A Phantom's Lullaby

A/N: A new story, because I need to practice my writing and will away writer’s block. :( Please consider all warnings when reading.

Summary: When his mother dies under the worst of circumstances, Calvin finds himself uprooted from his home in Scotland and sent away to boarding school by a father he didn’t even know existed. A stressful situation only becomes worse when Calvin begins to see things no sane person should, and comes to discover more about Bruisewood Academy than anyone should ever know.

Chapter One: Crossroads

* * *

Calvin stared straight ahead of him, his gaze unmoving even as the train traveled past the most beautiful scenery of Scotland. His fingers clutched a rumpled note, and though besides his staring he could pass for ordinary, his eyes were dotted with madness.

The dinner tray settled in front of him slid precariously down the make-shift table as the train made a sharp turn, and Mr. Moore stared helplessly as the contents spilled onto the floor.

“Hadn’t I told you to finish that up almost an hour ago?” He said warily, far too distraught with his son’s behavior to really enforce any rules he might have made. There weren’t many – there aren’t many rules you can make in four hours, which was vaguely the amount of time he and his son had been together, ever.

The young boy stared stonily at the seat across from him with his colder-than-usual grey eyes, avoiding his father’s gaze. “Yes.”

Mr. Moore sighed, and then reached for the mess on the ground. His slender fingers wrapped around Calvin’s fork, and the boy was momentarily afraid his father would use the utensil to kill him. Perhaps he was being irrational, or maybe it was quite a plausible interpretation considering how prominent murder was becoming in his life.

The next hour of the train ride was suffered in silence, except for the occasional attempt of Mr. Moore to start up a conversation with his son. Calvin merely crumpled and crinkled the note in his hands, ink smudging onto his fingers as he worked to ignore the man who suddenly called himself his father.

Calvin was not Calvin Kennedy Moore. No, definitely not. Calvin was Calvin Kennedy Swift, just as his mother was Lily Swift and just like his brother was Dean Swift. There were no Moores in his family – there were only disillusioned biological fathers with no intent to be a parental figure in their son’s life.

“You’re going to ruin it,” Mr. Moore finally snapped whilst Calvin’s fingers managed to tear the corner of his note. “Although, I suppose it’s better if you do. It’s quite unhealthy to carry a suicide note wherever you go.”

His fingers stopped moving momentarily, and Calvin finally looked away from the spot on the blue, velvet seat to stare at Mr. Moore with an incredible amount of contempt for a sixteen-year-old to manage. Mr. Moore relented and looked away, with a small mutter of how inappropriate he had been and how profusely sorry he was for saying such an inconsiderate thing.

An awkward silence, more awkward than the last, even, enveloped them for the rest of their train ride. It wasn’t until a plump woman peeked through the compartment door informing them that their stop was next did Mr. Moore finally speak once again.

The weather was wonderful. The sun was out, turning Calvin’s nearly black hair a deep shade of brown whenever he stepped in its path. He unbuttoned his coat and held it over one arm, his only bag trailing behind him. It was short notice, which kept his packing light and quick. Only earlier that morning did Calvin realise he would be leaving the comfort and normalcy of Scotland for a private school in London, and as the train left thirty-five minutes after he was informed, he hadn’t had much time to pack anything but the necessities.

“My car’s just over here, Parking Lot B.” Mr. Moore flashed a smile, though Calvin had a feeling it had to do with the publicity of the busy station and the vanity that was his father more than it had to do with reassuring him.

The car was flashy – a new model. Calvin climbed into the back seat quietly after refusing to give up his bag, to the annoyance of Mr. Moore, and continued to stare blankly.

Calvin was already in uniform. A cream coloured tie striped evenly with dark navy bands was nestled at the collar of a smart white dress shirt, while a vest with the school badge stitched onto his left breast, in gold thread, settled comfortably on his chest. Had the weather not been so stifling, he’d be wearing his jacket as well to complete the outfit.

He looked polished, as Mr. Moore put it. The type of son he was going to be proud of. It was at that point that Calvin really began to hate the uniform.

“Be careful, now, Calvin.” The rear view mirror reflected Mr. Moore’s bushy eyebrows as they crinkled. “Don’t wrinkle your uniform. Bruisewood Academy is all about first impressions.”

Bruisewood Academy already seemed a dreary place to Calvin, who avoided wrinkling the pressed creases in his cream pants or mussing up his neatly combed hair as he sat in the heat of Mr. Moore’s flashy car. He already felt a knot twist in his gut in remembrance of his former school, and his friends left behind.

Noticing Calvin’s melancholic mood, Mr. Moore tried his best to sound cheery as he talked about various landscapes and landmarks, pointing them out to the younger boy’s unmoving gaze. Finally, pursing his lips, he gave up and focused on the road.

It wasn’t until forty-five minutes later that Calvin’s interests were piqued. They had reached the winding road that led to the school, which was easily comparable to the size of a castle. He breathed out slowly, eyes drawn to the towering gate as the car approached it. The only thought that crossed his awed mind was prison – the gate, tall with strong bars, created the illusion of a prison.

