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Pretty Dead Boy...
on love that is filth and beds that are blood
Explicit
Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Major Character Death
M/M, M/F, Other
Daniil Dankovsky/Andrey Stamatin/Peter Stamatin, Andrey Stamatin/Peter Stamatin, Daniil Dankovsky/Peter Stamatin, Daniil Dankovsky/Andrey Stamatin, Daniil Dankovsky & Artemy Burakh, Inspired by Crimson Peak (2015), Crimson Peak AU, Incest, Murder, Ghosts, Gothic Horror, Co-dependancy, Dialogue Heavy.
When his heart is stolen by a seductive stranger, Daniil is swept away to a house atop a mountain of blood red clay-a place filled with secrets that will haunt him forever. Between desire and darkness, between mystery and madness, lies the truth behind it all.
— WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
A MIDSUMMER MIGHT’S DREAM
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Chapter One
but then face to face: now I know in part;
but then shall I know even as also I am known. ”
— 1 CORINTHIANS 13:12
Ghosts are real. This much, I know. The first time I saw one, I was ten years old. It was my mother’s. Black cholera had taken her. So father ordered a closed casket, and told me not to look.
The cemetery is near silent. Just the whisper of wind through headstones. The barely audible shift of several inches of fresh snow. Snow which softens the harsh, dark lines of tombstones. Large, wet flakes continue to fall from leaden sky, dark and oppressive above. Mourners all stand under umbrellas at the open graveside, watching in mute discomfort as pallbearers slide a gleaming, dark coffin from the carriage hearse.
Centered amongst those mourners, is a small, solemn, bespectacled child, Daniil Dankovsky. He’s young, terribly so, and wrapped in black coat and hat. The morbid little thing has gone against tradition, and chosen to half hide his delicate, pale features behind a mourning veil. Daniil clings to the gloved hand of his father, looking a tad frightened. The coffin passes before them, almost eye level with the young boy. Tears finally fall as the coffin is lowered unto the earth.
Daniil’s room was a gloomy space. An oppressive grandfather clock in the corner, ticking echoing through the enormous room. Shadows seeming to swallow up his collection of books and mounted beetles. More snowflakes drift past the tall windows, as little Daniil lies in bed, staring at the wall. His glasses rest on the bedside table, with pen and journal.
There would be no parting kisses. No goodbyes. No last words. That is, until the night she came back.
The clock stops. Ticking absent, as all the gas lamps go dark and the floorboards creak. He can hear a rustle of silk, can see a tracery of translucent ghostly cobwebbing cross the floor. Shrived, ghastly feet, desiccated and gnarled, don’t touch the ground as they drift toward him. His bedcurtains move. The mattress sinks, bedsprings groaning. Daniil freezes, eyes wide in terror, too horrified to breath. His head is turned away from the specter, and he rather prefers it that way. A low, scratching sigh echoes from behind him. One equally desiccated hand caressing him, tangling into his hair. Locks curling round exposed finger bones.
The thing speaks, grave, muffled, as if the mouth is packed with dirt. It needs to clear it’s throat but there is no throat to clear, only spectral gapage.“Danya… beware of Crimson Peak.”
Daniil screams, sitting up and looking around frantically. Everything is a hazy mess without his glasses, but he can still make out the vague form of someone floating off. His hand scrabbles for the lens, the other clutching tight to his blanket. Glass firmly in front of his face, Daniil sees that no one is there. The gas lamps flicker back to life, and, slowly, the clock picks back up its ticking. The poor boy shudders, too scared to go back to sleep. He spends the rest of the night sat up, eyes straining to see specters that are not there.
It would be years before I again heard a voice like that – or saw a dead thing come to life. But see it I did, and heed its warning, I did not. If I had, I might have saved myself all that horror…
Now an adult in his own right, Daniil still is set apart. Still a morbid thing. Pale yet striking. Almost startling compared to the dark suit he wears, though the glasses are still the same. He enters a tea room, and takes a seat alone, leafing through a thick, handwritten manuscript, making small adjustments, corrections, as he does.
The people at the next table over are engrossed in gossip, rather loudly, too.
