It’s not so bad to go out in the cold when there’s someone else to warm you up!

I had to break out the sweaters today- it’s supposed to go down to 16F tonight

Paranormal hunting au?

Top Ten Spookiest Classical Pieces

Perhaps I’m feeling macabre, but tonight I’m digging out my favorite spooky classical pieces and listening to them. So I thought putting together a top ten list of these would be fun while I drink my scotch. Note: These are not really in any particular order. I love them all.

1. Beethoven: Piano Trio in D major, op. 70 no. 1, “Ghost” - 2nd movement. Rattling of chains, shrieking of spirits; the nickname of this trio fits it well. The first and third movements are good as well, but only the second movement is really spooky. 2. Schubert: Der Leiermann (from Winterreise). A heartbroken young man sings about the hurdy-gurdy, an outcast who sits just outside the village and plays his instrument while dogs snarl at him and people ignore him. Particularly chilling is that this is the last song of an hour-long cycle, and it drones on without clear resolution, ending with the line: “Strange old man, should I go with you? Will you accompany my songs on your hurdy-gurdy?”  3. Mussorgsky: Night On Bald Mountain. You may know this one from Disney’s Fantasia, which is featured during the Witches’ Sabbath sequence. 4. Schubert: Der Erlkönig. Based on a poem by Goethe, this song tells the chilling story of a father and his ailing child riding through the woods on horseback, while a malicious spirit tries to lure the boy away, unseen and unheard by the father. 5. Saint-Saens: Danse Macabre. Death plays his fiddle in the cemetery, rousing all the skeletons from their graves and dancing with them until they have to slink back at the first light of dawn. 6. Brahms: Ballade in D minor, op. 10 no. 1, “Edward.” Based on a Scottish ballade, the story is of a mother who knows that her son has murdered his father - she just wants to hear him say it himself. 7. Shostakovich: Viola Sonata. Shostakovich composed during the height of Soviet censorship, and his music almost always has a hunted, almost panicked feel to it. He composed this viola sonata just a month before his death. 8. Shostakovich: String Quartet no. 8 in C minor, op. 110. Between the frenzy of the second movement and the insistent “knocking on the door” of the fourth, this quartet can really put you on edge. What makes this music even freakier is Shostakovich’s musical signature (D E-flat C B) throughout the work. 9. Mussorgsky: The Hut of Baba Yaga the Witch (from Pictures at an Exhibition). This one always sounds like Baba Yaga’s “Hut On Chicken’s Legs” is chasing me through the woods, but that might just be my wild imagination. 10. Scriabin: Piano Sonata no. 9, “Black Mass.” Some of the directions that Scriabin writes in the score are “mysteriously murmuring”, and “with a sweetness that becomes increasingly poisonous,” which is a pretty apt description for much of this work. It begins mysteriously, then builds in tension until it all explodes in some kind of orgiastic climax. It ends just as enigmatically as it begins.

[RusAme] Unrest- Chapter 3

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Russia squeezed his fingers closed around the edge of the pew as he recognized the man sitting down a few rows away. They all stopped as one. France’s fingers brushed against his arm and Russia was moving, walking before his brain could even comprehend on what to say. What to do.

His hand lingered on the cold and worn wood before he stepped closer and took a seat next to America. Neither of them said a word. America did not look up. His hands rested limply in his lap- like he had almost put them together in prayer but had given up. Russia looked up to the front, where the altar stood illuminated, bare save a colored cloth and the sign of the cross. The wood creaked under his weight as he shifted, taking America’s hand in his own.

A soft sob bubbled out, and Russia turned alarmed. Some visitors walking by glanced in their direction, but nothing stopped and no one came to check on them. Russia put his other hand onto their joined fingers and America whispered out roughly, “I don’t know what to do.”

