Ghost Story

Pairing: Dom/Elijah

Disclaimer: Don’t know these people. No offence intended or money made.

"It looks like a seriously nice place." Dave picked the photograph up off the desk and turned it over, studying the specs of the cottage. Even taking into account the habit of Estate Agents to exaggerate, this property sounded just the kind of thing he was looking for. Nicely isolated, big enough for him to use at least one room as his study - he had a habit of spreading his work throughout the house - and it had the nicely quaint and rustic look which would mean that he would be able to use it as a pulling magnet. There was only one thing that made him suspicious... "Why is it so cheap?"

"Well it's been on the market for some time," the Agent, Duncan, began to look a little shifty. "The previous owner left no clues as to what he wanted doing with it, and the only traceable relative wants it selling."

"Left no clues?" Dave leaned forward, sensing a nice little story here. "What does that mean?"

"Well, I suppose you'll find out about it sooner or later." Duncan’s shoulders drooped as he accepted that yet another prospective buyer was about to run screaming for the hills. "The previous owner disappeared in somewhat mysterious circumstances. He won't be declared legally dead for 7 years, at which time death duties and so forth have to be paid. The relative wants the house off the market and out of her hands by the time that happens."

"Disappeared mysteriously where?" Dave paused. "No, that's a stupid question. If somebody's disappeared then you can't know where they were, can you?"

"In the house," Duncan admitted gloomily.

"What do you mean, in the house?"

"The previous owner. He disappeared in the house. He was given a lift home, the friend he was with saw him go into the house and watched as lights were switched on. As he pulled away, he looked in the rear view mirror, and the lights were out, the house in darkness." Duncan paused. "Naturally he was a little concerned, so he went back and knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He rang the police, who broke in, but there was no trace of the owner. No sign of a struggle, no nothing." He half smiled, and began to gather up the photographs of the property. "A nice story to tell your friends in the pub."

"Don't." Dave reached out and put his hand on Duncan's wrist. He picked the photograph up again, and looked at the cottage. "A ghost story as well, huh?" He looked up at Duncan and smiled. "When do we go and see it?"

*

It was, as Dave had suspected, perfect. Set back in an acre of land, hidden from the main road, and only accessible by a private road, which was full of potholes, the cottage sat in isolated splendour, almost merging with the encroaching woodland behind it. It looked like the kind of place where a witch would put small children in an oven ready for a little snack, and Dave wanted it the second he saw it.

"So who used to live here?" he asked, as he and Duncan climbed out of the car. "A hermit?"

"No." Duncan leaned back into the car to find the keys, and Dave had a moment to idly admire the curve of his arse, before his attention wandered back to the cottage. Fuck, it even had shutters on the windows! Couldn't be better.

"Just one person lived here, an American bloke. There were all kinds of rumours about him - how he'd been a big name actor once - but nobody really knew. He lived here for the first 5 years with another bloke, but he died, and that was it, really. They had both been friendly enough if a bit distant, but once this guy was alone, he wasn't so forthcoming, didn't make many friends." Duncan rattled the keys. "He lived here for another 20 years."

"What about the mate that was with him the night he disappeared?" Dave watched as Duncan made his way to the door.

"Oh, he was an old friend. The police spoke to him about what he'd seen, but there wasn't really too much to be said. Nobody's seen him since it all happened."

"How long ago was it?" The door creaked open with a suitably ominous sound, sending a frisson down Dave's spine.

"Now? Getting on for 5 years. That's why the relative's getting a bit desperate to sell it. Time's running out." Duncan pushed the door wide and gestured Dave ahead of him. "After you."

"Scared?" Dave teased, passing close to Duncan as he entered the cottage, delighting in the slight blush. He was cute, in a rod up the arse, never been fucked kind of way.

"No, just doing my job."

It was a lovely place, if a little bit sad and dilapidated after years of neglect. Although outside, it maintained an air of olde worlde charm, inside it was airy and light, small rooms having been knocked through to make large, open spaces, the walls painted light colours to give the impression of even more room. Dave knew immediately that this was for him.

"I'll leave you to wander around by yourself," said Duncan from the doorway. "Let you get the feel of the place."

