quite meaning to.
“Clarity’s good,” he says.
Baz looks at him over the edge of the cigarette, eyes steady and unreadable. “Yes.”
The space between them narrows without either of them visibly moving. Simon can smell tobacco now, sharp and warm, and something colder beneath it, clean and expensive. Cedar. Something citrus-bright. Juniper.
Baz’s gaze dips briefly to Simon’s mouth.
Simon notices.
Baz notices that Simon notices.
Instead of retreating, Baz tilts his head slightly, studying him as if confirming a hypothesis.
“You clocked it quickly,” he says.
Simon shrugs, aiming for casual and missing entirely. “I pay attention.”
“I can see that.”
There’s something in the way Baz says it, low, almost approving, that makes Simon’s pulse kick hard against his ribs. He wants to say something reckless. Something decisive.
He doesn’t.
Instead he nods toward the pub door. “So. Is that clarity strictly theoretical, or...”
Baz’s eyebrow lifts. “Or?”
Simon grins because he doesn’t seem capable of restraint where this man is concerned. “Or are you correcting me professionally and flirting recreationally?”
Baz studies him for a long, quiet second. The fog softens the edges of everything, the lane, the cottages, the glow of the pub door behind them. It feels suspended, like the moment before something tips.
“I don’t multitask,” Baz says at last.
Simon’s breath catches.
Baz flicks ash neatly to the pavement.
“But I do prioritise.”
Simon laughs, a fraction too quick. “That sounded like a threat.”
“Observation.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“I’ve been told.”
The cigarette burns to its end. Baz crushes it beneath his heel with careful precision, then, of course, pockets the stub instead of dropping it.
For a moment they just stand there.
Not speaking.
The tension isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic.
It’s deliberate.
Simon becomes acutely aware of his own warmth, of how close he’s standing, how easily he could close the remaining inch between them. Baz hasn’t stepped back. Hasn’t leaned away.
Simon doesn’t bridge it.
“Drink,” he says instead.
Baz inclines his head, as if accepting terms in a negotiation neither of them named. “After you.”
Simon opens the pub door. Warmth spills over them in a rush of light and sound.
He steps inside without looking back.
Baz follows.
The pub is warmer than Simon expects.
Not roaring-fire warm, just low-ceilinged, amber-lit, the kind of lived-in warmth that settles into wood and stays there. The air smells of ale, old varnish, and something fried. A handful of locals sit scattered near the hearth and along the walls. They glance up briefly, Baz’s coat, Simon’s microphone bag, then return to their drinks.
Simon heads straight for the bar. He doesn’t ask where Baz would prefer to sit. He chooses two empty stools near the end, close enough that their knees will inevitably knock if either of them shifts.
He tells himself this is coincidence.
Baz notices.
Of course he does.
Simon climbs onto his stool and signals for a pint, gesturing vaguely toward Baz. “And?”
“Red,” Baz says.
Simon turns to look at him. “In a pub.”
“Yes.”
The bartender doesn’t so much as blink before producing a glass of wine without comment.
Simon settles with his elbows lightly on the bar. Baz takes the stool beside him with precise, economical movement, sitting straight-backed at first, coat still on, hands loosely folded. Simon becomes acutely aware of the narrow space between their arms, half an inch, maybe less. Their shoulders nearly align. If he leaned slightly left...
He doesn’t.
He takes a long swallow of his pint instead. Cold. Bitter. Familiar.
Baz lifts his wine with two fingers, neat and deliberate. Simon watches from the corner of his eye.
“You disapprove,” Baz says without looking at him.
“I’m evaluating.”
“Of what.”
“Whether you’re about to swirl it.”
Baz turns his head slowly.
Simon holds his gaze.
Baz swirls it.
Deliberately.
Simon laughs, loud enough that someone at a nearby table glances over. “You’re unbearable.”
“So I’ve gathered.”
When Baz lowers his glass, their arms brush, wool against worn leather. It shouldn’t register. It does. Baz doesn’t move away.
Neither does Simon.
“So,” Simon says, because the silence here feels closer than it did in the fog, “folkloric persistence.”
Baz exhales softly. “You’re mocking.”
“I’m curious.”
Baz studies the bar top for a moment before answering. “Stories survive when they’re reinforced. When they’re repeated. When they’re useful.”
“Useful how?”
“They give shape to fear. Or hope.”
Simon nods slowly. “That’s not so different from what I do.”
Baz turns slightly toward him. Their knees brush this time. Neither pulls away.
“You amplify,” Baz says.
“I document.”
“You invite.”
Simon smiles faintly. “And you don’t.”
Baz’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “I prefer not to assume something wishes to be addressed.”
“That’s very polite of you.”
“It’s practical.”
Simon watches the line of Baz’s throat as he swallows his wine. He tells himself he isn’t noticing that. He very much is.
“Can I ask you something?” Simon says.
“You already have.”
Simon nudges him lightly with his elbow, this time deliberate. Baz yields a fraction, then steadies, his arm warm and solid beside Simon’s.
“Why Pluckley?” Simon asks. “If you don’t enjoy escalation.”
The pub hums around them, glass clinking, a low laugh near the fire, the muted scrape of chair legs on wood. Baz considers the question.
“Baseline,” he says at last.
Simon arches an eyebrow.
“Understanding something stable,” Baz continues, “before studying something volatile.”
Simon smiles slowly. “You’re cautious.”
“Yes.”
Simon glances down at their arms, still nearly touching. “Does that extend beyond ghosts?”
Baz doesn’t answer immediately. He lifts his glass instead.
