Lois and Clark 1. Fretful Sleep

Well, I am new to the fandom here at for Lois and Clark. However, I have been a long time fan of this TV show for many, many years. Dean Cain will be my favorite Superman of all time I do believe. In any case, I have come here because I am suffering writer's block and inspiration. Not for THIS story, mind you, but for another one. I'm writing a five book series which I plan to publish, and I'm halfway through book one, and I've come to a very, very slow crawl. I'm not liking what I am writing, and advice has been given to me not to try and push my brain too hard, otherwise I'll just end up unhappy with my product.

SO.

I have had this Lois and Clark story in my brain for a few months, but I didn't want to give it a voice because of the series I am working on. I have decided to now give my brain freedom to create, no matter if it's fanfiction or original.

In a sense, this story is pretty original and isn't a rewrite or 'what-if' from any of the aired episodes. It's set in canon, and Lois and Clark have been married for a little while now, but no baby episode or anything. Can I tell you how GOOD it feels to be writing this?

I can't guarantee how quick my updates will be, but I'll try not to keep you waiting for too long. I welcome reviews, what your thoughts are, what you liked or what you found intriguing.

Happy Reading!

* * *

**Will You Be Mine**

**Chapter 1: Fretful Sleep**

Clark stirred as a single arm draped across his chest. A hand clutched at his shoulder and squeezed gently. Turning in bed, Clark's curious gaze traveled toward Lois, whose eyes were staring at him through the dark room. His vision was sharp enough to make out his wife's wakeful eyes; they were smoldering with desire, her lip curled in a smile he had come to know very well in their marriage. It was in the middle of the night, but that didn't matter in the slightest when Lois looked at him the way she was doing now. Sleep fled his mind like a swift current that propelled heat and blood to stir in other areas of his body. He didn't care to question her middle-of-the-night urge –which, glancing at the clock, read two-thirty in the morning— he only cared about satisfying it.

A slow grin crawled across his face as he turned further toward his wife. He leaned forward, her head dipping to meet his, and sparks flared inside as their lips met. Lois opened her mouth and Clark groaned into it, snaking his tongue around hers, swiftly adjusting himself and kicking impatiently at the sheets until they fell away and freed him to position himself over Lois. He pressed his body into hers, electricity zipping through his veins upon realizing that she was already naked, her soft flesh pushing up to greet his descent. Clark let his weight fall on her, freeing his hands to roam over her smooth, velveteen skin, treasuring the zing of electricity that sang through his fingertips as he traced familiar paths along her skin. Lois arched her back and released his mouth, purring against his touch.

Clark smiled in the darkness. God, he loved this woman! The way she made him feel each and every time they made love, how much he craved her, the sounds she made when he was hitting all of the right places, like right _there_ . . .

"Oh God, Clark," Lois moaned.

Clark's smile broadened, but his wife wasn't paying attention; her eyes were closed, clearly reveling in the sensations he was administering to her. He loved this, loved her, loved—

A piercing scream suddenly reverberated in his skull, making Clark immediately wince. He had turned on his super hearing so he could attune himself to the beating of Lois's heart, but he hadn't anticipated on a call coming through. That scream belonged to someone in trouble, and it was close—incredibly close.

Immediately Clark sat up as a second scream rumbled through his eardrums. It took Lois a few seconds to open her eyes and understand what was going on. She groaned, but this was not one of pleasure—it was of frustrated disappointment.

"Is it urgent enough for you to leave _this_?" Lois asked with exasperation.

"It's a girl calling for help. She—it sounds like she's in the house," Clark responded with bewildered surprise.

In a blur of motion he was on his feet, had opened the door, rushed down the hallway and down the steps, through the living room and stepped into the kitchen where he stopped; this was where his hearing had pinpointed the distress call.

There, sitting on the floor in front of the kitchen island was a young teenage girl. It was hard to tell her age, but she looked somewhere between fifteen and sixteen. She had fiery red curls that ran in long tendrils and obscured most of her face from view. Her arms were up and scrunched into her face. She was rocking back and forth, sobbing.

"Are you—" The rest of Clark's question died in his mouth as he took in more of her appearance. She was wearing a long black dress that pooled around her on the floor, but what was more significant about this was the fact that he could still make out the wooden base of his island kitchen _through_ her clothing. The young girl sobbing in his kitchen wasn't . . . solid. In fact, now that his brain had caught up with his eyes, Clark realized he could see through her entirely.

His brain stumbled over the connection it was making. Was he seeing a . . . a _ghost?_

Seconds ago Clark had been about to ask 'are you okay?' but instead, a more blunt and less genteel comment escaped from his mouth. "Who are you?" he blurted out.

The young teenager gave no indication that she had heard him barge into the kitchen, nor that he had spoken. Her shoulders continued to shake as she sobbed.

Clark stood rooted to the floor, unsure of what to do. This was the intruder in his home? This was the girl that had yelled in such a terrifying way a few minutes ago? She was transparent! And. . . and. . . what _was_ she? Why was she here? What could he do to help . . . whatever she was?

As questions rolled away in his mind, Clark refrained from blurting any of them, rationalizing that she might vanish if he so much as moved or spoke aloud again. She was obviously in distress, but was she real? Yet as he continued to watch her sob so despairingly, caution gave way to curiosity. He cleared his throat to see if she would show some kind of sign that told him she knew he was there, but she kept on in her fit. Tentatively he took a step forward. Her transparent image remained, though her sobs were beginning to quiet.

"Um . . ."Clark began uncertainly, but still the girl didn't look up. "Can . . . uh . . . can I help you?"

Quite suddenly her sobbing ended. Her hands lowered minutely, and when they did, a soft clinking sounded on the floor. Clark's eyes, which had been rooted to the girl's face, now flickered to the floor where he now saw the small circular object that had made the sound. It fell away from the girl, bounced once on the floor, then rolled toward him, stopping with fluid grace right in front of his feet. It looked like a ring, or rather, a broad band with a flat, smooth surface. Clark squinted. The band's painted coating looked like a dark clay-red.

He quirked a puzzled brow and lifted his eyes toward the girl, whose face was now in full view. He started, unprepared for the way she looked at him, so solemn and crestfallen. Her eyes—vivid emerald pools—were full of sorrow and despair. He found himself arrested, unable to look away, his heart welling with sympathy at the emotional turmoil he saw in her gaze.

"What can I do for you?" Clark found himself asking, knowing futilely that he wasn't sure he could do anything for her at all.

The transparent girl—or ghost, he really couldn't decide what to call her—captured his gaze for a few lingering moments before slowly looking up toward the ceiling. Clark followed her gaze, and found himself standing outside, staring at a large Victorian mansion instead of the ceiling of his kitchen. Shocked as he was, he didn't question the vision she was somehow sharing with him. His eyes were rooted to the home, drinking in its features.

The mansion was massive. It seemed to take up the whole length and width of a football field, and then some. The exterior was brick red with ornately carved white trimming and siding mixed in with extravagant forest-green shutters and oblong windows. Several turrets and large peaks stretched themselves high into the sky, as if daring anyone to try and sneak in unnoticed—though why that thought crossed Clark's mind, he couldn't guess. There was a grand front porch that spanned at least twenty feet long, but its size looked dwarfed in comparison to the rest of the length of the home.

Clark felt his jaw drop as he continued to stare, but into his mind, the girl's voice, soft and quavering, spoke to him.

"Find me."

It was a full thirty seconds until Clark realized he had been staring up at a dark ceiling—_his_ dark ceiling. There wasn't a Victorian mansion so large and massive obscuring his view anymore, but rather he was immersed back in the pitch black of night, and he was lying down.

Clark whipped his head. There, right next to him in bed, was Lois, fast asleep. He glanced at the clock: it read two-twenty eight.

That had all been a dream?

Clark brought his hands up to his face and wiped furiously at it. Adrenaline was fueling his system, his body still feeling the effects of the dream. That had all felt so terribly real that it was hard to believe it hadn't actually happened.

He glanced again at Lois's sleeping form. He let out a silent sigh. She looked ravishing as she slept. There was the desire to reach out to her and touch her, just to feel something real and solid and comforting, but he didn't want to chance waking her. Perhaps he could just go down to the kitchen and warm himself a glass of milk like his mother used to do; that would work.

Clark's mind gave a mental jab—the kitchen. His dream. Hmm. . . yes, he had to go and check.

Slipping quietly out of bed, Clark grabbed at his robe and silently put it on. He hovered above the floor a few inches, careful to avoid the spots that were known to creak as he floated over to the bedroom door. He extended his hand, reached for the handle—and before his fingers touched the knob, it opened. All on its own.

Clark froze, his gaze arrested, watching the door silently open a good few inches before it halted. This wasn't a super-power of his; the door was opening on its own! Blood now pumping through his veins in earnest, Clark used his x-ray vision and did a sweep of the hallway outside. Nothing and no one was there. With stealth he exited his room, his x-ray vision sweeping the entire way until he had walked into the kitchen. His x-ray scope had told him the place was empty, but he wasn't convinced. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Yet as he stood in the doorway, peering this way and that, he did not see the red-headed transparent girl he had seen in his dream.

There was no ghost in his kitchen.

Reality was now catching up with Clark. Of course there was no ghost in his kitchen. It had just been a dream! How foolish he now felt, chasing after shadows that weren't there. The bedroom door hadn't been shut properly and that's why it had opened. There wasn't anything suspicious or paranormal going on in his home. He was overreacting to a vividly powerful dream his mind had conjured. Nothing more.

It was nothing more.


	2. Strange Experiences

**Author's notes:**

Guest: Thank you so much for stopping by and reading! Enjoy the update

Ghostwriter: Awesome to see that you followed me here! Hopefully you enjoy this one even though it's different from my other.

Happy reading everyone! I appreciate the feedback. I always encourage it.

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**Chapter Two: Strange Experiences**

Clark stepped in through the front door and sighed contentedly.

He was home.

It had been a busy day of Super Hero duties, ranging from a car accident to a gang shoot-out and, lastly, to a raging fire that had destroyed nearly two-thirds of a strip mall before he had managed to contain the inferno. Working with the fire crew, Superman had been able to help them determine the cause of the fire: a faulty electrical outlet inside Mike's Carpets and Rugs, which was the second shop among a total of six in the strip mall. Superman had responded fairly quickly to the scene; however, the carpets had given the fire healthy fuel that sent it spitting into raging flames almost immediately. It had taken longer to contain it than he would have liked.

The aroma of baked chicken wafted toward Clark's nostrils, dispelling the rest of his busy thoughts. Coming home to Lois was one thing, but coming home to the smell of dinner that hadn't been burned was a surprising ray of sunshine; although Lois was a star investigative reporter with keen intellect and shrewd instinct, her knowledge had never served her well when entering a kitchen and preparing a meal. Even frozen dinners had a tendency to suffer her wrath.