“We met him at the museum, last fall. He took one look at my Mira here and said she was as beautiful as anything by- by-” The name seems to elude her. The daughter in question, Mira Petrova looks as if she’s going to cut in, presumably with the artist, but her mother starts speaking before she even opens her mouth. “And he didn’t take his eyes off you once! Then we all went to tea… It seems he’s a Baronet- “
One of the clamoring young woman with the pair tilts her head, confused. “What’s a Baronet?”
Daniil rolls his eyes and closes the manuscript. “A Baronet is a minor aristocrat. An opportunist. A man who lives off land that others work for him. In short, a parasite with a title.”
She scoffs at him. “Is that so, Daniil?”
“That is so, yes.” He glares at her, daring her to press the issue.
The pair of them are saved from further headbutting by another of the gossipers around the table. “Well, from what I hear, this parasite is a perfectly charming minor aristocrat. And he’s a great dancer.”
“But that wouldn’t concern you at all, would it Daniil?” The mother, Alena asks, not bothering to hide the disdain in her gaze.
“No. It wouldn’t.” He takes off his glasses and stands to leave. A somber swish of black, and dark maroon silk.
She’s not done yet, though, speaking again before he can be rid of them. “I think it’s a shame, Daniil, I really do. No one will ever notice you if your nose is always buried in your books.” She gestures at his form, huffing. “Wearing black and writing all day long- our very own Jane Austen.”
Daniil tucks his manuscript under his arm, and begins walking away. “Thank you, but I would much prefer to be Mary Shelley. She died a widow.”
He stalks off, out of the tea house, and into a publishing house. The lobby is enormous, loud and bustling. Daniil, clutching his manuscript tight, approaches the reception desk, and is directed to an elevator. He takes a nervous breath, and makes his way to the office he needs.
Romanovich sits behind his desks as he looks over Daniil’s work. Daniil tries to peer over the sheafs, attempting to discern which page the man is grumbling at, but it only makes him turn his chair around, and continue reading. Eventually, what feels like hours later, he sets it down, before sliding it back into it’s folder.
“So, Mister Dankovsky. How is your father?”
Daniil knows exactly what Romanovich thinks of his work.
Later, at dinner, his father brings it up. Sitting across the table, General Dankovsky looks far older than he is. The stress, most likely. Daniil had not been an easy child to raise alone.
“I take it he said no.”
“After skimming a single chapter, Father!” Daniil exclaims, cutting his meat with far more force than it deserves,
“Ah, Romanovich is old-fashioned. He likely looks down on ghost stories. On horrors all together.”
Daniil frowns, glaring at his dish. “It’s not a ghost story.”
That makes the General look up, eyebrow quirking. “But it has a ghost in it-“
“The ghost is just a metaphor! A.. a conduit, a pretext, a vessel. It’s a way to discuss the past, and grief and spirituality!” He’s fumbling his words, Daniil can tell, only growing more frustrated.
“Ah, a metaphor. That may be too sophisticated for me, then.” His father says, suppressing a chuckle.
Daniil just huffs, stabbing at his food. “He said it needed a love story. Can you believe that?”
“Well… does it?”
“What?” Daniil can’t believe his father is asking such a thing. Head shooting up to look at him, incredulous.
“Need a love story?”
Daniil only gets more upset, hands getting thrown into the air. “No!- Why? Why must young bachelors always write about love? Is there nothing else?”
The General only stares at him blankly, chewing his meat. “I agree with you.” It is quite obvious that he does not. “I’ll have a word with Romanovich Monday at the club.”
“You will not.” Daniil tugs the folder with his manuscript closer to himself.
“Why?” His father demands. “Why won’t you let me help you?”
“No. I… I have to do it myself. With my words on the page. I’m not ‘graceful’ or ‘charming’ or anything the like, so the words have to do it. All I have are my words, and they will find their way into print.” Daniil sighs. “Until then, you’ll just have to hear me complain.”
His father smiles, leaning across the table to pat Daniil’s cheek. “With pleasure, Danya, always.”
The next morning, Daniil finds himself sat at one of the desks in his father’s offices, scowling at one of the new typewriters. He’s decided he hates the blasted thing, even if he must use one to write to publishers. His manuscript sits atop the desk, just in front of him.
