A/N: Warning-Well, okay, maybe not a warning. Just be aware this is about ghosts and summonings and paranormal activity. Also, ENDGAME MERGANA. If neither of those things seem interesting, you might as well turn back now. Before I ensnare you anyway *evilgrin*

1.

The first thing Merlin thinks when he compares the address on his phone with the address on the mailbox, is I can see why a ghost moved in.

The place is big, and fancy, and ancient. The type of place you'd expect to experience the paranormal in. Besides the high-security gate and the driveway, which looks freshly paved, the whole lot can't have changed much in the past hundred or so years. Assuming it's been there for that long.

Merlin bet it has. He would also bet pretty quickly that this isn't one of those the door creaked and I'm scared kind of calls. It hadn't sounded like one from the call he received—though in fact, it wasn't even the owners of the estate who had called.

The lady on the phone told him she's "Sefa Trahir, the owner's secretary," and she's "supposed to set up a date" for Merlin to "meet the owner, and then come stay at the estate, to 'inspect the lot.'" His indiscretion is greatly appreciated, and an initial fee will be paid up-front.

She sounds like a sweet, kind, albeit slightly-confused woman. Merlin might have even asked for her number, if she hadn't also sounded so rushed and flustered, like the woman had another hundred calls to make after this one. She probably did.

So here he is, two days later, staring at the biggest landmark in the area. Only hoping this wasn't some kind of prank. After another moment of looking from the address on the screen to the towering fortress, then back, he sighs and turns onto the drive.

Eventually Merlin reaches the gate, and tries to ignore the installed camera swiveling to his face. It makes a buzzing sound, a tiny red light indicating he's being watched; the gate doesn't automatically open, so he's probably supposed to identify himself. After rolling down his window and pressing the ringer outside of it, a man's voice comes from the speaker.

"State Name."

"Um." He blinks—the camera lens is surprisingly intimidating. "Merlin Emrys? I came to-"

"You're here for the disturbances," the man finishes for him.

"Right. Disturbances," Merlin repeats after a moment. Is that what the kids call it these days?

"You're fine to go. There'll be someone to let you in," the voice tells him before the sound cuts off, and the gates start electronically opening. Merlin says a belated "thank you" and drives on. He slowly creeps his vehicle up to the round-about, all the while inspecting the lot.

Business-like shrubs dot the side of the drive, with freshly mowed grass on the lawn all crisscrossed and manicured. The hedges, growing next to the house and along the drive to a large garage further off, look so trimmed and pruned their edges could probably cut fingers.

The only soft spot in the whole of the expansive, expensive-looking yard is a bed of bright, flowering lilies next to the porch. They go directly against the order of the lawn, but Merlin imagines—as he turns his car off and shuts the door behind him—that was probably the intent of whoever put them there.

He looks at his watch, reading 9:59. Right on time. Nothing left to do but walk up the wide stone steps, approach the large doors and knock.

The second he does so, a freezing chill grips his hand, flows over his arm and down his spine.

Go.

Merlin's hand retracts like something stung it. In a way, something did. He stills, searching for the voice.

Go. You are not needed here. Not wanted here.

The words reverberate through his bones, icy pin-prickles in his marrow. It's altogether unidentifiable, besides the measure of authority in it, the school-teacher-reprimanding-the-child-tone. One of his primary school teachers, who had a gravelly voice and wrinkles all over his skin, pops into his head. No, Merlin, you can't go in there. That is the girl's bathroom.

Merlin swallows, repressing that memory with an inward smile, and tries for his usual approach.

I'm Merlin Emrys. I want to help.

What has wronged you? Has someone wronged you?

It'd be nice—though extremely improbable—if he could put the spirit at peace first thing, and over his shoulder call out a "Your welcome!" to the owners as he drives away. But there is no immediate answer. No apparition to appear out of the doorknob, like the spirit of Jacob Marley, ready to tell its tale.

Merlin waits—for an answer more than for the door to open, which has yet to happen either. He stands patiently, a warm breeze filtering past him through the June air and the sun peeking from its usual cloud cover. Then—

LEEEEAVE!

The harsh, commanding word pierces into his skull, accompanied by a cold wind that blasts him back with unnatural strength. With his feet slipping against the edge of a step and their purchase slipping, Merlin manages—just barely—to not fall as it relents, wobbling against the stone.

Just a moment later, the door opens.

2.

A man opens it, eyes finding a precarious, ruffled Merlin on his doorstep. They stare at each other, Merlin still off-kilter, the man's eyes widening and a brow rising at the sight. After a moment, he clears his throat.

"You're the medium?" He asks, a little incredulously—looking regal and professional in a three piece suit like there's somewhere to be, blond hair carefully swept against his forehead—and Merlin nods, regaining his balance. It's actually psychic medium, but at least he didn't fall on his arse in front of the man.