"Lois?" Clark called out, following the wafting smells of parmesan and garlic that led him into the kitchen. Pushing the door open, a welcome sight greeted his eyes. On the table sat the food that had been teasing Clark's senses; they rested on dinner plates and wine glasses were out. The most ravishing sight, however, set more than just his mouth watering. With affection swelling, Clark crept very slowly, watching the backside of his wife as she lit two red candlesticks. What he had done to deserve this woman in his life, God only knew, but he took every opportunity he could to admire his luck.

"What have we here?" he said softly against his wife's ear, placing his hands on her hips and giving her neck a gentle kiss. He breathed in her scent deeply. She smelled divinely of apple blossoms.

"We have a perfectly timed dinner from yours truly," Lois replied. Clark could hear the smile in her voice.

"Mmm, I see," Clark mumbled against her neck, planting more kisses. "How did you know I'd be home around this time?"

"The news mentioned you had gotten the fire under control, so I made an educated guess that you'd be home soon. I love it when I'm right." Lois turned around, snaking her arms under Clark's and wrapping herself close to him. She leaned up and kissed him, then wrinkled her nose. "You smell like smoke."

Clark chuckled. "I had the intention of taking a shower, but you surprised me with a fully prepared dinner that, I might add, looks ravishing," he said the last word with a low, seductive growl.

Lois smiled. "How _fast_ can you take a shower?"

Clark grinned crookedly. "_Fast_," he emphasized.

Lois gave him another small kiss. "Three minutes. Any less, and you don't get dessert." The look in her eyes told Clark dessert was nothing of the food variety.

"I'll make it two," Clark promised, and in a blur of motion he left Lois and zipped upstairs to the master bathroom.

With the speed and dexterity that only Superman possessed, Clark had shed his clothes, thrown them in the hamper and started the water, all within passing few seconds. In less than a minute the spout turned off and he climbed out of the shower. Taking a quick glance in the mirror to fix his hair, Clark stopped short, his super speed halted.

The mirror was fogged.

Mirrors didn't fog up with less than a minute of showering. Clark had even showered in cold water so that he didn't have to wait for it to heat.

More shocking than that though, he saw two words traced into the fog on the mirror, as if a finger had recently written them.

_Find me_.

A cold shiver snaked up Clark's spine. His dream from the previous night immediately flashed in his mind's eye; those were the words the red-headed girl had spoken to him. He looked around, but of course no one was in the bathroom except him. He stared back at the words in the fogged mirror, but already the image was beginning to fade, the mirror returning back to normal.

He was slower in getting down to the kitchen, unsettled by the recent events that he didn't quite hear that Lois was speaking to him.

"Clark?"

Clark blinked, his mind drawn back to Lois who was sitting at the table. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

One finely shaped eyebrow quirked. "I said it's been over three minutes. Are you okay?"

Clark opened his mouth, about ready to tell his wife the strange event he just witnessed up in the bathroom and about his dream from the previous night. Suddenly, though, he found he didn't want to. The last time a ghost had crept into their lives, that ghost had possessed Lois and had the intention of possessing his wife indefinitely. If Lois found out there might be another ghost in the house . . .

He stared at the candlesticks glowing warmly, illuminating the wonderful dinner awaiting him. He didn't want to ruin what promised to be a much needed night of romance for the two of them.

Within a second, all of those thoughts passed before Clark's mind and he gave a quick shake of his head. He could do a little bit research first before worrying his wife about another ghostly encounter.

"I'm fine. Just a little tired I guess," Clark said, giving his wife a reassuring smile.

Lois narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but before she could open her mouth to question, Clark grabbed the bottle of wine sitting on the kitchen island, opened it, and poured drink into their glasses that were sitting on the table. He began launching into the story about the fire he'd been fighting, and as that story quieted, the two of them started into other details of their day. Though Clark's appearance in the newsroom had been sparse, Lois had covered for him. The gang shoot-out that Superman had intercepted had also turned into a drug bust, so 'Clark' had gone to cover the details for the Daily Planet. Lois wrote the article, and though it wasn't the most exciting story to have handed in, it was a day's work.

By this point the food, which Lois admitted had come from a local restaurant nearby, was settling into their bellies. Together they cleared the table, bringing dishes to the sink and rinsing them off to load into the dishwasher. Clark took a sip from his wine glass and set it on the counter, closing up the dishwasher. Circling his arms around Lois, he leaned in and kissed her, his blood stirring.

Lois grinned against his mouth and mumbled, "Mmm, not sure if I should allow dessert. You took more than three minutes to shower."

Clark recaptured her lips. "I promise," he murmured in-between kisses, "to make dessert last much, _much_ longer."

Lois chuckled, her voice low and throaty. "Well—"

Her words were cut short by a sudden crashing of glass. Lois jumped and Clark whipped around. His wine glass was on the kitchen floor, shattered, with wine splattered on the white tile.

"Oh!" said Lois in surprise.

"What the—?" said Clark, staring from the counter top to the broken glass. "How did that—?"

Lois was the first to throw paper towels down to begin soaking up the flow while she walked to the far end of the kitchen to grab the dust pan and broom.

"It's okay, honey," Lois reassured. "Now I can say I'm not the only klutz to have set a wine glass too close to the counter's edge." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Even _Superman_ can be klutzy too."

Lois was chuckling. Clark gave a weak laugh, but it was forced. "Yeah, that's a first," he said in a flat, empty voice.

Privately, though, he was entirely sure that he had set the wine glass nowhere near the counter's edge.

* * *

Clark was sitting at his desk at the Daily Planet, giving his article a last read-through before handing it in to Perry. He found he was having trouble focusing on the words. They kept shifting before him, blurring and then sharpening. He thought he caught a typo, but in doubling back to find it, the sentence he swore he'd been reading had been omitted entirely. Where had that typo gone?

Feeling quite suddenly that he wasn't alone, Clark glanced away from the screen. Sitting in a chair in front of his desk was the red-headed girl. She was just as transparent as before, and her vivid green eyes, full of sadness and despair, were gazing desolately at him. Her mouth was pulled down into a deep frown.

Clark felt adrenaline spike. Surprised though he was to see her for the second time, he was eager to know why she was coming to him. "Why are you here?"

Those eyes stared at him, fixed and unblinking. "Please find me," she said; her voice was small and quavering.

That part seemed obvious. He needed to find out something new. "What's your name?"

"Rose."

"How can I find you, Rose? I need you to help me with that."

Rose sat still and quiet for a moment, her hands placed demurely in her lap. Then, slowly, she raised her right arm and placed something on the desk. When her hand moved away, Clark saw the red band sitting there. He reached out and found that it was solid to the touch. He picked it up, examining it.

"What do you want from me?" he asked cautiously.

Rose stared at the ring in his hands, her downcast expression never changing. "Find me," she repeated simply. She turned her head to the left, staring at something unseen, and Clark followed her gaze.

Like before, he found himself outside staring up at the great enormous Victorian mansion. Royalty or someone insanely rich must surely have lived here, he thought, because who else would have the audacity to build something so massive and imposing? As he stared up at the building, taking in the multi-levels and peaks and turrets, he glanced through one of the windows and saw the flaming red hair of Rose. She was peering down one of the turret's windows at him, her deep frown and sad eyes burning into his mind's eye. She mouthed the silent words, "find me."

* * *

Clark opened his eyes. He was back in his bed, it was the middle of the night, and he was staring at his bedroom ceiling, not into some dead girl's eyes asking her to find him. He looked over at the clock: it was two twenty-eight in the morning.

He rubbed at his face and heaved a frustrated breath. What did this mean? He had the impulse to wake Lois, but he didn't want to interrupt her sleep. In the morning, he would tell her about the dreams. For now, he needed to do a little bit of thinking on his own. Sleep was far from him, so what better time to start than now? Getting up carefully out of bed, Clark threw on his robe and tiptoed to the door, watching the doorknob closely, wandering if—

The door quietly clicked open.

Clark wasn't surprised this time. Instead, it made him determined to get to the bottom of these strange occurrences and find out why Rose wanted him to find her.


	3. Miss Wingham

**Author's Notes:**

Ghostwriter: Thanks!

I'm a bit sad this particular fandom isn't more popular, Lois and Clark just rock! But here's chapter three. This story is just flowing out of me, I love it. Happy reading! I appreciate the reviews I've received and always welcome your thoughts.

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**Chapter Three: Ms. Wingham **

Clark felt his wife's arms wrap around his shoulders in greeting, her lips settling close to his ear. "Is this what got you up out of bed?"

Clark was sitting at the foyer desk, papers strewn about. He glanced at the clock resting on the desk's surface; it read four in the morning. "Noticed I was gone, huh?"

He felt Lois nod. "I thought maybe a job for Superman had called you away, but here you are downstairs. What are you working on?"

The various papers Lois pointed at were all sketching's Clark had been working on for the past several hours. They showed multiple revisions of the Victorian mansion from his dream in his attempt to recapture everything he could. His most current sketch was one he felt most satisfied with. He held it up for Lois to look at. "Twice now this mansion has been in my dreams," he began to explain. "I needed to draw it so I could see it better."

Lois took the drawing and stood up, examining it. "How long have you been up?"

"Since two-thirty. I couldn't sleep."

"Is this what you've been working on the whole time?"

"Mostly." Clark grabbed another sheet of paper and gave it to Lois, who took it.

Lois stared at the drawing of the teenage ghost. "Who is she?"

Clark stood up from the desk and stretched. "Her name is Rose. She's also been in my dreams."

"She's young," Lois murmured thoughtfully.

Clark gave a sigh. "And she's really unhappy." He felt somewhat embarrassed to start into the details of his first dream, but as they moved toward the living room couch together, Lois listened quietly without judgment. Even as he moved on from the dream and went into the strange experiences of the bedroom door opening, the strange writing in the fogged mirror, and the wine glass breaking, she remained silent, though her expression had sharpened with alarmed interest. Clark knew what must be going through her mind.

She was recalling her own experiences with a previous ghost that had haunted her in their home. It was a woman who had been killed but was stuck in limbo, unable to find her murderer and move on. Between him and Lois, they had done some investigative digging and unearthed who the culprit had been: the secret mistress her husband had been having an affair with. It hadn't been easy to deliver the news to the deceased woman, though, because she had grown fond of Lois—and in addition, she also enjoyed Clark's affections he showed for his wife. The ghost attempted to possess Lois indefinitely so Clark's affections would inadvertently pass to her, but he was able to convince the spirit to acknowledge her killer's identity, and finally she was able to move on from her haunting past.

"Be careful, Clark," Lois warned. "You don't know what this ghost girl wants from you."

Clark had expected this kind of reaction from his wife, and he had to admit, she was right. Their life tended to attract killers and thieves and all sorts of hoodlums. He reached out for her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

"I know," he said. "I don't even know what this girl thinks I can do for her, but it's clear she's not at rest. For right now, all I want to do is see if I can find out if the house in my dream even exists. If it does, I want to know its background and see if she's tied to it somehow. Then I'll move forward from there."

Lois bit her lower lip, something she did when she was uncertain about things. "Why did it have to be another ghost coming to bother us? Wasn't dealing with one enough?" she fretted.

"I wish you could have seen the look on her face," Clark said. "Her sadness pierced _right_ through me, Lois. I've got to try. I don't think she's going to leave me alone until I do."