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[RusAme] Unrest- Chapter 2

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Russia peered between his fingers, feeling steam fog against his skin and looked up to see Canada holding a cup of coffee for him. Russia accepted it and Canada sat down next to him. He tossed off the pillow tucked in the corner, and Russia bounced slightly with the motion. A few drops spilled over the lip of the blue speckled enamel mug and he watched it dribble to the floor. A problem for later. Russia sat back, fingers too hot from the drink and nearly burning. He took a sip. Too bitter. Not enough milk. He stared at the coffee table nearby where morning light illuminated years of milky water stains encircling each other.

“How’re you feeling?” Canada probed quietly. Russia glanced at him, turning away when France’s quiet French filled the room as he walked in, house phone tucked to his ear and shoulder. He balanced two plates of pancakes in his hands, setting them and some silverware down softly to the coffee table before walking out again. Russia translated France’s mutterings in his head, We do not know. We still have not heard. Canada grabbed the closest plate and handed it to Russia.

“Still tired,” Russia finally admitted as Canada gave him a fork and knife as well. He took another sip of the coffee, although it was still at a scalding temperature. The pancakes were golden and perfect in the center of the plate. Russia wanted to see patchily burned and chocolate chip smiley faces instead. He poked at the pancakes with a fork. France came back in, a bottle of maple syrup in hand and placed it deliberately in front of Canada. He glanced to Russia as he walked back to the kitchen and said with a smile as he covered the phone, “You really do not wish to see Matthieu without maple syrup.”

“Well, just be glad it was the Benadryl and not the sleeping pills in there,” Canada muttered after giving France a mild glare. He cut the pancake apart with the fork deftly and muttered, “Or the knife.”

Russia straightened at that. “I do not think he is dangerous.”

Canada frowned, moving his bite around in the amber syrup. “Why?”

“Why?”

“He drugged you,” Canada reminded him. He glanced at his cell phone as it buzzed and then turned back to Russia, “That’s bad enough isn’t it?”

Russia glowered at his food and cut into his food. France returned, phone call ended, and sat down in the opposite arm chair with a sigh. “England just arrived. Should be two hours before he gets here, and to quote him,” France raised his voice and gave a horrible rendition of a British accent, “Get some idea of where the fuck he went.” France took a bite of the pancake before leaning over and grabbing the syrup, drizzling it lightly. “He hasn’t called either of you?”

Canada muttered a sour ‘no’ and Russia just shook his head. “I have tried calling and texting him. No reply.”

“He changed his password,” Canada said and stabbed the pancake. “I tried to look him up on his phone’s location app.”

“When did he do that?” Russia asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Do you think he even has his phone still?” France questioned. “Alfred would toss his phone away immediately,” Russia said.

“Alfred would,” Canada said. When both France and Russia turned to him, he added, “Is he even still Alfred? Has whatever it was that attacked him taken over some how?”

“He’s not gone,” Russia growled. Canada glanced at him from the corner of his eye, but he continued on, “He’s not. Alfred is still there. It would be dangerous to think otherwise. I know you doubt me,” he added, turning to Canada. He paused to push out the ire from his voice. It would do no good to make Alfred’s brother mad at him. Not during a crisis. “But if he were gone, why give me Benadryl? Why not the sleeping pills? Why not poison? Bleach in the water? He could have grabbed a knife. He could have smothered me at night with a pillow.” France looked out the window thoughtfully and Canada pushed his food around with a grating rasp against the ceramic. “His aim was to stop me from stopping him. Not to kill me. He could have done that easily. He’s strong enough.”

They all fell silent and France set down his plate. He stood up, brushing off his jeans and said, “I need more coffee, if we are going to be discussing things so grim.”

Russia finished his breakfast and said quietly as he dragged his fork through the remaining syrup and made swirls and patterns in it, “Do you think we are already too late?”

He knew Canada was looking at him, but he did not look up to meet his gaze.  

Russia’s phone buzzed loudly against the coffee table, clattering as a call came through. The dish fell to the ground and coffee tumbled onto the couch as he lunged for his phone. Canada stared, frozen hanging in the air. Russia’s fingers slipped as he answered from the coffee and syrup but he held the phone to his ear and said, “Alfred?”

France came running back into the room and hung onto the doorframe. Canada stood up, putting the plate down and stopped in front of Russia.