"Wimp," Dave muttered, his previous favourable impression of Duncan giving way to slightly more condescending feelings.

He dismissed Duncan completely as he wandered around the cottage, running his fingers over the grain of the huge wooden table in the kitchen before finding his way to the narrow stairs and climbing up to have a look at the bedrooms.

When he looked into what was obviously the master bedroom, it felt as if he had just missed someone, as if the room had been vacated only a minute earlier. He could feel the air still vibrating, and he glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see someone there. Of course, he was alone, and he smiled slightly and shook his head, clearing it of any fancy notions, and instead concentrating on the room in front of him. Big and airy, the windows faced west so that the setting sun would fill this place with light and magic. A perfect place to lie with someone you love ... again Dave shook his head. He had never been in love in his life, and certainly didn't plan to start now.

Again that strange feeling of displaced air, of someone moving just behind him, only this time, Dave could hear voices, the words just below the level of his hearing. He spun around, assuming that Duncan had discovered his balls and decided to come and visit, but the room was empty.

"Well, fuck," Dave muttered, moving towards the door. He let his hand trail idly over the bed as he went, and stopped, breathless. The biggest sexual thrill of his life echoed through his body, making him light-headed. He moved his hand from the bed, and the feeling faded. Almost hesitantly, he put his hand back on the mattress, but this time there was nothing there, just a feeling of near sadness this time, of something found and then lost again.

Dave left the room, deep in thought. With a quick glance at the rest of the rooms - a bathroom, a small room which would make a perfect study, and another bedroom - Dave clattered down the stairs again, not surprised to find Duncan still hovering by the door.

"Well?" he asked, not very hopefully.

"Show me the dotted line," answered Dave. "And I'll sign on it."

He wasn't surprised when he heard the echo of distant laughter.

*

"A quick look round the garden?" Duncan asked, trying to still the urge to take Dave back to the office and get his signature on paper as quickly as possible.

"Sure."

'Garden' was the wrong word for it. It was a wilderness, desperately in need of a loving touch. What Dave knew about gardening could be written on the head of a pin and still leave room for the telephone directory, but he was sure he could find a willing soul to come and do whatever you did in a garden.

Towards the far end, almost lost in nettles and bindweed, Dave could just see old garden furniture, black cast iron stuff, and he walked towards it. It looked like good stuff, and could perhaps be cleaned up and put back into use. As soon as he touched it, he again felt the thrill run through him, and he stopped, confused.

"This is wildwood," Duncan said, obviously misunderstanding why Dave had stopped. He gestured at the trees only feet away from them. "Not much of this left in England now. Ancient forest. You can't touch this, it's got a preservation order on it, but you can cut all the weeds and such back. But you have to keep the stuff actually under the trees because that contains all kinds of rare plants, or somesuch. It's all in the contract."

Completely ignoring Duncan, Dave turned and looked back at the house, seeing shadows where no shadows should be.

*

Contracts were exchanged with almost obscene haste, and within a matter of weeks, the cottage - Bridestones - was his. Dave arranged for a contractor to go in and make any repairs needed, and Duncan managed to find a willing old couple from the local village --he to fight the garden back into something approaching normality, she to clean the place once a week and cook the occasional meal. Dave made a mental note to ask them if they had known the previous occupants.

According to the deeds he had been able to track down, Bridestones had been bought in 2010 by someone called Elijah Wood. The name struck a faint chord with Dave, although films weren’t a particular passion. He had lived there for 25 years, until his mysterious disappearance. Of the person who had shared the cottage for the first 5 years there was no trace, unless Dave felt like digging through the census records, and, he told himself firmly, he really wasn’t that interested. The only thing he did do was find out a little bit more about this mysterious Elijah, pulling up a few pictures of him on the internet. A pretty - no, a beautiful - boy appeared on the monitor in front of him, and Dave whistled silently in appreciation. Very nice. He called up a few more pictures, although they were scarcer as Elijah had grown older. He had given up acting altogether when he was barely 30 years old and more or less vanished from the radar. Just the occasional shot of him growing older, the beauty developing into something more - meaningful. It was a pity, Dave mused, that they had never met. As a photographer, it would have been a joy to capture such a face.