The man looks him over, expression unreadable. "Right, come in then," he says belatedly after a moment, and opens the door wider in a stiff manner. Merlin walks just about as stiffly inside, shaking the man's offered hand on the door mat. Ignoring how lightly the man grasps his hand—like I'm going to infect him with my weirdness.

Though it might do this man some good.

"Arthur Pendragon," he gestures to himself, eyes drifting and plainly assessing Merlin simultaneously. And with possible disdain—Merlin wouldn't be surprised. "I requested you."

Arthur doesn't sound too sure about it himself, but Merlin nods. Technically his assistant Sefa-something did, but Merlin knows that's not what Mr. Pendragon means. Essentially, it sets in stone one important truth: Arthur is his employer, for whatever period of time Merlin's here.

Great.

"Well," his employer says after another beat of slightly hostile silence, raising an eyebrow. "You're not exactly what I was expecting."

Merlin mentally looks himself over. He's young, just out of University, at least as tall as this fellow though definitely not so thick. Dark hair, blue eyes, uncommonly talented at tripping on his own two feet even when supernatural winds aren't doing it for him. And then, the other things—the spiky hairdo, arm tattoo, black nails and dark clothing—aren't altogether unusual for a medium, honestly. At least he doesn't wear male makeup.

So Merlin really has no idea what to say to that comment, and naturally he speaks the first thing that pops into his head: "And who exactly were you expecting? A wrinkly old witch?"

Probably not the best way to start a good relationship with his employer, but that's never stopped Merlin's lack of filter before.

Arthur actually just shrugs—is that even a hint of a smirk he sees?—as if Merlin wasn't far off. Then the man leads him through a door off to the left, into a fancy sitting room and gestures for him to sit. Merlin does so, inwardly cringing as his jeans touch the perfect-looking chair. The whole place looks museum-quality, untouched and unused. Do people even live here?

Then Arthur clears his throat, not sitting down himself. His eyes narrow as he looks down at Merlin, clasping his hands behind his back when he begins to speak. "Now," he starts. "Before anything else, really—you need to understand the delicacy of the situation." His voice is at once both business-like and pensive.

"Okay," Merlin agrees cautiously, already mentally filing this with the other "strange and (potentially) comical" jobs.

Arthur takes a step forward. "I know people of your kind make your money off of references and broadcasting past successes, but," he wets his lips, "in this case that would be impossible." Merlin raises an eyebrow.

"In this case, you will be paid extra for your silence. To not speak of this to anyone, so long as you can help it." His eyes are boring into Merlin's, making him want to fidget. Because he's already broken that rule.

"My mother knows I'm here," Merlin admits, gaging Mr. Arthur's reaction.

Arthur barely blinks. "Fine. She can know that, then. But as for the rest—"

"—Mr. Dragon," Merlin starts, slightly panicking. Will knows, and if Will knows . . . well, hopefully by discreet the man only means keeping half of Albion unawares.

"Call me Arthur," the man corrects him, looking indignant. "And it's Pendragon."

"Sorry. Arthur," Merlin repeats after him, grinning a little. "I think I'm understanding that you need this all hush hush. Fine." He tries to keep his tone light, and Arthur nods, seemingly pleased. "But," Merlin shrugs, "there's no need right now. In fact, the sooner I understand the situation," Merlin gestures all around them, "the sooner we'll find out a solution to your little ghost pro—"

"SSSHHHHH," Arthur overtops him. He's looking around the room anxiously, like someone might have heard Merlin.

". . . blem," Merlin finishes eventually, watching as Arthur rights himself, straightens his tie self-consciously. A staring war between himself and his employer ensues.

Finally the man sighs, looking away from Merlin almost tiredly. His voice grows soft and hush, like some undesirable person would hear otherwise. "I had my assistant give you a call, because . . . " he stops, lips pursed for a moment.

"Well, I guess you know why, even if she doesn't. It's—what you do, after all. Get rid of those, kind of—pests." Arthur stops a beat, until Merlin urges him on with a nod. "I'm sure you've gotten a lot of superstitious people who really don't need your services—"

"I have," Merlin nods again, giving Arthur a fake scrutinizing expression, as if he could be one of them—and boy does that illicit an indignant glare from the man. This Arthur needs to lighten up. "But. I do think you have a troubled spirit here, if that's your worry," he says truthfully, then. And makes an effort to whisper the "troubled spirit" part, just so he won't get SSSHHHHH'd again.

Arthur's glare immediately wipes off at his words, surprised.

But a second later his employer's suspicious face is put back on, and he stands a little taller, really looking Merlin over. "And how's that?' His brows furrow, but he's looking at the medium thoughtfully—like he's curious despite himself. The corners of Merlin's mouth tug up.

"It just said hello, not a moment ago."