Lois gave a soft sigh. "I know. And I understand, I do. Just . . . still, be careful?"

"I will," Clark promised.

* * *

Clark was hoping for a slow news day at the Planet, but Perry had assigned him and Lois to look into a series of small jewelry thefts. He had given the drawing of the Victorian home to Jimmy in hopes that the young man could do some research while he and Lois spent time calling and setting up interviews with the different jewelers.

Clark had finished jotting down the address and interview time for Mike's Custom Jewelry when he reached for his coffee mug—before his fingers closed around the handle, it moved three inches, stopping with a quiet _thunk_ as it nudged against the base of the telephone on his desk. Clark's arm hung, suspended in air, as he stared intently at his mug.

_Rose?_

No sooner had he thought those words when Jimmy's voice called out. "Hey C.K., you've got a woman on line two for you."

Clark looked up sharply. "Who is she?" he asked.

Jimmy shrugged. "She wouldn't give me her name. Just that she needed to speak with you. It sounded urgent."

Clark nodded. He eyed the receiver skeptically as he picked it up and pressed the button for line two.

"This is Clark Kent," he said into the mouthpiece.

"Mister Kent?" a mature English voice said on the other end. It sounded like an older woman.

"Yes?" said Clark. "Can I help you?"

There was a small beat of silence over the line before she responded, drawing in a slow breath. "I do so hope we can help each other." Her accent was soft and a little muddled, but still unmistakably English.

"What do you mean?" Clark asked.

Again, there was a lengthy pause on the other end. "This is a rather forward question, but are you looking for a young, deceased teenager named Rose?"

Goosebumps suddenly broke out along Clark's arms, the hairs on his neck standing on end. He drew in a sharp breath, stunned. "How did you—?" he stopped abruptly, shock and caution warring with each other. He found himself staring at the coffee mug as if it had been the one to tell the woman over the phone about Rose.

The woman's voice quickly rushed in. She sounded almost relieved at his confusion. "Thank God, I know how crazy this must sound, but I've been having dreams where she's told me to find you. It took some time, but I came across your picture in the Daily Planet."

It took a few seconds before Clark found his voice. "Who are you?" the question came out more harshly than he intended, but he made no effort to soften the edge that had crept into his voice.

Another small pause. "I'd rather not say just yet. I'm a terribly private person, you see. But this spirit is not leaving me alone, and well . . . I'm not keen on being haunted forever, Mister Kent. Perhaps you and I could meet and discuss how we can help this troubled spirit find peace and rest."

Clark looked over at Lois, hoping to catch her eye, but her back was turned, her ear pressed to the phone and talking. "When can we meet with you?"

"We?" the woman asked, a frown creeping into her voice.

"Yes, me and my partner," Clark clarified. "When can we meet you?"

"No," the woman's voice said matter-of-factly. "There was no partner in my dream. Only you, Mister Kent. I will only meet with you."

Clark didn't respond right away. It wasn't wholly unusual for contacts to wish to meet discreetly, but the authority in the woman's voice gave Clark the impression she wasn't used to being told no.

"Okay," he said slowly. "When can I meet you, then?"

"In fifteen." Clark's eyebrows rose high on his forehead. _Fifteen minutes? That's quite a demand for a reporter._

He looked down at the interviews he had scheduled so far. He could make it. Even if Lois had scheduled any in the next hour, she could handle a few without him. The woman took Clark's pause as a silent yes, because now she was rattling off the address of a café for him to meet her at, then she said goodbye and hung up.

Placing the receiver down, Clark looked up at Lois who was still on the phone. He walked over to her, trying to catch her attention. She looked up distractedly, mouthed the words "Bobby Big Mouth" and then spoke into the phone. "Any special requests on food when we meet?" She started to jot down several items on her notepad. "Geez, when's the last time you ate? This morning? Okay, _okay_, be there soon." She hung up, continuing to write more food items.

"Has Bobby got a lead on the jewelry thefts?" Clark asked.

"So he says," Lois mumbled, tearing off her piece of paper. "We've gotta go to like three different places to get all of this junk. _Where_ does he put it? I'd like to have his metabolism," she grumped.

"Are you meeting him in the next hour?"

Lois nodded, giving him a quizzical eye. "You're coming with, aren't you?"

Clark shook his head. "I just got a phone call from a woman who claims she's had dreams about Rose wanting her to find me."

Lois' eyebrows practically receded into her hairline.

Clark nodded. "Exactly. She wants me to meet her in fifteen minutes. She claims she's being haunted by the girl, too. Wants to talk about what I can do to help put her soul to rest."

Lois frowned. "I can't cancel with Bobby. You know how grumpy he gets when we delay his _delicate_ eating schedule."

"Don't worry about it," Clark assured. "She wanted to meet alone with me. She seems a little . . . paranoid."

"Well good luck," Lois said.

Clark gave her a quick kiss on the lips. "I'll meet up with you later."

* * *

Clark had changed into Superman and flown to Renaldo's Café, where he was to meet the woman. He spotted an empty alleyway a short distance away, landed, and emerged from it as Clark Kent. Now he was standing in front of the small café, scanning for a woman he didn't know or what she looked like. There were about five small tables outside, and three were filled, but none of the occupants seemed to be looking for anyone. He was about to move into the store itself when he heard his name.

"Mister Kent?"

Clark turned. The voice belonged to a male, not female. Looking around, he spotted a man dressed in a black suit and tie with black sunglasses. He wasn't smiling, but upon capturing Clark's eye, he dipped his head forward in greeting.

Curiously, Clark nodded back. He stood where he was, forcing the suited man to approach him.

"My employer is the woman you spoke with on the phone," the man began by way of introduction, stepping very close and speaking quietly.

"Then why are you here instead of her?" Clark asked abruptly, looking around.

"She is a woman of privacy with ailing health. She does not make social calls, but for you, an exception has been made." He pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Clark, who accepted it. It was a small drawing of a teenage girl with long, curly red hair and vivid green eyes wearing a long, simple black dress. He instantly recognized her as Rose; the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

"Do you recognize the girl in this drawing?" the man asked.

"Yes," Clark replied simply.

"My employer wishes for me to escort you to her estate, where she would like to discuss with you the details of this drawing."

Clark's eyebrows rose. "You mean she isn't here?"

The man shook his head.

"Well . . . how far away is her estate?"

"Outside of Metropolis in the countryside. She wants to make clear to you that you will be compensated for the time this takes away from work, and thanks you for your assistance in a matter that is troubling both you and her."

A flare of anger rose within Clark. Who did this mysterious woman think she was? The man wasn't even asking if leaving this much work was a possibility for Clark.

"That's not how she made it sound on the phone. I made time for a short visit, not a day trip," he argued.

"Which is why she thanks you for your time and promises to compensate you generously for it. Spiritual unrest is something she does not take lightly."

Clark felt his skin begin to tingle. Something felt funny about this, but he couldn't put his finger on it just yet. He was irritated at the audacity of this woman to assume he would just take off for the day. She was obviously made of money; the whole situation screamed it. The man dressed sharply in black with absolutely no personality was not any ordinary middle-class employee. Clark scanned the parked cars along the side of the street and spotted a black Mercedes-Benz. It stuck out like a sore thumb against a white Ford truck, a green Honda accord, and a red Chevy cavalier. There was no guesswork needed to figure out the man in black was its obvious owner.

Clark was sorely tempted to say no, it must have shown as much on his face, because the man in black proceeded to speak again. "It is quite understandable if you have misgivings, she is worried that you might. She regrets that her health prevented her from meeting you here, and again will compensate you generously for your time."

Clark could have cared less about the money, but it was hard to argue about someone's health preventing them from travelling. He had to admit, he was curious about Rose, and so with a heavy sigh, he said, "Well, I need to notify my partner that I'll be gone longer than I thought."

The man in black nodded. "Of course. There is a phone in the car you can use as we start on our way."

"Just one more thing," Clark cut in quickly. "What's her name, the woman I'm going to meet? Why the secrecy?"

"She is a woman of utmost privacy," the man repeated. "She will introduce herself to you when you meet." At that, the man in black gestured toward the Mercedes-Benz, and Clark, eyeing the man curiously, walked toward the car.

* * *

Clark very much wished he had been able to just fly to this place instead of being chaperoned to it in a Mercedes. Once they got out past the clustered streets of Metropolis and onto open road, Sunglass Man—who Clark had silently named as such because no other name had been offered—put down a lead foot and cruised. It was still a good hour and a half drive, something that could have taken Clark five minutes to get to as Superman if he was feeling particularly slow and under the weather. He'd left a note with Jimmy to give to Lois about the sudden change in schedule, but silently he was wishing she had been able to go along with him for the boring ride.

He'd had plenty of time to double-think just how great an effort he was going through in order to help out some spirit who had chosen two very unlikely people to communicate with. Still, at the back of his mind, he was starting to question if this mysterious woman he was meeting knew more than she had led him to believe.

Sunglass Man picked up the phone, and with Clark's super hearing, he spied on the conversation, which turned out to be nothing more than Sunglass Man telling another employee that they would be arriving shortly.

If it were summer time, the trees along hills they had been passing for the past hour and a half would have been green and lush, but as it was now fall, their leaves sported brilliant yellows and reds and oranges as they fell from the branches and spattered the ground. Clark had enjoyed the view at first, but was now thankful to feel the Mercedes slow down and turn into a curve along the road that was dense with foliage.

Sunglass Man stopped before a massive black wrought iron gate, pausing to show his ID to the security officer at the booth. The next moment the gate swung open, and as they drove down an elegant curved road, Clark felt his heart beat hard and fast inside his chest at the view opening before him.

A mammoth sized multi-level Victorian Mansion with several turrets and high peaks loomed into view, with brick red exterior, white siding, green shutters and long, oblong shaped windows.

Clark's mouth gaped open. This was the mansion from his dreams.

Sunglass Man drove up until he was in front of the grand entrance. A woman with graying hair wearing a pale floral dress and lavender sunhat sat in a wheelchair on the wide porch, accompanied by more men in black uniforms. Sunglass Man stopped the car and quickly came around to let Clark out of the car, then accompanied him up to the woman who was waiting patiently for him, a warm smile on her face that didn't quite reach her pale blue eyes.

She reached out her gloved hand, and Clark shook it.

"Mister Kent, thank you ever so kindly for coming out all this way. I understand the inconvenience this might have caused, but I have had several health issues arise as of late. I do hope the ride was pleasant and that Mister Keplin has treated you well?"

Clark smiled politely. "Yes, the ride and Mister Keplin—" he glanced briefly at Sunglass Man, "—have been pleasant. I'm sorry to hear of your health issues, Miss . . .?"

The woman inclined her head. "I do beg your pardon for the theatrics. I am a woman of solidarity and do not mingle often with others. I treasure privacy greatly, but allow me now to introduce myself: I am Miss Wingham."


	4. Now You See Me, Now You Don't

**Author's note:**

Ghostwriter: *dun dun dun* The plot feels like a thick, heavy, exciting stew right about now. I do like the plot's thickness right about now :-D

Happy reading everyone!