“Russia?” Alfred asked breathlessly on the phone.

Russia’s eyes flickered up and he nodded once, before focusing on his boyfriend’s voice. Breathy and high pitched, like he was trying not to cry. Russia swallowed. His throat was tight. “Are you okay?”

“Am I o– What about– Icouldhave!”

“Alfred calm down,” Russia said, voice lowering gently, “Breathe,” he murmured in Russian.

There was a pause of static where Alfred took in a shaky breath. “I’m in Boston,” he said.

“Boston?” Russia said and looked up at Canada who pulled out his own cell phone and walked to other side of the room. “Where are you?”

“I’m near Copley Square. I don’t…” Another rush of static and Alfred’s voice pitched as he squeezed out, “I don’t know how I got here. I was talking with you about England coming early and then…I don’t know. I just woke up here.” Alfred was silent again, but Russia listened to his breathing. It was reassuring in its own way. “Are you okay?” The words were cold.

“I am fine,” Russia reassured him. France was on his phone as well now, arguing boisterously in French that Russia didn’t bother translating, and Canada was still speaking quietly on his phone as well. “Are you sure?” Alfred begged.

“Alfred, take a deep breath…breathe again, Zaichik,” he murmured and turned to the window. Like he could whisper it to him right next to him. Like they were right there together and nothing was wrong.

“Did you just call me a bunny again?” Alfred laughed, hysteria edging his syllables.

“I could call you a cute fish?” Russia said.

Alfred laughed again. “That would be terrible, God. That would be awful. Please don’t.” Another pause. Then Alfred cleared his throat and muttered low and painfully, “I dreamed I killed you.”

“How?” 
“W-what?”

Russia looked down at the bustling city through the window. “Tell me how.” He could feel both men’s eyes on him, but he stared down at the city steadfastly.

The hysteria was gone when Alfred responded again. “I slit your throat with a knife,” Alfred said slowly.

“Where?” Russia asked.

“Where? What does that matter–?”

“Where?” Russia asked again.

“In the woods,” Alfred muttered.

“It did not happen,” he reassured. Sometimes that was all you needed to hear. That it didn’t happen- that everything was going to be okay. Even if it was threadbare illusion. Sometimes that was enough. “ I am still in your apartment in New York.” Canada was pointing at his phone, showing he was talking to England. He held up finger and drew a question mark and pointed at Russia. “And I am going to come find you,”

“Russia–,” Alfred said shakily.

“Where are you?”

“Near the Public Library at Copley,” Alfred said. There was a loud sound, like a truck going by.

“Stay there. We’re all going to find you. Everything is going to be okay, Alfred.”

Russia tubbed at his head as there was silence.

“Alfred?” He asked. When there was no answer he swore and hit the wall with his fist. The lamp near him rattled. The line went dead and Russia stared at his phone. Russia took a long breath and then turned around. “How soon can we get to Boston?”

Canada turned and walked to the kitchen, grabbing his coat that was hanging there. “An hour flight. It’ll take us 40 minutes to get to the airport, but the car is already waiting. I called in a favor or two”

“I have the airport notifying England to redirect to Boston once he lands. He’ll only be an hour or so behind us.” France put his phone away, wrapping his scarf around his neck as he bundled up. A bitter North wind was already clawing at New England.

Russia nodded, looking down at his phone again in faint hope Alfred would call back. “Let us go, then,” he said, only stopping long enough to grab his own jacket, passport, wallet, and keys before striding out the door.

Boston was more gray than New York, and a chilling fog rolled off the harbor and the Charles, dimming the city even more. It was late in the afternoon, and the street lights had already sprung on. Russia stood at the top of the stairwell for Copley, looking beyond the green line banner and searched the crowded street. Canada stood next to him, looking around as France finally walked up the stairs, adjusting his scarf to cover his chin. “This is where he said he was,” Russia told them.

“Where do you think he went?” Canada asked and turned around to look at the grand stone face of the Boston Public Library.

France pointed to a building on the other side of the street. “That is a church, no?”

Canada turned to glance at it and then turned back to the Library. “He’s not religious.”