Almost unintentionally, his research led him further down the path of Elijah’s private life, and in the slew of pictures which followed his ‘retirement’, one figure was always with him, either standing close beside him, or in the background, always near enough to be seen. A man of about the same age, with laughing eyes and a friendly, open face.

Dominic. According to an article Dave stumbled upon. Elijah’s ‘close companion,’ his ‘special friend’. The one who died. The one who sent Elijah searching for solitude.

Determinedly, Dave switched off the computer. He had only been curious, nothing else. In a few days, he would be in the cottage, and all traces of Elijah and Dominic would be forgotten about as his own energy began to dominate the quiet corners and lonely spaces of Bridestones.

*

His final night at the old house had been a lot of fun - drinking with friends and lovers, sharing memories and laughter. They didn’t understand why he was doing this, why he was leaving the big city for the country, and all he could offer by way of explanation was a need to be alone to concentrate on his work.

"And anyway, you’ll all be grateful soon enough," he had slurred. "When you decide you want a break from the big city noise, you’ll think of your friend Dave and decide how much he’d love to see you all." He had then declared undying love to at least half of them, including two people he had never seen before, and ushered them all out of his front door, leaving him with a few short hours to pack the remainder of his belongings away.

The result was that when he had bounced his way down the pothole filled road and pulled up outside the newly renovated and decorated cottage, he wasn’t at his brightest, but as he opened the door and breathed in the smell of new paint and old wood, he felt himself relaxing, felt his senses filling and overflowing with the peace this place created. He had made the right decision, and if the voices decided they wanted to make themselves heard, well - now he had names for them. Slightly guiltily, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a rather crumpled piece of paper - a picture of Elijah, which he had found on the ‘net. Somewhere in his late 20s, just before his retirement, he stared at the camera with a hurt and guarded look. Dave found that look fascinating, wanting to know what had happened, what had caused it. He had told himself that the only reason he had downloaded and printed the picture was so that he could study that fine-boned face, maybe use certain aspects of it in his work - although photography was his main line, he was also an accomplished painter and sculptor.

"Well," he said aloud to the empty room. "I’m here. No welcoming committee? No weird lights or little voices?" He paused. "You disappoint me, Elijah. I thought you’d at least stop by and say hello."

The cottage stayed silent, and he couldn’t deny that he was a little disappointed. He didn’t know quite what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

Sighing, he turned to collect his possessions from the car. Most of his stuff was already here, brought down by van a few days before, and all he had left to bring in were the most basic things - bedding and food. His precious computer. Three trips to the car and he had all of it in a neat pile in the hall. The light was beginning to fail as the short winter day drew to an end, and Dave smiled as he listened to the heating kick in again, its almost silent hum a protest against the door being kept open too long.

It was only as he closed the door against the encroaching dusk that he heard it.

"Hello."

*

It was full dark by the time everything was sorted to Dave’s satisfaction. Although he wasn’t the neatest person alive in most things, when it came to his beloved art supplies, everything had to be just so, but eventually he was able to close the door to his new study with something approaching satisfaction.

Deciding that a quick shower was in order, he turned on the water and then made his way into his bedroom to dig out some clean clothes. The bedside lamp was on, the light not reaching the corners of the room, and as he went to close the shutters, Dave couldn’t hide a small shiver of something that was close to apprehension. Although he had disposed of the bed that had been in the room, replacing it with his own rather grand brass affair, he couldn’t help wondering if he would feel anything. Even as the thought crossed his mind, his body shivered slightly, his muscles tensing, his balls tightening, as he remembered the wave of pleasure that had torn through him. It was only by an act of sheer will that he forced himself away from the bed and into the bathroom.

As he was stepping out of the shower, the phone began to ring, and cursing the fact the he had forgotten to get an extension fitted in the bedroom, he ran downstairs, stark naked, and grabbed the handset.

It was Mrs Oliver, the woman he had employed to clean and cook for him.

"You should have told me that you had guests, Mr Weatherall," she said, sounding slightly put out. "When I went in there this morning, all I could hear were - well, noises."

"What sort of noise?" Dave asked, beginning to climb the stairs again, handset tucked under his chin.