So engrossed in his writing, Daniil fails to notice the handsome, well dressed man that comes in.
“Good morning, Mister.”
Daniil slams the carriage return, and looks up, peeved at the interruption. The man startles, blushes, and removes his hat.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I have an Appointment with Mr. Dankovsky.” He says, seeming not the least bit surprised to be seeing a man at a secretary’s desk.
“Goodness. With the great man himself?” Daniil says, bordering on amused now.
“I’m afraid so.”
His father’s actual secretary looks up then, from where she’s been organizing files as Daniil types. “I’m sorry, but I’m the-” Daniil waves his hand at her, giving a small smile. He wants to handle this.
“You’re not late, are you?” Daniil asks. “He hates that.”
“In fact, I’m a bit early.” The man says.
“Oh, I’m afraid he hates that, too.”
The man leans a bit closer, almost eye level with Daniil at the desk now. As if telling a secret. “Pardon me for asking, but- is he really as terrible as they say?”
Daniil glances at the secretary and smiles conspiratorially. “A monster.”
“I don’t believe it. Why would a pair of charming young people such as yourselves work for such a person?”
“Oh, he pays me nothing.” Daniil says, fighting down a laugh.
The secretary doesn’t win that battle, chuckles slipping out. “True enough.”
“Impossible. Where is this fiend? I shall make it my business to protest, to rebuke-“
Daniil gives a pleasant smile, nodding to the man. “He’s just behind you, sir.”
The man turns, and finds General Dankovsky approaching, hand extended.
“Sir Andrey Stamatin. Welcome to St. Petersburg.” He says, holding the man’s hand a moment too long as he regards Andrey. His wavey hair, his dandyish attire, his diamond ring. When the General lets go, he gestures at Daniil. “May I introduce Daniil, my son.”
Andrey is speechless, staring between them.
“We’ve just met, father.” Daniil says, before turning to Stamatin. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir Andrey. I hope the great man treats you well.” He smiles, sweet, at Andrey, who looks abashed, yet pleased at the encounter.
Andrey is ushered into a conference room, where he’s allowed a few moments to set up before all the bankers and investors file in to take their seats.
“In the last few years, we have scraped together just enough capital to reopen the mines and have found what we believe to be quite encouraging samples.” He passes around a raw hunk of iron ore, allowing them all to see it. To hold tangible proof of his product.
Dankovsky cuts in, “‘We?’ Who does that entail?”
“Mining engineers, geologists, the finest scientists I could get to take a look. I have their statements here, if- ” Stamatin is almost fumbling toward his materials.
“So, you’ve never done any of the digging yourself… Up on that mountain of yours?”
“I’m afraid not, no.”
The retired general looks between around the table, exchanging glances. “Go on.”
Andrey regains his composure, taking a breath and opening the box he’s been clutching.
“As investors in mining, you’ll want more than just speculation and projections. So I have here, gentlemen, a steam drill – my own design – that matches the output of a ten-man crew. With mechanized digging, abandoned mines can be reworked and made profitable once more!” He attaches the small boiler, and, like a master showman, displays the drill, levers and gears moving, bit spinning, steam hissing out the vent pipe. The table looks impressed, enchanted by the creation. All except for Dankovsky, who’s brow furrows.
“Turn it off, please.” He waits for Stamatin to listen, for the room to once more fill with silence in the wake of the tiny boiler. “So, you come to us, having failed to raise capital in London.”
“London, Edinburgh, Leipzig – ” Andrey admits, looking the slightest bit cowed.
“Where your family name seems to have counted for very little.” General Dankovsky does not notice the door to the conference room hanging open ajar. Does not notice Daniil standing just outside the frame, peeking in, half-hidden, like a curious child.
“I’m not discussing my name. This is a new century, and as a railroad man, you’ll need steel- ” Andrey’s blustering now, clearly shaken, and grasping for the corpse of his proposal.
Dankovsky shakes his head. “We have no shortage of iron ore in this country. Your holdings came to you through inheritance, did they not?”
“I- Alright, yes. My great grandfather was Lord Mikhail Stamatin, first Baronet of Důmhouse. But the Stamatin Mines are more than a name, sir. More than nostalgia. They are my birthright.”