Russia nodded his head, not bothering to look. “The only time he goes is for Easter and Christmas,” Russia said, looking away towards the busy street.

France frowned. “I think you are dismissing this too quick.” When Russia turned to face him, France gestured to the Gothic facade. “He has always searched for comfort at churches.”

Canadas brow furrowed. “I don’t know about always…”

Russia studied the tan and brown building before him. “He has never mentioned that to me,” Russia said slowly.

France checked both ways before darting though the busy street, grabbing Russia’s hand as he did so. Canada’s curse was muffled by the cars, but he jogged behind them, waving in apology when a car honked at him for delaying traffic.

France was already walking to go inside, looking at the visiting hours briefly and muttering, “If he is not here, we will check the library. He has always been a boy of science, but this is a matter of the heart.”

was it a matter of the heart? Russia had his suspicions. This was ghosts. Lore. Demons.

Perhaps a church was better.

The church was dim as they enters, quiet as visitors looked at the architecture and stained glass windows. France moved deftly through the few visitors there, heading towards the stately pews lining the center of the cathedral.

And there in the far left, where there were few people and the shadows seemed thicker, was a head with mussed blond hair, bowed down in thought.

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[RusAme] Unrest- Chapter 1

Welcome to my Halloween Story! Have fun! It’s gonna get Spoooooky in here…keep the nightlight on.

[Unknown Spirit] [Ao3]

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Russia sat on the stool in America’s apartment kitchen, looking out the dark window and down at a restless city. The refrigerator hummed and a soft green glow from the microwave soothingly lit up the room. It was 2:49 am and he couldn’t sleep.

Nothing was right. We was worried and the raw edge of his lip where he had been chewing on it all day showed that. When he talked to America on the phone every day nothing seemed different. He had just been here in July with Arthur, making sure their disastrous Halloween last year hadn’t affected him. England had been cautious, but at the same time hadn’t been able to see anything wrong with him. Russia hadn’t noticed anything until he had landed in the airport and stared at his boyfriend’s exhausted eyes.

Two warm arms snaked around his waist and Russia jolted, turning his head and knocking it sharply into the person behind him. Warm breath puffed into his ear and America dipped down, filling his vision with a tired laugh. “You startled me,” Russia growled. America hummed, leaning forward more so he could rest his head on Russia’s shoulder, tapping his fingers arrhythmically against Russia’s stomach where he held on. Russia sighed and raised a hand to thread through America’s hair, wavy at the nape of his neck and damp from the shower he had taken earlier in the day.

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Unrest- Prologue [Part Two]

[Unknown Spirit] [Unrest Prologue (Part One)] [Chapter One]

September had been hot and dry thing, but October dragged the world into autumn with short rainy days and cold nights. The weather bit down to the bone. Alfred shivered, pulling his coat closer as he waited for the crosswalk signal and took a sip of the hot apple cider he had grabbed from a cafe after leaving work.It was still blistering hot and nearly burned his tongue. A bus sped by and barely missed soaking him.

Alfred had been working long hours through September as the end of the government fiscal year reared it’s head. More than once he had found himself staying overnight at his desk and waking up to paperwork plastered to his cheek.  And then October had begun and he had been pulled into a project regarding the UN and when he finally stopped working and looked around October was nearly over.

And with that brought dread. Because it was almost Halloween.

Normally he loved Halloween. The glowing jack-o’lanterns, blushing leaves, autumnal flavors, and the fun parties overflowing with candy always made him felt like a child again. Ivan would usually visit him, and that just made the holiday all the better.

Alfred glanced at his phone, sending off a text to Ivan he would be home soon. He’d landed yesterday; he was spending two weeks with him this year. Which was great. It was. But something in him just couldn’t…be happy.

Alfred glanced down to the leaves cluttering the sidewalk. Normally he’d be dragging Ivan to the park and jumping around on the leaves and throwing fistfuls at him. Normally. Normally…

Normally he didn’t need to worry about the unknown coming to hunt him down like last year. The signal changed and Alfred stepped out, crossing the street to hurry home. The stars were bright above him where they peeked between the grey ribbons of clouds. Alfred glanced at the office building next to him and looked at his reflection. Red stared back.