* * *

**Chapter Four: Now You See Me, Now You Don't**

Something stirred in Clark's memory. "Wingham . . ." he muttered out loud. "As in Wingham Rifles?"

The woman nodded. "Since eighteen eighty-one, yes. You have a sharp mind." Her pale blue eyes suddenly lost focus for a moment and narrowed, as if traveling into an unpleasant memory. "It was a company handed to me." She paused, and a moment later her eyes snapped back toward Clark, coming out of her reverie. "You may now understand why privacy is a treasured companion of mine?"

Yes, it made a little bit more sense now. The Wingham Rifle had been invented back in the late eighteen hundreds and as the popular phrase went, it was 'the gun that won the West.' He didn't know much more about its history than that, only that the Wingham Rifle was a well-known name that continued to propel the latest technology in rifle weaponry. He imagined that for Miss Wingham, being an heir to a company who manufactured weapons would definitely attract all kinds of people she wouldn't be keen on meeting.

Clark smiled politely. "Yes, it's an industry you inherited, not an industry you asked for."

The corners of Miss Wingham's mouth lifted slightly. "Indeed." She waved her hand toward a patio table sitting further on the south side of the porch. "Please join me for lunch on this lovely warm fall day. We can get acquainted with each other." Though it was asked politely, the older woman's tone suggested this was more of a demand than an actual request.

Ushered forward by her staffed men in black, a waiting butler had pulled out Clark's chair, though he waited until Miss Wingham was wheeled to the table before he took his seat. He found himself staring at the highly polished wooden deck and examining the red brick exterior. It was unreal how much it felt like he was back inside his dream.

"You seem quite taken with my estate," Miss Wingham's voice cut into his thoughts.

"I've been here before," Clark replied.

Miss Wingham arched a lone eyebrow in surprise. "Oh?"

"In my dreams," Clark explained. "Rose showed this place to me, asking me to find her."

The older woman nodded. "That would be because she haunts my estate."

"Why?" Clark asked, having guessed this himself. "What connection does she have here?"

"In due time, Mister Kent," Miss Wingham said, and at that moment several servers approached bearing trays of food and pitchers of drink. "First, we shall eat to replenish our minds and our bodies. It is time for me to take my medication. Then we will delve into the hands of fate that have brought you and me together to help a distressed spirit."

_A little eccentric, aren't you?_ Clark thought silently.

Nevertheless, he granted her wishes and withheld the barrage of questions he was itching to ask. As a garden salad was placed in front of Clark, he watched another server hold out a small silver tray to Miss Wingham; on it rested a small needle syringe and a bottle of clear medicine. He recognized it as insulin. The older woman glanced up and caught Clark's stare.

She arched a brow and gave him a pointed look. "Do I amuse you?"

Clark felt color rise to his cheeks and looked down in embarrassment. "Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to stare. Diabetes can be an awful disease," he added in hopes it would console a very stiff, proper English woman.

"Yes, it can," Miss Wingham replied coolly, her tone indicating that the subject was not open to further discussion.

Lunch passed awkwardly for Clark. He tried to engage in light conversation as they moved from salad to the second course—glazed salmon, cooked vegetables, and mashed potatoes—but Miss Wingham kept her answers short and succinct. Eventually Clark gave up trying to make small talk and ate in silence, which seemed to suit his hostess just fine. In fact, her posture seemed to relax slightly amid the ensuing quiet, and as the entrée plates were taken away and tea was served, she let out a small sigh of satisfaction, the smallest of smiles pulling at the corners of her mouth.

"Did you enter inside my estate?" Miss Wingham asked suddenly.

After the long stretch of silence, Clark was startled when she spoke. "I beg your pardon?"

"In your dreams, were you ever just on the outside, or did you enter inside it as well?" she clarified, taking a sip of her tea.

"Just on the outside," Clark responded quickly, practically pouncing on the subject, his enthusiasm evident that she was finally bringing up the subject he had come here to discuss. "I've had only two dreams where I've seen this place, but both times my dream ends with me staring at it from the outside, and Rose is telling me to find her." Clark paused a moment in debate, but decided to speak his mind. He spoke cautiously. "Miss Wingham, forgive me if this is too forward, but . . . _how_ did you know I'd been having dreams about a ghost? They started only very recently. My own wife didn't even know about it until early this morning. It feels like too much of a coincidence that, only hours later, I get a call from you, and you're asking me about Rose."

Miss Wingham's pale blue eyes sparkled with humor, and her mouth quirked. "I do not believe in coincidence, Mister Kent. It is merely a blind man's excuse for not acknowledging the existence of fate. I did not _know_ you were having dreams; I could only know of my own, and in them, I dreamt that you were wandering around in my mansion, calling for Rose, but you could not find her. I, on the other hand could, and she was pleading with me to help you find her."

For the second time today, Clark felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and a chill race up his spine. "Why me?" he mused out loud. "I'm not a medium. I don't help spirits cross over."

"That is why I invited you here in hopes that we both can find out," she answered. "Our meeting was meant to be. I do not always read the Daily Planet, but this morning the desire called, and there, quite plainly, was a picture of you next to a column you had written. I would not call that _mere_ coincidence, but rather an unseen hand guiding us together."

Clark thought that over for a moment. He didn't want to say he was a skeptic of fate, but his reporter's instincts pushed him to find links and connections and reasons. "Miss Wingham, you told me a little while ago that you believe Rose is haunting your estate. What makes you think that?"

Miss Wingham did not answer right away. Instead she stared at Clark, giving him the impression she was coming to some sort of silent assessment of him. After several seconds she spoke. "I can see you are the kind of person who prefers to _see_ rather than believe?"

Clark gave an inward sigh. Although her talk of fate and putting them together sounded warm and accepting, it felt like she was placing judgment on everything that came out of his mouth, and he could bet that whatever opinion she was gathering couldn't be very positive.

"I'm a reporter, Ma'am," Clark tried to explain politely. "I believe that fate exists, but in my line of work, it's my job to find hard facts and firm connections. If I can make a link to something that's real and tangible, I'm going to try and find it."

"This is not an interview, Mister Kent," Miss Wingham replied as if she was telling off a young boy about running in the house. "I ask you to turn off the reporter in you. I did not invite you to my estate so you could write about this in your newspaper."

Clark wasn't sure what he'd said exactly that set her off, but if things were going to continue like this between the two of them, he wasn't sure how willing he was to investigate any further about the death of some girl that was haunting his dreams.

Miss Wingham seemed to have come to a similar conclusion. Her lips, which had been thin and pursed earlier, now suddenly softened. She glanced past Clark's shoulder for a few seconds, focusing on something, but then her eyes rested back on him, and her cold expression warmed up a fraction.

"I apologize," she said demurely. "That was uncalled for. I do not keep well with social callings, as you can see. You asked a simple question and I—well, yes," she cleared her throat hastily.

Clark felt relieved to see her soften. "Apology accepted, ma'am," he said with a gracious smile.

Miss Wingham's lips lifted in a small smile, returning the gesture. "You were asking how I knew Rose haunted my estate, correct?"

"Yes," Clark replied.

"I believe the easiest way to answer that is to go inside. If you do better with physical evidence, then I have something to show you."

At that, she signaled one of her men in black, and they wheeled her away from the table and toward the entrance with Clark following from behind. The front door was a very wide six-panel and made from a dark kind of wood Clark could tell was of exquisite quality. It had a high glossed finish with a gleaming gold doorknob right at the center, which marked it as a little odd; doorknobs were always to the left. Sunglass Man—or Mister Keplin, as Clark now knew him—opened the door, and inside they went.

High polished wood flooring was decorated with cream colored rugs down the hallway stretching before Clark. A staircase with an elegant wooden banister stood center-left and wound its way until it disappeared up past the ceiling, which was white with brown wooden slabs built in square panels. To his left was another long hallway with more cream colored rugs and to his right was a large, opulent receiving room.

Miss Wingham was wheeled inside and Clark followed, feeling himself staring with unabashed astonishment. It was like walking into the home of royalty, which he guessed Miss Wingham had the financial capacity to emulate. A large bay window overlooked the lawn and the lengthy road leading up to the mansion. In an alcove rested a grand piano and in the room's center sat a long, overstuffed plush sofa, loveseat, and two high-backed plush chairs. They formed a semi-circle, and in the middle rested a small round table draped in a cream-colored cloth with two smaller wooden chairs on opposite ends. That seemed an odd centerpiece for a room, Clark thought, but it didn't seem important to question at the moment.

Miss Wingham held up her hand, and the footman halted. "Thank you, Mister Harkin. You may leave us now."

Without a further word he retreated, along with Mister Keplin, who shut the door. The only ones in the mansion now were Clark and Miss Wingham.

"Mister Kent, if you would please, what I wish to show you is further into the room." Understanding that she meant for him to push her wheelchair, he obliged and steered them further inside. At her instruction, they stopped at the far back wall of the receiving room where she pointed at an old, antique portrait.

A gentleman in his late twenties or early thirties stood resolute in the picture, with a loose-flowing white collared shirt, a bronzed vest and brown tie with brown dress pants. He had dark brown hair and eyes, and in front of him—posing tall and upright in a chair—was a young teenage girl dressed in a high-necked simple blue floral dress with buttons down the front. It cinched at the waist and flowed out over the chair, the sleeves long and cuffed at the wrist. She had fiery, red curly hair that was done up and vivid green eyes.

Clark's jaw dropped. "That's—"

"Rose," Miss Wingham interjected. "Yes."

"But," Clark halted, a bit flummoxed. "What's her portrait doing . . ." he stopped, a sudden thought occurring to him. "She's related to you?"

"No," Miss Wingham answered. "Rather, she and her husband were the original owners of the house. It was built in the early eighteen hundreds and used to be a farm house. As you can see, I've done quite a bit of reconstruction to it since it was bought."

_More than that, I'd say,_ Clark thought to himself. "What's her story, do you know?" He found himself staring at Rose, unable to take his eyes away. Even in this portrait, her eyes looked forlorn and achingly sad. Her unsmiling, serious expression was one he could vividly recall staring down at him from a turret window in his second dream.

"I know precious little, I'm afraid," said Miss Wingham. "Her full name is Amelia Rose Palliser Johnston, married to Levi Joseph Johnston. She died at the age of eighteen and her husband at the age of twenty-nine. Cause of death unknown for both, though their bodies were found here in the house. That is all I know of her life. Of her death, I know that her spirit remains. Real estate reports show that each occupant who purchased this property never stayed for long. Word of mouth claimed a rumor that the place was haunted."

"Did _you_ know the place was haunted when you purchased it?"