But Dankovsky barrels on, giving no quarter. “And now Andrey Stamatin, the Baronet – you’ve come to Petrograd, where you hope to raise money to honor that birthright?”
“In part, yes.”
“At this company, we don’t have such traditions. The men at this table – all of us – we came up through honest, hard work. I started laying out those very railroad tracks decades ago, after I left the military. You see? And my hands- ” Dankovsky raises both of them, showing thick, calloused, work worn palms. “They reflect who I am. Just as yours do. Softest handshake I’ve felt in years. We bank on effort, not privilege.”
Andrey looks out across the gathered men, watches their expressions shift from whimsy to stern discomfort. He presses two fingers gently to the top of his model. “I believe that inventions like this are equal to any man’s hard work. I make no apology for my dreams…”
“Take your toy, young man, and dream somewhere else.” Dankovsky won’t even look at him now, too busy inspecting other matters to deal with through the day.
“Mr. Dankovsky, I have tried to be as frank as possible, but you’ve not given me a fair hearing.”
“No? Well, you may attribute it to a lack of breeding, then.”
Andrey just stares, devastated, trapped in silence. When he turns to the door, he and Daniil’s eyes meet. Daniil darts out of sight, blushing.
I knew just how he felt, this fellow dreamer, when I saw him facing defeat.
Daniil sits at his desk, writing in a journal furiously. While Sir Andrey Stamatin spent the next few days walking the muddy streets of St. Petersburg in search of investors, Daniil found himself utterly inspired. Over those days, he follows Andrey, sneaking from place to place, watching rejection after rejection. Each time, he returns home and once again writes, pen flying across the page.
I would rethink my book. I would try my hand at romance after all. For the first time, the genre appealed to me.
The last time he had followed Andrey, the man had thrown his papers and model to the ground in a distraught rage after the meeting. Abandoning them both when he stormed off. Daniil had scooped it up with all the care needed for a baby bird, for something precious.
Daniil watches his father get ready, checking his white tie and tails, a servant bringing him hat and coat. Daniil himself is comfortable, wrapped in a house coat.
“I do wish you would change your mind and come along. It’s not just another party. Not that there’s anything wrong with a simple party, mind you.”
“You know I can’t bear such things” Daniil says, straightening his father’s tie.
“There’s too be a performance of some kind, a young man playing Tchaikovsky1, Or is it Zarębski2…? I can’t keep ‘em straight.” He pauses, leveling a measured look at Daniil. “And little Lord Fauntleroy will be there.”
“You mean Andrey Stamatin?”
“None other. I saw you spying on us, dear.” It’s clear he disapproves.
“I found him interesting, it’s true. Like a character, in a play.”
“A bad actor, you mean. Nothing to swoon about.”
Daniil scoffs. “Nobody’s swooning. But tell me: were his ideas so outrageous as to merit such a quick dismissal?”
“It wasn’t his ideas, my love. I felt a lack of focus. Is he the inventor or a steam drill? Or a mine owner seeking to exploit his holdings? There’s something ill-defined about him; you can’t do business with a man like that.” The elder Dankovsky says, shaking his head.
They’re interrupted by the doorbell ringing. “That’ll be young Burakh. He’s brought his new motorcar. That’s a good fellow- He’s- ”
Daniil rolls his eyes, as if this exact exchange has happened many times before. “I know father- he’s got a firm handshake…”
The door is opened, and Artemy Burakh is shown inside, in just as formal of attire. It looks good on him, sharpens him. He’s a few years younger than Daniil, and a fantastic doctor. Artemy turns heads when he passes, and has since he moved into the city a decade ago.
“Good evening, Mr. Dankovsky. Hello Daniil…” He smiles as he speaks, serious face softening when looking at Daniil.
“Good evening, Artemy. My, don’t we look smart.”
Artemy blushes, inclining his head. “Not really. No more than your average penguin.”
“It’s Daniil who should be the beau of the ball, don’t you agree, Doctor?” The elder Dankovsky remarks, fiddling with his cufflinks.
“Change your mind, Daniil. With you, I could actually dance.” Burakh pleads, gazing at him with soft familiarity.