A truck rumbled by, headlights flashing over him and shattering the illusion. Alfred blinked and shook his head. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and walked away, keeping his eyes down to the ground. He only had a twenty minute walk left. Ever since that stupid night on the subway he had decided to walk home. Sure, it took an hour. Better that then the sudden claustrophobia he had somehow developed within the past few weeks. It felt like being in a grave in the dark tunnels.

Alfred glanced up to the sky once more. The stars were distant now, covered up and swallowed by a moonless sky. Alfred stopped, just out of the ring of amber light left by the streetlights.

The sounds of the city died around him. The streets empty. A single figure stood in front of him. Alfred stayed still.

A clawed hand stretched out.

His phone rang and Alfred watched reality pour back in. Men and women walked past, and he stepped out of the way of a jogger, bumping his shoulder into a building. Alfred answered the phone and merged with the traffic.

“Hey baby,” he murmured, and realized how shaken he sounded. He coughed and then took a sip of the cider still in his hand. It had gone cold. He stared at it puzzled and then tossed it away.

“Are you almost home?” Ivan asked him.

“Still walking,” Alfred said and glanced up at the facade of a gothic church. “Should be about twenty minutes or so.”

“Still?” Ivan asked.

“What’d’ya mean, ‘still’?” Alfred turned down the quiet side street and glanced at the graveyard through the wrought iron fence. He moved to the other side of the street.

“You texted that to me an hour ago.”

Alfred took a deep breath of the cold night air. “What?” He glanced down at his phone checking the time. Fuck. An hour had gone by.

“Is everything all right?”

Alfred glanced at the street. Dread began to fill his stomach. Icy and aching. “No. No – I…I’m going to take a cab.”

“Alfred?”

Alfred turned, walking back to the main street. Something wasn’t right.

“I’ll be home soon babe. See you in ten.”

Alfred hung up. He stood on the curb, flagging down a yellow cab and loading into the back seat. He gave his address, putting the seatbelt on with trembling fingers. He looked up and watched the buildings speed by.

Alfred glanced at the driver, who was fiddling with the radio and then at the rear view mirror. Red stared back. 

Unrest- Prologue [Part One]

Unrest - Prologue [Part One] [Part Two]

[Read the prequel - Unknown Spirit] 

Alfred sat on the Q train, watching the dark walls of the subway fly past. It was late, and the train car was nearly empty. A man slept on the far end and two women nearby giggled quietly to themselves, looking at their phones. Blue tunnel lights flashed as the train passed, looking like will-o-wisps guiding them. Alfred glanced back to the phone in his hand as it buzzed.

You should be asleep, Ivan texted

Alfred smiled to himself, leaning against the railing and texted back, late night- I’ll let you know when I get home.

He looked up at the dark window of the train car as he waited for a reply, closing his eyes for a moment. He shouldn’t have let the interns keep him out so late. They might not have work tomorrow, but he did. The train slowly rumbled to a stop, and Alfred glanced to the dark window again. His tired reflection looked back. The lights flickered and his phone buzzed with a new message.

Thank you, I will call you later today, we still need to figure out when I am coming to visit, Ivan texted.

Alfred smiled quickly typed back, Well, I think staying in the city is the best. Maybe we can finally watch those movies this year 😱👻🎬.

He hit sent and watched the message screen show Ivan was typing back. The lights flickered again and Alfred glanced up at the dark window once more.

A gaunt face with red ember eyes stared back. Jaw unhinged, rows of teeth gleamed in the light of the train car. Breath fogged the pane of glass between them. Alfred jolted back, hitting his head on the pole next to him.

His phone dropped to the floor, clattering loudly. The ghostly face in front of him dragged its finger, claws gouging the glass with a ear splitting screech.

The train lurched as it moved again, and Alfred swayed, nearly tripping over and toppling to the ground. He glanced at the two girls sitting nearby. One was watching him in puzzlement. The other, in true New Yorker fashion, ignored him and continued to scroll through her phone. When he stared back at the window, it was empty. The phantom was gone.