There was a poignant pause before Miss Wingham responded in a rather stiff voice. "It was my late husband who purchased this place. Yes, he heard the rumors but ignored them. I myself did not know. I began to have dreams, though." At those words, Miss Wingham's voice softened. She gave a small sigh. "She was in them, Rose was. She wandered places of this home that did not exist, anxious and not at rest. I attempted to talk to my husband about the strange dreams, but he always became angry and refused to hear any of it. He insisted I was making up stories. So I kept the dreams private and kept the strange paranormal occurrences that began to happen just to myself. They only happened around me, but then . . . then my husband passed away unexpectedly. Naturally, grief clutched at my heart. I was inconsolable. Rose's spirit haunted me more than ever, and I was paralyzed with fear. I didn't know what to do until . . . until one night a medium visited and told me that in order to calm Rose, I must build onto the house. So I did. The dreams stopped, as did the paranormal activity. I have since known peace."

Miss Wingham gave a mournful sigh, but it seemed that she was done talking. Clark stood there, silently absorbing the information. Private, eccentric Miss Wingham had just revealed a startling amount of personal life events, and much of it seemed to center on Rose. Why hadn't Miss Wingham moved away? Why did she stay and allow a spirit to dictate the grief that was surely poisoning her heart all these years? Of all the questions now starting to roll away in Clark's mind, there was one piece of information that stood out in his mind. One piece that she had purposely left out.

"She's haunting your dreams again. Paranormal activity is starting back up, isn't it?"

The back of Miss Wingham's head nodded. "Yes," she sighed. "And you are in them."

"But . . . why me?" Clark asked for the second time that afternoon.

"To that, I have no answer. But," Miss Wingham paused and pointed toward the small round table in the middle of the receiving room, "I am hoping Rose will be willing to communicate her intentions to the pair of us so that we may finally have an idea."

Clark turned his head and examined the small table more closely. He hadn't noticed earlier, but now he saw a board with letters on it, and a triangle-shaped piece of wood with wheels attached lying on top.

"Is that a Ouija board?"

"I prefer the term spirit board, but yes," Miss Wingham replied.

Clark sighed. He had misgivings about this. What on earth was he going to say to a spirit? Did he even want to? Was it a good idea, or should he walk out of here right now? Immediately he knew the answer to the latter; he couldn't. It seemed two women's lives were miserably entangled together, one of them dead, and the other living. Miss Wingham was obviously haunted by a lot of things, more than just Rose. There were things she had hinted at about her late husband; he hadn't seemed to appreciate her talk of ghosts, but he had died unexpectedly, something she was still grieving over apparently.

Could he walk out on a woman—albeit a, cranky, eccentric, difficult older woman from the two minutes he had gleaned since knowing her—and leave her to her very apparent misery?

Of course not. That wasn't who he was.

If he wanted to somehow help free Miss Wingham from her haunted past, that included trying to free Rose, and it seemed the only way he was going to know how that was remotely possible was having a séance with a Ouija board.

"You'll have to guide me through the séance," Clark said after a moment's deliberation. "I've never been involved with one before."

"Of course," Miss Wingham agreed.

Clark wheeled the older woman over to the table, where she used Clark's assistance in situating herself in the other seat rather than in her wheelchair. Sitting down on the opposite end, Clark followed her lead and placed his fingers over the wooden triangle piece, which Miss Wingham called a planchette. She closed her eyes, and though Clark felt foolish, he reluctantly did the same.

He heard Miss Wingham take several deep breaths before she called out in a low, solemn whisper. "We call upon the spirit of Amelia Rose Palliser Johnston and invite you to commune with the living."

Quite suddenly, Clark felt a light tug on his right pants pocket. A moment later a burning sensation started, like a small pinprick that steadily grew until it felt like a cigarette lighter was attempting to brand itself into his skin, a highly unusual sensation for Clark's alter ego to experience.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed, letting go of the planchette and clapping a hand over his thigh. Immediately the burning stopped, but under Clark's palm, he felt a small bulge from inside his pants pocket. Miss Wingham looked at him with mild curiosity as he reached in and drew out the only object that was in his trousers: a clay-red metal band.

_What in the world?_

Clark stared at the ring in flabbergasted awe.

"What is that?" Miss Wingham asked.

"It's a . . . ring," Clark answered lamely.

"Yes, I see that," she replied a bit tartly. "I was asking what significance it has, why you pulled it out so suddenly into our séance."

"I've only seen this ring in my dreams," Clark replied softly, more to himself than to her. "Rose. She . . . she showed this to me. _How_ did it end up in my pants pocket? There was nothing in there."

At those words, Miss Wingham's pale blue eyes lit up. She took a sharp intake of breath. "She's communicating with you already, don't you see?"

Clark looked at Miss Wingham in bewilderment. "With a ring? Why this? What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Rings generally have only one use, Mister Kent," Miss Wingham replied dryly. "My guess is she wishes you to put it on."

Clark looked sharply at her. "Put it . . . on?" he asked stupidly.

Miss Wingham chuckled softly, which was a very odd sound to hear just then, because she hadn't yet shown a humorous side since Clark arrived. "It's a logical deduction, Mister Kent. Who knows? Perhaps she'll show herself to you once you do."

For an irrational moment, that thought did not appeal to Clark at all. Though . . . it was why he was here, wasn't it? To find out why Rose wanted him? Suddenly her words rang through his mind.

_Find me._

Was Miss Wingham right? If he put on the ring, would Rose materialize in front of him? Did he really need a ring for that to happen, though? That wasn't necessary with the last ghost he and Lois had dealt with. Still . . .

There was no way to know unless he put it on. There wasn't any harm in it, right? She was dead. Although the ring hadn't been in his pocket a few seconds ago—was it really seconds ago?—this was definitely a real, physical, tangible object that had mysteriously burned itself into existence. He couldn't ignore that, could he?

Clark looked up at Miss Wingham, but she merely shrugged, letting the decision fall to him.

With a sigh, he decided that curiosity won.

Slipping the band onto his right middle finger, he looked around the room expectantly.

Nothing happened.

He looked to Miss Wingham, who was staring at him, her eyes wide and watchful. "I don't see any ghost yet—" Clark began, but abruptly he stopped.

It felt like an invisible vice six feet tall had suddenly clamped onto his body and began pressing in. There was a rushing of wind that instantly began filling the entire room, loud and large like a hurricane, whipping around. Miss Wingham sat perfectly still, her hair, nor hat, flying about. Where was the wind coming from, why weren't things moving?

Clark tried to shout, but his voice box had paralyzed and his mouth would not open. He tried to move, but the invisible vice held him in place, continuing to squeeze in on both sides, working at flattening him until he exploded from the pressure. His eyes started to water, and he blinked furiously.

That's when he saw her.

Rose.

She was standing behind Miss Wingham in her black dress, with her ringlets of bright red hair cascading down her shoulders. She was radiant. Those vivid green eyes weren't desolate and sad, but happy and rejoicing. She was jumping up and down and clapping. He could just barely make out her voice above the roaring of wind in his ears.

"You found me! You found me!"

Clark looked to Miss Wingham, but the sight that met his eyes shocked him. Her graying hair was now a warm chocolate brown, and her appearance had rejuvenated itself by at least thirty years. She was no longer an elderly woman, but a female in the prime years of her life.

She was smiling at him, grinning wickedly.

Darkness started to close in around the edges of Clark's vision, the vice's pressure bearing down on him. Why couldn't he, alter-ego Superman, do anything to fight against this? Was he going to die? What kind of dark power was happening?

He glared at Miss Wingham, expressing the sudden loathing and betrayal that he could not voice.

As the darkness continued to creep further into his foggy vision and the roaring wind threatened to burst his eardrums, he heard Miss Wingham's voice one last time before he was encased in a black void of nothingness.

"Thank you for your time, Mister Kent."


	5. The Wingham Mansion

**Author's Notes:**

Ghostwriter: Things start to heat up for sure. Mwahaha!

KrisK: Yay! Thank you so much for your feedback! Totally put a grin on my face. I'm glad you enjoy my writing style and the wonderful, dreadful things I have planned in this story :) I wish I could write fast enough to put it all down.

JamesTKent: Thanks for leaving a review! You are on the right track :)

Thanks everyone for your thoughts! Happy reading :)

* * *

**Chapter 5: The Wingham Mansion **

Slowly, the heavy weight of unconsciousness began to ease its suffocation. Clark felt the webs of dreamless sleep break until he sensed light on the other side of his closed lids. The effort it took to open them was an unusual sensation for the superhero; awakening was normally not this difficult. Yet when he looked around and blearily took in his surroundings, his alertness instantly sharpened and he sat bolt upright, an action that brought conflicting aches and pains shooting from his head and trailing down his body.

Two thoughts simultaneously ransacked Clark's mind: he wondered whose lavish bedroom he had awoken in because he did not recognize it, and _why_ was he feeling like he had been run over by a steam roller? He was Superman! Such physical exertion only manifested itself when he had undergone extremely taxing missions, none of which currently sprang to mind.

That's when the events with Miss Wingham and Rose instantly flashed through his mind's eye. The séance . . . that was the last moment he could recall.

Looking more properly at his surroundings, Clark spotted what looked like early morning rays falling through two oblong windows.

_Early morning?! How long have I been out?_

Clark dragged his sluggish, heavy body out of the enormous Victorian style bed and crossed slowly over to the window. Gazing out, he could see the sun beginning to rise, which gave his stomach reason to squirm. It had been one or two o'clock in the afternoon when last he was awake. Aside from the troubling comprehension that a whole day seemed to have passed, Clark noted his surroundings. The window he was gazing out of was at least two or three stories up, and it overlooked a familiar large grassy field with a cherub fountain and decorated shrubbery—this was Miss Wingham's estate.

His lavish environment now made sense, though _why_ he was here was a question burning ever stronger in his mind. He wanted answers, and he wanted them _now_.

Turning around, he crossed to the door on the left-hand side of the room in the corner. He half expected it to be locked—not that it would have made any difference anyway, his alter ego would not have allowed himself to be kept a prisoner—but it opened freely. Walking through, he stepped out into the narrow hallway. To his left was the end of a corridor, so his only option was to turn right.

It was a long, winding hallway filled with several small zigzagging bends every three doors. Clark lowered his eyeglasses so he could use his x-ray vision to better tell his way through this strange labyrinthine corridor—but nothing was revealed. The wooden framework remained solid and impassible before his eyes. There was no molecular breakdown that allowed him to see into anything extra at all.

Clark's brows creased in a deep frown. No x-ray vision? That wasn't right. Out of instinct, he turned on his super hearing, trying to see what he could listen in on. Voices? The steady hum of electricity? His own heartbeat magnified in his ears?

Nothing.

It was an alarming thing to feel his own heart speed up, yet not have the capacity to use anything super to hear it. If he couldn't x-ray and he couldn't magnify his hearing, could he fly? Much as he instinctually wanted to investigate that power, he knew this small corridor wasn't the place to test it. What he could do instead, though, was attempt to lift off the ground an inch or so to hover—but nothing was happening on that end, either.

The last power he could test was his strength, but based on how sluggish and tired he was currently feeling, he had a very good sense on how that outcome would also turn out.

_What is happening to me?!_

Anger and caution were hammering in tune with his beating heart. He balled his fists together, causing him to become aware of something metal rubbing against the fingers in his right hand. He lifted his hand to his face, and there Clark gazed at the red band on his middle finger. There was nothing but instinct to go off of, no facts or logic he could call to mind, yet he _knew_ that the offending ring was the cause for his sudden normalcy. Which meant Miss Wingham knew about Clark's dual identity.