Daniil just shakes his head. “You lads will have much more fun without me.” His gaze focuses on Artemy. “Don’t let him drink to much.” And then shifting to his father. “And no pontificating, brawling, or flirting, either. No matter how fetching the ladies.”
“I’ll be a saint!” The general says, donning hat and coat, chortling.
Daniil sees them off, waving them out the door and watching the motorcar drive away, before retreating into his own room. It looks far different now than it did as a child. Rugs layered across the floor, one hanging from a wall, paintings scattered around it. The books have matured, and grown in number, along with the beetle collection.
He sprawls on his bed, engrossed in a thick book, busy reading about iron mining in the Urals3.Rain spatters the windows, the half-assembled miniature drill of Stamatin’s sits upon Daniil’s desk, and his gas lamps flicker. He turns the page, and finds an old engraving of a mining operation, labeled as the Stamatin’s, in a barren landscape at the foot of a mountain. Thunder rumbles in the distance, before a far closer crash is heard. Daniil leaps to his feet, head whipping around. The miniature drill has tumbled off the desk, hitting the floor with a cacophonous crash. He sees a shadow, retreating into the darkness within his now open armoire. A shadow he recognizes the hem of the dress on.
“Mother-?” Daniil’s voice is a creaking whisper. He approaches the corner, eyes searching the dark for the rippling shape. A shadow upon shadow, one he swears he recognizes.
A cadaverous, desiccated face emerges, eyes enormous, bulging toward him, wet with tears and bile. Daniil screams, falling backward toward his bed, legs tangling in the house robe.
He hears a servant knock at the door, leaning in. “Excuse me, mister- ”
Daniil spins, picking himself up unsteady. Sparing a glance back, seeing nothing now- only a dark dress hanging in the back of the armoire, his late mother’s.
“Are you all right, mister? Whatever is the matter?” The maid asks, a tad worried.
“Nothing. You – you startled me, that’s all.” Daniil is still shaken, chest trembling.
“Apologies, mister. There’s a Mr. Andrey Stamatin at the door, he’s dripping wet, and most insistent on coming in.”
The shock of that is enough to straighten Daniil out. “Andrey Stamatin? At this hour? It’s out the question, Vera
“I told him, mister. He won’t go away.”
Daniil pulls his house robe closer around himself, covering himself, and goes to the window overlooking the rainy courtyard. Andrey Stamatin stands at the front door, holding an umbrella. He’s dressed to the nines, in white tie and tails.
Daniil removes his glasses, and opens the window. “Good evening, Mr. Stamatin. Father’s not home, I’m sorry to say.”
“Of course he’s not! He’s gone – maybe by gondola – to the reception at the [name] house. Which is my destination, too.” He looks rather like a bedraggled show cat, huddling under his umbrella.
“But that’s on Dvoryanskaya. This is just off Nevsky Prospekt. You’re very much off course.”
“Not at all, my dear Mister Dankovsky. I’ve found you, haven’t I? I don’t think I can brave the best of Petrograd society without you as my guide.” Andrey calls up, grinning.
Daniil scoffs. “Miss Mira Petrova, I believe, will be waiting for you. With open arms.”
“The devil take Miss Mira Petrova! Please, am I to make a wretch of myself? Am I to beg-?” Andrey kneels among the puddles, eyes wide. “I’m lost in a strange city. A child- a mere child. And I desperately need your help.”
Daniil smiles, amused, despite himself. “Help with what?”
“Well, the language for one. As you see, I don’t speak a word of Petrogradian.”
Daniil laughs. He glances back into his room, where Andrey’s model drill lies in pieces on the floor. “I don’t know, Mr. Stamatin. Tonight’s already been somewhat… strange. For whatever reason, I’m seeing things.”
“Wonderful! Come with me and we’ll see them together.” Andrey cries, hand outstretched, as if to usher Daniil down through the window.
- Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (7 May 1840 – 6 November 1893) was a Russian composer of the Romantic period. [ ▲ ]
- Juliusz Zarębski (3 March 1854 – 15 September 1885) was a Polish (now Ukraine; then former lands of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Polish Kingdom) composer and pianist active in the Russian Empire. [ ▲ ]
- A real thing, by the way. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_metallurgy_in_the_Urals#The_19th_century [ ▲ ]