With shaky fingers, Alfred picked up him phone off the floor, scrubbing it against his jeans. Ivan had texted back.

That would be nice. I hope it is quiet this year.

Alfred looked back up at the glass. A passing light glinted off a deep gouge in the window.

[RusAme] Unknown Spirit- Part 4

Part One  ||  Part Two  ||   Part Three

Canada ended up taking nearly all of the kitchen knives despite Russia and England reminding him that weapons wouldn’t do them any good. “I would take America’s guns, if he had them here,” he complained, looping a bright blue ceramic knife and its cover onto his belt. When England looked like he was going to complain to him again, Canada turned around, brow furrowed in anger. “Until you can prove whatever this is doesn’t bleed, I’m taking a weapon.”

“It is not bad to be prepared,” Russia said as England sighed, handing over Ziploc bags full of salt to each of them.

“This will do more damage,” England said, eyes darting around the kitchen, looking for more things to arm themselves. “If you have silver, that’d be best to wear.”

“I don’t know about silver, but I know there’s iron around here,” Canada muttered and pulled out a cast iron pan from a lower cabinet. He fished around a cutlery drawer and pulled out a spoon and pie server. “These are silver, at least.”

“Great,” England said eyeing the items. “You can make it a great omelet,”

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[RusAme] Unknown Spirit- Part 3

Read

 >>>Part One>>>

>>>>Part Two>>>

The moon was high in the sky, a halo of pearly white slung wide across the world, by the time Russia limped back to the house, listing to the side, and nearly collapsed against the doorframe. He breathed heavily, trying to stunt the pain in his shoulder and head, and blinked against the light suddenly turned on bearing harshly into his eyes. The door ripped open and Russia stared for one breathtaking moment at Alfred’s concerned face, relief fluttering though his chest like sparrow wings until the illusion was shot down.

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[RusAme] Unknown Spirit- Part 2

<<Read Part One>>

Russia turned on the lamp on the table, looking into its warm amber glow before perching on the arm of the couch and watching America’s eyes flutter open, alertness burning in his gas-blue eyes. “Did I fall asleep on the couch?” he asked, voice ragged. He looked surprised and went to sit up, but Russia placed a hand along his still cold chest.

“Lay down.” He stopped for a moment, lost at what words to use. Should he tell him? He watched as America shivered and sighed in relief. He was warming back up again. He seemed to have missed getting hypothermia by the smallest sliver of chance. “You were sleepwalking,” he finally said and pulled the blanket back up to his neck.

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[RusAme] Unknown Spirit- Part 1

“The night, though clear, shall frown,

And the stars shall not look down

From their high thrones in the Heaven

With light like hope to mortals given,

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever.”

Spirits of the Dead,  -Edgar Allan Poe

Russia hates October. It’s not that he hates autumn, because the shifting maelstrom of weather, the sea of fiery leaves in the forests, and the bounty of the harvest leads it to being one of his favorite seasons. What Russia hates is the opening of the veil as Halloween draws near, and the danger that the man he loves is in.

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Sputnik 1 Launch - 4 October 1957

“Ivan knew three things the moment Alfred F. Jones dropped, quite literally, out of the sky and into his life. First, he was an idiot. Second, he was going to get himself killed with that damn broom. Third, Ivan was hopelessly and irreparably in love with him.”

HP AU Aww yeahh! Alfred’s the heir to a large family business who specialize in racing brooms and is a transfer student from Ilvermorny, looking to get out of his family’s name. Ivan is a transfer from Durmstrang who would like to peacefully study magical creatures if an annoying someone would stop bothering him for TWO SECONDS!

They become best friends (reluctantly), but it’s only after Alfred gets really hurt after playing a Quidditch game they realize they like-like each other. 

And you know that boy monkeys around on the broom just to get a rise out of Ivan. 

United nations

The Other Side of the Mirror Pixiv ID: 68832032 Member: 704428 - kanmuri