Yet . . . was that right? Suddenly he wasn't so sure. It was the ghost, Rose, who had given him this ring after all. She had shown it in his dreams, had _surely_ placed it in his pocket—he had no idea how a ghost could do that, but it had happened—and then she had appeared to him just as hell broke loose and he fell unconscious long enough to arise to a new day.

He grasped at the ring and pulled. He had no desire to try and help the spirit at this point—she was far too meddlesome with the living than a ghost ought to be. Instead of it slipping off, however, he found resistance; the ring wasn't budging. He tried exerting more force, scrunching up his face in the effort, but it was like the ring had shrunken two sizes too small and glued itself to his skin. It simply would not budge.

Clark let out a frustrated breath. Now he had the unfortunate proof that his super strength was gone. "Rose!" he called out, his voice filling the thin hallway.

At the hallway's end came the soft, muted giggle of Rose, laughing as if to say she knew her little joke had been found out. Clark began to advance, moving swiftly. He rounded another zigzag bend and saw a cream colored four-paneled door click shut on the right-hand side. In three strides he was to the door, opened it—and stopped short. He was abruptly looking outside at the green field, and directly below was a steep thirty foot drop. No staircase, no railing, no glass separating one from the drop. This door opened up to the outside without any plausible means of getting down—unless one planned to step off and fall.

_What the—?_

As Clark stared with confusion, caught off guard, a sudden gust of wind barreled into him like an invisible fist and propelled him backwards with enough force to send him sprawling to his backside. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the door slam shut, and Rose's mysterious giggle sounded once more.

Clark swiftly got to his feet, anger welling up from inside. "Come and show yourself, Rose!"

There was more giggling and the echo of footsteps running away. Clark gritted his teeth. He was not in the mood to go chasing after a ghost. He was tempted to try his luck and walk out of the door leading outside and see if he could either fly away or fall with style. He reached for the handle and gave a tug. The knob swiveled, but the door would not open; it was suctioned tightly shut. Aggravated and looking for a reason to test how far gone his super strength really was, Clark gave an almighty tug, but still the door did not loosen. He stuck his foot flat up against the wall and wrenched at the handle for a third time—nothing.

Clark's adrenaline was now spiking, anger fueling it, but he reigned in his emotions. Getting angry and yelling wasn't going to help him get out of his current predicament—and he _needed_ to get out of it. The absence of his powers—all of them—was never a good sign. He stared at the red band on his finger curiously. Kryptonite was the only known source that could deprive him of his super abilities, but it was also lethal. Though he felt tired and a headache was now surfacing, he felt no extremely ill effects that the green Kryptonite gave him. What kind of power was robbing him of his abilities? Whatever it was, it had to be powerful, and if it was this ghost Rose that was causing it—or Miss Wingham, wherever she seemed to have disappeared to—he couldn't afford to start off so hostile. He knew from too much experience that attitudes like that didn't get a person very far.

Clark took a few deep breaths and settled his racing heart, the anger slowly ebbing away and his mind calming down. Now thinking a little clearer, he took mental stock of his situation. In hindsight, he understood now that he had been lured here by Miss Wingham.

A few days ago he'd begun having dreams, the likes of which had led him to believe there was a deeply sad and troubled spirit reaching out to him, but now he wasn't so sure. He'd received that strange phone call from Miss Wingham, who just so happened to know about his dreams. He'd thought her a medium with incredible intuition, but perhaps she was controlling Rose and using the spirit for her own ulterior motives—motives he was now very suspicious of given that he no longer appeared to have any of his super powers. He doubted that was mere coincidence. What a dunce he had been for putting on that ring! _What_ was Miss Wingham playing at?

"Find me."

Clark jumped and whirled around. Rose's impatient voice had spoken directly into his left ear, but she was nowhere in sight as he looked from left to right.

"Rose?"

There was no reply.

"I think you're the one who found _me,_ Rose," Clark spoke into the air. "So why don't you come out and show yourself? How about we talk? I would like that."

Off at the end of the corridor, past a closed door, Clark heard another door slam hard enough for vibrations to shake the wooden floor where he stood. Taking that as a definitive 'no' from Rose, the reporter sighed resolutely. Apparently he was going to have to play hide and seek if he wanted any chance of gaining answers from a spirit. With heavy tread, Clark trudged to the end of the corridor and opened the door, trailing the source of the noise. There was a high-polished wooden staircase which he plodded down. Walking across the large square landing, Clark stopped, his brows furrowed in confusion as he stared down at the floor—and the glass-paned window that had been built right into it. It had white painted trim and two white knobs.

_There's a window in the middle of the floor!_ _What in the world?_

Puzzling though that piece of architectural design was, Clark didn't stop long to stare; he was on a ghost hunt. Moving carefully around the window-in-the-floor, he moved past the squared landing and into another corridor, but this one was large and spacious, where the ceiling above was a long glass skylight with bright sunlight spilling onto warm, pale green walls with soft yellow accented trim. The light brown wooden flooring gleamed as the rays of light bounced off its surface. Clark moved silently onward and found a second, longer staircase leading down to his left. He took it. The room it led him to was a dining hall furnished to the nines, though once again, the lavish detail wasn't what caught Clark's eye. Looking around the room, he quickly tallied a shocking total of eight oak doors and two fireplaces that spanned across the four walls.

Which door led him to Rose, and _why_ were there so many? Walking tentatively to one, he opened it and found himself staring at a brick red wall. Clark blinked in surprise. He pressed his hand against the surface, just to make sure that it was real. It was.

What kind of crazy fun house had Miss Wingham built?! A door that opened into a wall was absurd! He closed it, wondering how many of the other seven doors led to dead ends like this one. It didn't make sense, but it would explain why there were so many. Clark was sorely missing his x-ray vision right about now, as it could easily help answer his questions much faster. How in the world was he going to find Rose in such a large mansion that seemed keen on presenting itself as some sort of an extravagant Victorian style mad house?

Clark sighed inwardly. _One door at a time, I guess . . ._

The reporter moved to the next door, only a mere two feet away. He reached for the bronze handle and pulled when a burst of cold wind suddenly blew on his neck. At that same moment he heard the distinct click of a door opening from behind. Quickly turning around, he stared across the Oakwood dining table and into an opened doorway that appeared to lead into a study.

"Rose?" Clark called out.

There was a distant giggle and her soft, singsong voice could be heard from inside the room. "Fiiiind meeee," Rose sang.

Clark felt like a fish following a wriggling, squirming worm on a hook. He didn't want to follow, _hated_ that he was being baited, and yet knew that if he wanted answers, he didn't have much choice but to go along.

For what felt like hours, Clark played the game. He followed opened doors where Rose's voice lilted and cajoled, but the places she led him continued to fill his mind with unease. He walked into bedrooms that had no doors, climbed staircases that led directly up to the ceiling or into dead ends, encountered numerous bathrooms but had yet to find one with a tub or a shower, and on and on the oddities went. There was a corridor that shrank and became skinnier and shorter and ended with a three-foot tall door Clark had to crawl through, followed by a very narrow switchback staircase he climbed. It zigzagged at least five times and had several wide, shallow steps, yet the staircase only raised six feet to the next level. Still Rose's voice called, opening doors and also slamming a few, especially when Clark attempted to give up on the chase—she wouldn't allow it.

At long last, Clark followed the sound of her running footsteps down a staircase and found himself in a familiar entryway; it was the front entrance to the mansion. His heart soared upon seeing the front door and felt freedom calling his name. He went immediately for it, but should have known what effect his efforts produced. The door—try as he might, twisting and fumbling with the locks and pulling at its handle—would not budge. For a Kryptonian alien who had demonstrated amazing feats of rerouting airborne missiles from their intended targets with his bare hands and stopped an asteroid from colliding into earth, this mere inability to open a sealed door was highly disconcerting.

Clark was losing the end of his patience. He'd played Rose's game of hide-and-seek for what felt like hours, and still she was egging him on, obviously enjoying the chase. When he heard her giggling voice from inside the receiving room—the source from whence everything began to go wrong—his brows furrowed with impatience. Enough was enough. If she wanted so badly to be found, she had only to reveal herself. He was _here_, wasn't he?

Striding into the room with his shoulders drawn back straight, his head held high, he looked around briefly. He half-expected to see Miss Wingham sitting idly at the séance table in the middle of the circle of furnishings, but that had vanished from the room. Instead, an ornately carved glass coffee table sat in its place. Clark wasn't sure if he felt relieved that the mysterious older-woman-turned-young-again was not in attendance or annoyed, but he found his eyes trailing to the other significant piece in the room: Rose's portrait, and more importantly, Rose.

There she was, standing right under the painting, smiling just as radiantly as when he had seen her before blacking out. She was more opaque now than he had yet seen her. In fact, she looked solid.

"You found me!" she cried happily, clapping.

Clark did not smile back. "What do you want?" he demanded rather testily.

Rose's smile broadened, looking rather pleased. "I wanted to take you on a tour first, show you around a bit."

"Why?" Clark asked, not hiding the exasperation he felt.

"Because this is your new residence. How do you like the room I picked out for you? You didn't look at it much."

"My—hang on, what?" Clark asked. "New residence?" he shook his head. "Come again?"

Rose giggled. "You're going to live here now," she explained none too helpfully.

Clark gave a short pause. "No," he answered slowly. "I'm not. Is that why you brought me here?"

Rose's smile turned secretive. "Well, basically."

Clark folded his arms and gave a stern look. "I'm not sure why you'd think I would agree to something like that, but I'm afraid it's not going to happen, Rose."

One side of her mouth dropped so that her lips pulled into a smirk, her green eyes flashing vividly. The girlish nature in her features instantly vanished. "Yes it is. You've already agreed."

"No," Clark said firmly. "I haven't."

Rose dipped her head forward, staring at Clark's folded arms. "You voluntarily put on my ring. By doing so, you agreed."

Clark was tempted to pull out his hand to stare at the offending piece of metal, but he resisted. "I haven't agreed to anything. I put that on thinking I was going to help you somehow—"

"And you have," Rose interrupted. "By agreeing to put on the ring, you agreed to help me. And helping me means you will live here. So you have done what you set out to do."

Clark's brow creased in a stubborn frown. "Then you are going to be very disappointed, because I will _not_ agree to that."

Rose's smirk twitched. "It's too late."

Clark unfastened his arms and wrenched at the band, attempting for the second time to take it off, but he had no better results than the first time.

"You won't be able to take it off, no matter how _strong_ you think you are."

Clark looked up sharply at Rose's obvious insinuation. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

Rose's smile turned wicked. "Your strength passed to me and this house. You'll find you are no longer _super_ while in here." Slowly, purposefully, she brought up her left hand, displaying it. Clark felt his stomach shift uncomfortably, because there on her ring finger, glimmering with a light source he could not identify, rested an identical red band. Rose's eyes flashed triumphantly. "Welcome to my home. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, in life _and_ in death, you will be mine."