“Does recklessness?” he counters.
Simon huffs a quiet laugh. “I’m not reckless.”
“You record invitations into empty spaces.”
Simon turns toward him fully now, close enough that their shoulders press properly together. “And you followed me into one.”
Baz meets his gaze.
The shift between them this time isn’t sharp. It’s warmer. Intentional.
“You were about to cross a boundary,” Baz says quietly.
Simon’s pulse stutters. “Worried about me?”
“Yes.”
Again. No hesitation. No embellishment.
Simon’s mouth goes dry. He takes another swallow of beer that doesn’t help.
There’s something about the way Baz says it, matter-of-fact, untheatrical, that unsettles him more than anything dramatic would have. Simon leans back slightly on his stool, creating the smallest amount of space.
“Careful,” he says lightly. “You’ll ruin your killjoy reputation.”
“I have no such reputation.”
“Yet.”
Their arms brush again as Baz sets his glass down. Neither moves this time. They sit like that, shoulders aligned, knees occasionally touching, glances caught and redirected.
Two men pretending proximity is incidental.
The pub door opens; a breath of cold air slips in and fades.
Simon studies the condensation sliding down his glass. “You coming back out tomorrow?” he asks, aiming for casual.
“To Pluckley?”
“Anywhere.”
Baz considers him. “I tend to return to places that warrant further study.”
Simon smiles. “Good.”
Baz lifts an eyebrow. “Because?”
Simon meets his gaze. “Because I hate being corrected once.”
Baz laughs then, low, brief, unguarded. It catches Simon off balance. He feels it in his chest, warm and immediate.
They finish their drinks without rushing. Without lingering, either.
When they finally stand, their shoulders brush again.
This time neither pretends not to notice.
The night feels colder after the pub.
Not objectively, Simon checks his phone out of habit. Same temperature as earlier. Same damp fog pressing low over the lanes. The difference isn’t in the air.
It’s in him.
He unlocks his car and slides into the driver’s seat, the familiar smell of fabric cleaner and old takeaway grounding him more than it should. The windscreen is beaded with moisture, the world beyond it blurred into amber smears and soft grey. For a moment he just sits there, hands loose on the steering wheel, not turning the engine over.
Successful investigation.
Clean residual loop.
No anomalies. No escalation. No danger.
A drink with a very attractive, infuriating academic who absolutely knew what purple laces meant.
Simon exhales slowly. His breath clouds the inside of the windscreen, and he wipes it away with the sleeve of his jacket.
“Ridiculous,” he mutters.
He pulls the recorder from his pocket. He always does a post-investigation reflection while it’s fresh, not necessarily for the main episode. Sometimes it becomes bonus content. Sometimes it’s just for him.
He clicks record.
The red light glows steady.
“End-of-night thoughts,” he begins, settling automatically into his usual tone, warm, measured, faintly amused. “Pluckley delivered exactly what it promised. Textbook residual. Stable loop. No environmental deviation.”
He pauses.
The words land flat in the small space of the car.
He shifts in his seat, adjusting his grip on the recorder as though that might help.
“There’s something comforting,” he continues, “about a haunting that doesn’t escalate. Not everything has to scream or respond. Sometimes a place just holds what it’s held for a long time.”
He swallows.
His mind drifts anyway.
A cool hand at his elbow.
Yes.
Clarity.
Simon blinks and refocuses on the red recording light.
“Anyway,” he says lightly, “if you’re listening to this while driving home from somewhere you weren’t entirely sure you should go...”
He stops.
That isn’t what he meant to say.
A quiet laugh slips out of him. “Forget that.”
He rubs his thumb along the steering wheel, the textured leather grounding under his skin.
Why does he feel off?
It was a good night. The kind he lives for. No adrenaline crash, no creeping dread, no sense of something unfinished trailing him home.
Just fog. A looping White Lady.
Baz leaning in slightly at the bar.
Baz saying worried like it was an observable fact.
Baz laughing.
Simon closes his eyes briefly, then opens them again.
“Right,” he says into the recorder, trying to gather the thread. “Pluckley’s a baseline. A good one. If you’re interested in residual phenomena, controlled repetition, no interactive component, it’s a solid example.”
He hesitates.
He doesn’t mention Baz.
He wouldn’t know how to.
“There’s something else,” he says slowly. “About repetition.”
He frowns at the windscreen, at his own reflection blurred in it. That sounds like he’s trying to be profound.
He shifts again, and when he speaks next his voice is quieter, less presenter, more him.
“I think sometimes you don’t realise something’s unsettled you until you’re alone in your car afterwards.”
He huffs a small breath that might be a laugh.
“Not in a bad way. Just… shifted.”
His fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel.
“I met someone tonight.”
The words hang there in the dim interior.
He doesn’t elaborate.
“Anyway,” he says briskly, retreating back into cadence, “turn on a light tonight if you need one. I’ll be back on the road.”
He clicks the recorder off before he can add anything else.
Silence settles in the car. The fog presses faintly against the windows as though listening.
Simon leans his head back against the seat and stares up at the roof liner.
Why does it feel like something has started?
It wasn’t the ghost.
It wasn’t the village.
It was...
He exhales sharply and shakes his head. “Get a grip.”
He turns the key in the ignition. The engine hums to life, headlights cutting twin paths through the fog.
From here he can’t see the churchyard. Can’t see the field.
He doesn’t see the faintest suggestion that somewhere in the distance, the loop hesitates, just a fraction longer than before.
He just drives.
Warm breath filling the car.
Cold night holding the rest of it.