They reached the gate, before coming to a slow stop. Mr. Moore grinned in a way that suggested there was nothing amiss to the gatekeeper who waved cheerily back with familiarity.

“All right there, Mr. Moore, sir?” Calvin noticed it was just a boy with a shock of blond hair that was disheveled from slow bouts of wind.

“Fine, fine. Gregory, meet Calvin.” Looking up, grey eyes met a curious blue. “Greg here is in fifth form, just a year ahead of you.”

Gregory grinned, stimulating the gate to open. Calvin didn’t smile. Unfazed, the blond continued their conversation. “He’s in Thomas’ year, Mr. Moore?” He asked, deciding to ignore Calvin all together. Apparently, the polished boys of Bruisewood Academy had the talent of being extremely polite and unpleasant at the same time.

Mr. Moore smiled widely. “Yes, that’s right. How is Thomas, anyhow?”

The blond straightened his back as the gate finally opened completely, and gestured toward it in a sweeping motion. With a smile, and what Calvin registered as a taunting smirk in his direction, he replied, “You may as well see for yourself.”

Nodding, Mr. Moore waved Gregory away and drove through the gate, his face taking on a renewed expression.

Bruisewood Academy behind the gates was not the dreary landscape Calvin was expecting. The grounds were filled with meticulously cared for shrubbery and fields where he expected the boys were to play ridiculous games like croquet. There was even a hoard of trees to his far right, bordering a small grassy clearing, and what seemed to be an expansive garden.

The manor itself was beautiful. Mr. Moore, when he had been enthusiastic about their reunion earlier that day, had explained that Bruisewood Academy had been the home of a once wealthy, long since deceased, madman. He then moved onto ensuring Calvin of how long ago that had happened, and how credible the school was, despite the stories.

Calvin hadn’t been interested, and still was not, as he stared up at the collage of clean white paint on smooth wood and scattered red-brown bricks. Mr. Moore paused just short of the grand entrance staircase, and pulled his lank body out of the front seat. “Let us go meet Garland, then.” He smiled.

Following Mr. Moore into the Entrance Hall, Calvin felt extremely out of place. Portraits and paintings littered the walls depicting men in smart clothing or the works of famous artists. But, it wasn’t that which caused him to feel uneasy. There was a large sculpture of what Calvin expected to be Dr. King, the alleged madman of the past, made from marble in the centre of the room.

Mr. Moore didn’t take a second glance at it. “This way,” he said, with familiarity that came from attending the school himself years ago.

Apparently, he had met Calvin’s mother through the school. She was a gardener, barely wealthy enough to support herself much less go to a private school like him. But Calvin willed himself not to think of that. It was already mind-numbing to have found out his father wasn’t dead, nor an army man, but instead a rich entrepreneur that had been residing in London all along.

“Don’t look so anxious, Calvin.” Mr. Moore announced when they reached a broad door that was meant to intimidate. “This is Headmaster Garland’s office. Put on your jacket, son.”

Headmaster Garland was an old man, with nearly translucent skin and watery eyes. He didn’t greet Calvin with so much as a glance, but smiled at Mr. Moore like he were an old friend. “Kennedy, my boy! How have you been handling yourself?”

Calvin felt warm and uncomfortable in his uniform, and he could feel his neatly parted hair growing disheveled. His eyes slid over to the window which had a view of one of the neat little fields, and he suppressed the urge to snap at Mr. Moore and force the man to take him back to his small and insignificant life.

Instead, he stood idly by Mr. Moore’s side as the man and he chatted about dull things like business and scandals that involved people he’d never heard of.

“... Actually, I really came to ask you a favour.” Mr. Moore’s voice had grown less formal and Garland’s blue gaze finally landed on Calvin.

“Ah, yes.” Garland’s voice became a tad disagreeable and Calvin began to wonder if somehow, even in the generic uniform and polished shoes, he somehow didn’t come up to par. “You know I owe you a million favours, Moore,” Garland said tightly, but grinned nonetheless.

“Would it be possible to have him room with Thomas?” Mr. Moore obviously idolized Thomas, whoever he was, and Calvin’s chest tensed.

The Headmaster smiled. “We’ll move Henry to another room; he needs to be closer to the Nurse anyhow, with his complications. And, this young man is?”

“Calvin. Calvin Swift.” Mr. Moore laid a hand on Calvin’s shoulder that was not completely welcomed.

“Your nephew?”

For the first time in the office, Mr. Moore seemed to grow anxious himself. “My son.”

Garland arched a brow, but called up a housekeeper to show Calvin to his room anyhow. “I’m afraid I don’t see the resemblance.”

Mr. Moore was tall in a towering sort of way with a demeanor that promised authority. Calvin was short and slender, his own form demanding no attention and definitely no strength. He was like his mother, everyone said so.