	6. Where's Clark?

**Author's notes: **

Ghostwriter: Fun though it would be to have the ghost woman come back from that episode, it wasn't what I had in mind. I love the guess!

Happy reading! I love your reviews and hearing what you think about the story as it progresses.

* * *

**Where's Clark? **

Lois climbed into the Planet's elevator, turned around and watched the numbers slowly climb, not truly paying attention. She chewed on her bottom lip, a nervous tick that Clark would surely have picked up on had he been around. That was the source of her anxiety, though—Clark wasn't around. The last time she had seen him was yesterday morning when they had split up to follow different leads. She had received a message on her work phone that he would be much longer with the interview than he anticipated, but he had never returned to work, and after scanning all of the news channels for signs of disasters worthy of Superman, nothing had given her the notion her husband's alter ego was hard at work.

She'd slept very poorly, jumping awake at every imagined noise, casting her eyes around for signs of her husband's late night return. He never came.

Morning had now bloomed, and still her husband's absence felt like an empty chasm in her heart. Normally when Clark was gone this long, she had some idea of why, and it usually always entailed a job for Superman.

Not this time.

Again, that tingling feeling started to prickle the lining of her stomach. She squirmed at the sensation and cast a loathsome glare at the elevator buttons as if they had been the ones to cause it. She _hated_ this feeling; it meant her intuition was telling her she was about to stumble upon bad news, and she had no problems guessing the bad news involved Clark.

The elevator door dinged open. Lois stepped cautiously off the lift, eyes darting around for signs of Perry or Jimmy. She didn't want to run into any of their questions just yet on where her other half was. Normally his absence was due to his alter ego and she would make up some kind of excuse, but if her partner—and _husband—_was in some kind of trouble, the Planet would need to know. She fervently hoped his desk would provide some kind of clue as to what she needed to do. Thankfully she crossed no one in her path toward his desk and began scanning the various papers strewn about.

She stumbled upon a hastily scribbled address written on a sticky note. It was to some café downtown she'd never been to, but her hunch told her this was where Clark was supposed to meet with the woman who claimed to also have dreams about the ghost-girl Rose. Absentmindedly, she wondered if something else had deterred him along the way, but instantly she knew that thought was wrong. Her gut told her that whoever Clark had met up with was the reason he wasn't here now. What if this ghost had somehow possessed her husband, and the woman he met had something to do with it? It could possibly explain his lengthy absence, but if she really wanted to know . . .

Lois snatched up the paper and headed back toward the elevator, determined to go to Renaldo's Café and start her clue searching there when Jimmy's voice halted her steps. He appeared around the corner, feet away from the elevator.

"Hey Lois!" he called out, smiling wide in greeting. Lois' stomach did a twisting dive as she returned what she hoped was a friendly smile in return.

"Morning Jimmy," she mumbled, thanking the heavens that the elevator doors had chosen that moment to open.

"Hey, where's CK—?" Jimmy began, but was cut off.

"Gotta go!" Lois hollered, practically shoving fellow coworkers aside as she leapt into the lift and began jamming her finger on the button that closed the doors. Jimmy's confused wave of goodbye vanished as steel doors shut him from her view. Lois gave an inward sigh. She rode the lift down to the lobby where she stepped out and exited the Planet. She made a left-hand turn outside the doors and made it a few yards before she heard her name called out.

"Miss Lane?"

Lois stopped and turned, searching for the unfamiliar voice and saw a man dressed in a black suit and tie with black sunglasses approach her. He had a stiff, professional demeanor with an unsmiling expression.

"Yes?" she answered questioningly.

"When was the last time you saw your husband?" he asked without any introduction.

Lois stiffened. "Pardon me?"

"When was the last time you saw your husband?" he repeated, stopping in front of her.

Lois took a backwards step instinctively. "Who are you?"

"I am Mister Keplin," he answered straightaway. "My employer met with your husband yesterday afternoon. Again, I ask when the last time was that you saw your husband?"

Lois narrowed her eyes, hating the way her heart rate sped up. "Who's your employer?"

"I answered one question of yours, Miss Lane," he said briskly. "Now, if you please, answer mine."

Lois stared into those black sunglasses for a long moment, deliberating the very question she was trying to avoid answering with Jimmy or Perry. Her hairs were standing on end; this was a complete stranger asking a very forward and leading question. A snide comment was on the tip of her tongue, but Lois held back. Clark _was_ missing, and if this stranger was asking when the last time was she had seen her _husband_. . .

"I haven't seen him since yesterday morning," she said in a guarded, clipped tone. "He was going to meet someone, whom I gather is your employer. Who is she? Why are you asking about my husband?"

"Because my employer has also gone missing," he answered quietly. "She was last seen with your husband in an escorted ride back to the Planet yesterday, but the vehicle did not make it that far before crashing. The driver was the only occupant in the vehicle found. He was dead."

Lois' heart gave a wild thump in her chest. "Did he die from the crash, or do you suspect foul play?"

Mister Keplin stared at her, pausing. "The situation is under investigation. Do you have an idea why your husband was meeting with my employer?"

Lois nodded silently. "I have an idea," she murmured.

"In that case," he paused and gestured toward a black Mercedes-Benz parked along the side of the street. "Would you come along to answer some questions? The sooner they are found, the better."

Lois stared skeptically at the vehicle. "You can come up to my office," she offered, pointing at the Planet. "We can talk up there—"

"We work discreetly, Miss Lane," Mister Keplin interrupted. "Your diplomacy in this matter is therefore of the utmost importance. A newsroom would be a highly inappropriate atmosphere to discuss a very serious and delicate situation."

Lois raised an eyebrow. _Serious? Delicate?_ Clark was the man of steel for God's sake! What could have happened that Superman couldn't handle? Not that Mister Keplin knew this, of course (and he didn't, _right?_), but if the man's employer was missing while with Clark, the words serious and delicate were the perfect phrase to describe the situation.

Lois' suspicions soared. "What agency do you work for? FBI? CIA?" she demanded.

"More discreet channels than that," he replied, and again gestured toward the car. "Please." It wasn't a question.

His answer did nothing to improve the uneasiness, but before Lois could formulate a reply, the door to the Mercedes opened and out stepped a woman with soft brown hair.

"Good Lord, Mister Keplin," she said tartly in an English accent. The man started and turned promptly on his heel, walking quickly toward her as she continued to talk. It looked like he was trying to usher her back in the vehicle. "The look on her face suggests you've made a ploy on her life. No, I will _not_ get back in the car until I have spoken with Miss Lane," she argued as he spoke quietly into her ear, and she strode on past him until she was face to face with Lois. "Do forgive him, Miss Lane," she apologized. "Mister Keplin is employed by my grandmother, who has gone missing along with your husband. He was not hired for tact so much as he was hired for his protective services." She threw him a disdainful glare and turned back toward Lois, her expression softening. Her pale blue eyes turned beseeching. "We _need_ to gather all the evidence we can to find them."

Lois was somewhat mollified by the woman's presence, but still, given the fact that her missing husband was involved, she couldn't excuse her suspicions. Evidence was something law enforcement handled, not family members per se. "Are the police involved?"

The woman frowned slightly. "If we wanted to draw every red flag to their disappearance, then yes, we would have contacted them. As it stands, there are more discreet methods to tracking down criminals Miss Lane, and we _do_ need to be discreet, at least for the time being. I must stress here that you are not to report this to the Daily Planet. Your husband's safety depends on it."

"What's going on here? Who are you?" Lois demanded.

"That's why we need to talk. Privately," she answered, enunciating the last word.

Everything about this situation screamed a loud warning. _Who the hell has Clark gotten himself tangled up with?!_ Lois thought, a flare of concern spiking in her heart. If she wanted answers, however, they seemed to be staring her in the face. Giving a sigh of resignation, Lois nodded her head.

"Where are we going?" Lois asked, the edge in her voice not softening.

"To my Grandmother's estate out in the country."

Lois gave another nod. "I'm not getting in the car, but I'll get in mine and follow from behind." The woman opened her mouth as if to object, but Lois spoke again, overriding her. "You'll have to do a little bit of trusting if you want me to help you find your grandmother and my husband. Because believe me, I am highly vested in getting my husband back. I'm parked around the corner, so Barnabus there can wait for a silver Subaru to pull around."

Without waiting for an answering reply, Lois turned around and headed for her vehicle.


	7. One of These Things Doesn't Belong Here

**Author's Note: **

Ghostwriter: I'd like to imagine that Clark doesn't think to use as much caution himself because of his alter ego, unlike Lois, who isn't invulnerable. Well... until this story came along, that is. Mwahaha

Mouserocks-nerd: *claps* Yaaay, thank you so much for leaving feedback! Hopefully you've caught up to this current chapter. How do you feel about the developments? Thank you very much for the welcome to the forum!

Any other readers, I sure do love your feedback! On to the show, now. Happy reading :)

* * *

**Chapter 7: One of These Things Doesn't Belong Here**

Clark stared at Rose with dumbfounded confusion, his focus trained on the red band on her finger, on the implied meaning of her words. _"You'll find you are no longer _super_ while in here... in life _and_ in death, you will be mine."_ His stomach twisted uncomfortably, anger and frustration and shock churning around acid. Suddenly his stomach rumbled, giving him the first pangs of hunger. It was poor timing to realize he felt hungry and he ignored his body's grumbling. He was staring at Rose, his gaze finally travelling away from her ringed finger and over toward her cruel, triumphant grin. The young girl she had been moments ago seemed to have evaporated. He was looking now at a young woman with shrewd, calculating green eyes and a solid, opaque body that was no longer transparent.

For the moment, he wanted to ignore the ghost's insinuation toward his dual identity. That was one can of worms unto itself, but her other insinuation . . .

_You will be mine?_

"We aren't. . . married," Clark said slowly.

Rose's eyes sparkled. "You are bound to me, though. Body and soul." She wiggled her ringed finger for emphasis.

Clark looked down suspiciously at the identical band on his right hand, feeling like he was spiraling down the white rabbit hole into Alice's strange wonderland. Nothing was making sense and any explanation thus far was confounding the situation.

Anger abated as Clark's curiosity grew. After several long seconds with his brain whirring in confusion, he settled simply on one question. "What?"

Rose laughed softly, not at all the girlish giggle he'd been hearing earlier for what had felt like hours, but rather a young woman laughing at something witty. Clark wasn't privy on the joke.

"Each of you all ask that when I say those words," Rose explained without prompt, although it didn't really help explain anything.

Clark raised an eyebrow, again feeling like he was falling further down the rabbit hole. Rose just wasn't making sense. "What on earth are you talking about?" he demanded with exasperation.

"You are the twentieth man to have worn my ring, and all twenty of you have given me that response when I have told you that you are bound to me." Rose smiled coyly. "It's funny."

It felt like a tap had opened within Clark's veins and cold water was pouring inside. "Twenty men?"

Rose nodded, her red curls swaying. "Yes."

"Have they all worn _this_ ring?"

Rose tilted her head to the side, regarding him. "Identical to it, yes, but you each have your own."

Clark was dimly aware that his hands were balling into loose fists. "Where are the other men?"

Rose's smile turned secretive. "They're . . . here."

"Where?" Clark demanded.

"Don't worry," said Rose in a falsely sweet tone. "You'll meet them eventually. After you get settled in a bit. I always allow them to introduce themselves then."

Clark let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm not staying here, Rose. You can't force me to live here."

Rose's smile continued to be mysterious. "The house takes care of its own. It takes care of _me_. And I want you here, so you can try all you'd like to leave, but it won't happen unless I will it." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And believe me, I don't."

Clark stared into those green eyes, cold and shrewdly intelligent. "Why?" he asked quietly. "Why do you want me here?"

"You fulfill the curse."

"What curse?"

Rose said nothing, but continued to stare at him, her expression hardening. "_My_ curse," she answered with a low growl. Her green eyes flashed.

Clark couldn't quite believe he was looking at the same Rose that had been in his dreams. There wasn't a trace of the distressed, heart-broken girl that had pulled at him to help her. Here she was now, staring at him with eyes that burned daggers of cold fury into his being as if he had somehow been the cause of whatever seemed to eat at her.

"What happened to you?" he asked with genuine bewilderment. "Where's the sad girl that begged me to help her in my dreams? Where is this sudden anger coming from?"

Rose pointed to the portrait above her, to the man standing behind her as she posed in the chair. "Ask Levi to tell you the story sometime. He still finds his infidelity to be quite amusing."

Clark stared up into Levi's resolute face, staring forward out of the painting and almost feeling those brown eyes shifting to stare back at him. Unnerved, Clark blinked. They had returned to their original position.

"He cheated on you," Clark mumbled.

"Yes," Rose replied harshly.

Clark looked down and met her defiant, angry stare. A few things were beginning to click into the puzzle of this strange wonderland. "There's some kind of a curse on this place because your husband cheated on you?"

Rose smirked in answer.

More thoughts trickled into the reporter's mind. "You said it was your curse. Did you create it?"

Rose nodded.

"Are you a . . . I mean, when you were alive, were you a—a witch?" Clark asked tentatively.

Rose's smirk broadened. "You're quick. It took the others longer to make that connection."

Clark wasn't flattered. His blood continued to grow colder. "So just because your husband was unfaithful to you, you created a curse to . . . do what, exactly?"

Rose's smile fell, her expression turning hard and cold. "He _swore_ himself to me. He promised never to lay lustful eyes on another woman again. He broke his vow, more than once," she seethed, lightning flashing in her green eyes. "He was _mine_, though. I didn't want him to belong to _anyone_ else. So, I cursed him. He couldn't ever leave the house again." Her gaze travelled fondly around the room, and her voice quieted. "I was powerful enough that this place listened to me. It obeyed my will, and mine alone. It has since taken good care of us, and even in death, Levi remains here. He is _mine_."

"So why have nineteen other men been involved?" Clark asked. "Why am _I_ involved?"

Rose stared at her portrait, her eyes losing focus; it was as if she had retreated into some part of her mind. "Levi promised he would build us a mansion," she muttered softly. "He bought the farmland with the intention of making this place fit for royalty. To him, I was his Queen. He _promised._"

She looked away from the portrait and began to walk slowly, passing Clark who made sure to steer plenty clear of her, but she paid him no heed. Although she remained solid, he couldn't help the tingling on the back of his neck as the reporter watched Rose walk _through_ the nearest couch.

"Typhoid fever hit," Rose continued, talking more to herself than to Clark. "It consumed him, and then me. Although I had tried to take measures to prevent my death, I couldn't. . ." the young woman's unfinished thought trailed away, but when she spoke next, there was fire in her words. "My life had been cheated from me! All my dreams for this place went to ash, and my marriage . . ." Rose's hands balled into fists. "He knew all I wanted was to be a good wife, to be a good mother. But he took those things away from me when he. . ." again her words trailed away. A long moment passed before she started back up, forming a new thought entirely. "My hope was renewed when Elizabeth moved in. She and her husband were different from the other people who tried to invade my home. John Wingham had ambition and money and that rifle business, and Elizabeth . . . she reminded me of me. She had so much potential. And her husband was treating her terribly, beating her all the time. She wanted an escape, she wanted a better life, she wanted to find fulfillment. So I helped her. I showed her how. And look at where she is today? Look at the magnificence of this mansion! With my help, she made it happen. We brought each other's dreams to reality."

A cold thread of suspicion raked down Clark's spine. _Look at where she is today?_ "Elizabeth . . . is she Miss Wingham?"

Rose turned and looked at him, coming out of her reverie. She nodded silently.

Ice began to crystalize in Clark's veins. "She's got to be over one hundred years old. How could she. . .?"

Rose's eyes lit up with cold mirth. "New souls rejuvenate her health. They sustain my power."

It felt like an invisible fist punched itself right into Clark's gut. "New souls?" he ground out.

Rose smiled cruelly. "Like you."

Clark scowled. "Miss Wingham has lured twenty people here so she can _live_ longer and you can . . . what, have power over the living?"

"She's lured _men_ here, yes. Men I have found who need to be taught a lesson, who deserve to learn what Levi still refuses to pay full penance for."

"I have _never_ cheated on my wife!" Clark cried indignantly.

Rose tilted her head to the side. "No, you haven't," she agreed. "You're different. You're special. I chose you because your power will increase my own. Already I am stronger than I have ever been. You'll help me go further."

"What do you mean go further?" Clark asked through gritted teeth.

"You will help me attain life again."

"_No,"_ Clark said emphatically. "I _won't._"

Rose shrugged indifferently. "You wear the ring. You are bound to me. Refuse all you like, but once Elizabeth gathers all that I need, it _will_ happen."

Hot anger diffused the icy cold that had pervaded Clark's veins. Rational thought fled his mind as he advanced on Rose, walking swiftly around the couch and coming face to face with her. She had manipulated not only him, but nineteen other innocent men. Their lives had been unwillingly sacrificed, but all be damned if he was going to let this woman do the same thing to him.

He fueled that emotion as he raised his arm to grab at her pallid white neck. Clark saw his fingers wrap around seemingly solid flesh, but his fist closed onto air, curled in a tight ball that rested at a frigid cold place in the middle of Rose's throat. He stared dumbly at his hand, reminded in an embarrassing way that although Rose looked solid, he was dealing with a ghost. What was he going to do, strangle a non-existent airway?

Rose stared at him, her green eyes twinkling with humor. She laughed softly and looked down at his fist that was still uselessly sticking through the middle of her throat. "That was fun. I'll try it on you, now."

She reached her arm out toward Clark's throat, and it felt like a solid wall of ice curved itself around his esophagus and squeezed. Her green eyes widened in delighted surprise. She let out an exultant cry and raised her arm. Clark felt his feet lift from the ground. Reflexively, he reached for her arms in an attempt to stop Rose, but he found his hands grasping uselessly at frigid cold air, his fingers disappearing through solid arms that yielded no solid matter. His eyes widened in shock as he realized there wasn't anything he could do to fight her as she raised him up from the ground. He kicked out at her as he began gasping for air, the freezing vice around his throat sending a bolt of shock toward his lungs. His legs passed in and out of her body, feeling as if he was flailing through a thick wintry fog.

"I can touch you!" Rose cried exuberantly, laughing. "I had forgotten the feeling! Ohhh, the power you have given to me, you have no idea what this feels like! It's the closest I've ever felt to being alive!"

"Air!" Clark gasped out, unable to stop his vain attempts at grasping for her arms. He could feel the pressure increase on his neck from his inability to hold onto anything for balance. He wasn't sure if he would make it all the way to asphyxiation before his neck snapped and he died from the angle in which he was being hoisted into the air with nothing to grab onto.

Rose continued in her gleeful laugh, seeming not to have heard his plea for air. How could he fight against a ghost he couldn't touch? His Kryptonian blood that had helped him defeat so many criminals was proving fruitless against a non-corporeal being.

Just then, her laughter died abruptly, her face instantly sharpening with attention. "They're here," she said, and released Clark.

The reporter fell to the floor, coughing and gasping. He drew in fresh, luxurious warm air that stung his throat, but he gulped it in with gratefulness. Glancing up, he saw her cross to the elegant French windows, looking out.

"Who's here?" Clark rasped out.

Rose didn't respond.

Standing up, Clark made his way over to the windows, still coughing slightly and wheezing in fresh oxygen. Outside was the long curving driveway up to the estate. On its path drove a familiar black Mercedes-Benz Clark recognized as the vehicle he himself had ridden in. Mr. Keplin was behind the wheel, but what caught the reporter's attention was the silver Subaru following from behind. Clark drew in a sharp breath, ignoring the way his throat chafed at the sensation.

_No. . ._

Clark's heart lodged painfully into his ribs when Lois' features became clearer through the windshield as the vehicles drove steadily nearer.

He wanted to feel joy at seeing his wife, but the emotion was vacant. Had hers been the only vehicle on the pavement, Clark would have assumed this was Mad Dog Lane on the chase to track him down, but the black Mercedes Lois was following screamed a loud warning to Clark that a second mouse was being lured into its trap.

Anger swelled within Clark. He pounded on the window with as much force as he could muster. "Lois!" he shouted, so close to the window that his breath fogged the glass. She was turning up the pathway and would soon be driving past the window, yet her gaze was turned upward, staring at the behemoth architecture of the estate. Clark waved his hands and pounded again on the window, hoping to cause enough movement to attract her attention. For a moment he thought he had succeeded. Lois lowered her gaze, but her eyes never focused on the window Clark was jumping and waving frantically behind. Soon her vehicle and the black Mercedes were driving past the front entrance.

Clark raced out of the receiving room, running past Rose who stood placidly by. As he rounded toward the entrance's front door, he gave the knob a great tug, but the door remained sealed shut, once again proving the absence of his strength. Instead of dawdling over precious seconds of time in trying to prove he could in fact open an ordinary door, Clark moved frantically toward the windows that dotted the hallway to his right, running past them. He trailed Lois' car, waving his arms in wild motions, but Lois' gaze was focused back on the Mercedes. She drove on without any sign of having seen him at all. Clark kept running until he reached the end of the hallway, where a door was stationed at the end. He opened it in hopes of finding more hallways and windows, but it was only a small bathroom with a toilet and sink. He groaned inwardly. Dead end.

His only option at this point was turning around and bargaining for information from Rose. As he rounded sharply, intending to march promptly back to the receiving room, he stopped short. Rose was standing two feet away from him, smiling.

"She wouldn't have seen you anyway. The house—" she began, but Clark cut her off.

"Whatever you're planning to do, let her go. _Now_," he demanded. "You have me. You _want_ me. So let her go."

Rose laughed softly. "She's here for a different reason than you think, but that's so kind of you to sacrifice yourself. I accept."

Clark's expression turned wary. "What is she here for?"

Rose tilted her head to the side, regarding him with amusement. "Well, to be told that you're dead, of course."


End file.

Lois and Clark, Drama, Mystery