Laughing, Mr. Moore agreed as he and Calvin left the room with a stocky housekeeper that eyed him with distaste.

“Why do I have to room with him?” Calvin suddenly hissed, low enough to be unheard by the bristling woman that led them up a tiresome set of stairs.

“With who, Calvin?” Mr. Moore asked absently, glancing fondly at pictures of random graduating classes that adorned the walls.

Pursing his lips, Calvin paused in the hallway to the housekeeper’s annoyance. “Thomas, whoever he is.”

Mr. Moore grew agitated. “Don’t be so disagreeable, Calvin. You’re lucky you even managed to get a room.”

With a hard swallow, Calvin narrowed his eyes. He felt surprised by the jealously that suddenly pierced him, as he had made it quite clear he did not want Mr. Moore to act anything like his father. However, witnessing the pride that lit the man’s eyes when he spoke of this Thomas character did just that, cause him to grow sick with envy.

“You’ll like him well enough; he’s quite the remarkable boy. I’ve already told him about you, and he’s thrilled that you’re coming to Bruisewood.” Mr. Moore continued, starting the walk again.

Calvin’s eyes grew dark and he stubbornly followed. “Yes, but who is he?”

Mr. Moore avoided Calvin’s gaze as he picked up his pace, obviously already knowing the number of Thomas’ room, since the housekeeper was falling behind. “He is my son.”

* * *

Calvin breathed in deeply, his eyes hard and unseeing as he sat on his new bed in the room alone. The housekeeper had taken Henry’s things away, and he had ignored Mr. Moore completely until the man had left the room in his own outrage. He stared at his bag, the zip open and exposing a set of his regular clothes – shirts and slacks that were worn with fraying ends.

Grey eyes moved over to the bed across the room and Calvin felt his heart hammer in his chest. He picked himself up and slowly walked over to it, mussing up the covers as he sat down, his long since ruined hair falling over his eyes.

Opening the other boy’s trunk, he found exactly what he hoped he wouldn’t – vests made of soft fabric and tailored pants that were neatly folded into stocky piles. He had to wonder, not for the first time, why Mr. Moore left his mother and why he wasn’t living the life Thomas was.

If the door had not opened a moment later, Calvin was sure he would have been brooding still. Standing suddenly, he pulled off the bed sheets and the trunk came crashing down with it, spilling over and littering the floor with expensive fabrics. Widening his eyes, he glanced toward the door where a tall figure stared at him with a penetrating green gaze.

“What are you doing on my bed? And in the dark, as well?” The boy’s voice was smooth, probably a tone that was practiced, as he walked to the floor where he began picking up his scattered belongings. “No one gave you permission to open this,” he muttered darkly.

Calvin continued to stare, still shocked and feeling a bit pained at seeing Mr. Moore’s eyes on Thomas as Garland’s words still stuck with him. There was truly no resemblance between him and his father.

The other boy’s hair, a chocolate brown, did not follow the trend. Somehow, this snapped Calvin from his reverie and he bent down to help.

“Don’t.” Thomas snarled. He finished folding a brown knitted vest and carefully placed it in his trunk. “I don’t know what my father was thinking, bringing you here.” The statement was followed by a long stare as Thomas assessed Calvin’s distraught appearance. “Charity cases like you don’t belong at Bruisewood – much less in my dormitory.” His fine features formed into a small scowl as he kicked his trunk back to where it had been before Calvin’s snooping.

The other boy forced his mouth shut as he watched Thomas fall onto his bed and begin untying his shoes. He wanted to say a million things about how insufferable Bruisewood residents were turning out to be, but held it back. Calvin had been caught going through Thomas’ things, and anger was warranted.

Instead, the smaller boy moved to his own bed and smoothed down his crinkled collar, a numbing feeling suffocating his mind.

“Now to set the ground rules.” Thomas stood up off the bed as if standing would make him look more intimidating. “No one is to know we’re half brothers.” Calvin scowled at the clear disgust on Thomas’ face – as if he was proud of such a fact himself.

“If anyone asks, let them know your parents died when you were an infant, and a relative sent you here.” He dismissed the idea, barely paying Calvin anymore attention. Calvin felt himself grow furious and grit his teeth.

“Fine.” He said tightly, not willing to argue and suddenly feeling exhausted.

“And for God’s sake, get over it already.” Thomas said, looking at the worn note on Calvin’s nightstand. He then pocketed an inkwell and moved towards the door. “She was just a lowly whore anyhow...” he muttered to himself.

Calvin wasn’t sure whether Thomas meant for him to hear his last remark, but all the same felt a sting behind his eyes.

He wouldn’t believe it. His mother was no whore, and this was all a terrible, terrible nightmare. Calvin would wake up and his father would still be a hero lost in a tragic military accident.

He would wake up and his mother would be in their small kitchen putting together his breakfast with her bright smile and wispy dark hair. He’d complain as usual about lumpy oatmeal and she’d continue to make it every day for the next week.

He’d wake up. He’d wake up and his mother would still be alive.

* * *