"Well, noises." Mrs Oliver cleared her throat. "Of people - you know. Noises."

Dave stopped at the threshold to the bedroom, Mrs Oliver's embarrassed tones fading into nothing more than an annoying whie noise in the background.

The lamp had been switched off, and in the gloom, Dave could just see that the sheets had been pulled back, and the bed looked welcoming and warm.

"Come to bed," a voice whispered in his mind, and then dissolved into a high pitched giggle that made Dave smile even as his stomach lurched.

"What?" He was brought back to the present by the incessant squawking of Mrs Oliver's voice. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'll tell - my friends - to stop it."

Almost gingerly, he approached the bed and put a hand out, touching the cool sheets. Nothing. Shaking his head, he climbed into bed and pulled the sheets up. He was tired, it was his first night in this new, 'haunted' house, and he was undoubtedly hearing things. He had obviously turned out the light before he left the room, and it would be natural for him to turn down the sheets, making the bed ready.

He listened as the house clunked its way to silence, cooling down now that the heating was off. Turning over, he pulled the covers up around his ears and gave himself up to sleep.

Dave watched the two figures on the bed, watching as the sweat poured off them, mingling together. Elijah - more beautiful than his photographs - on his back, eyes closed, jaw clenched. Above him, moving on him and in him, was a young man with laughing eyes - Dominic, who else? Dave could hear the noise of hard sex - flesh slapping against flesh, sweat soaked skin slipping and sliding, the grunts of pleasure and effort mixed.

As he watched, his own cock hardening, part of Dave's mind knew this wasn't a dream. This had happened.

"Oh, fuck..." Elijah's body arched and his voice tailed off into a groan. "Jesus, come on, will you? I'm dying here..."

Dominic fingers pressed into the pale flesh of Elijah's hips, pushing himself deeper inside, his hips working wildly, until finally, with a hoarse cry, he came, his body rigid, teeth gritted against the discomfort of Elijah still working him, desperate to achieve his own release.

With the clarity only a dream can bring, Dave saw Elijah's cock tighten, his balls draw up, and as he watched, those bottomless eyes opened and gazed straight at him as he rode his orgasm.

"Jesus!" Dave startled awake, his body still tingling from the after effects, sheets thoroughly and disgustingly soaked. It was still dark outside, and the house was cold.

He forced himself out of bed and quickly stripped the sheets off, bundling them up and throwing them down to the foot of the stairs, then found clean ones and remade the bed. After that, he washed himself in distinctly cool water and put clean boxers on, before climbing back into bed.

And only then did he let himself think about what had happened, let himself picture the two men together on the bed, sweating and fucking, so together. Dave felt the now familiar clench in his stomach, and smiled slightly, rubbing his face against the pillow.

"Thanks for the welcome, guys," he said aloud. "If you’re trying to scare me off, you haven’t exactly got the idea of this haunting thing, have you? You’re supposed to scare people away, not make them want to stay."

Once more right on the edge of sleep, he again heard it.

"We want you to stay."

*

He woke late the next morning, thrown by the room’s darkness and the warmth and comfort of the cocoon of bedclothes. He was used to being woken early in the city, by the sound of neighbours up and around, or by traffic outside. Here, it was almost silent, just the odd call of a bird, and the soft shuffle of somebody moving around downstairs.

"Elijah…?" Still sleep fuddled, it took Dave a moment to realise who it must be down there, and another moment after that to remember the sheets he had thrown down to the foot of the stairs the previous night.

"Oh fuck, Mrs Oliver!" He jumped out of bed, just remembering to pull on a pair of jeans and a jumper before taking the stairs two at a time and skidding to a halt in the kitchen. Too late. The washing machine was whirring merrily to itself as it reached its final spin, and Mrs Oliver, lips so thin as to be almost invisible, was wiping down the draining board.

"Morning," Dave said as casually as possible. "Really, Mrs O, you don’t have to do the washing and stuff, you know. I only need somebody to keep the place reasonably clean."

"It’s not a problem," Mrs Oliver replied somewhat stiffly. "I noticed that … things needed washing when I arrived."

It was just possible, Dave decided, that this would be around the village by this afternoon. What a first impression he had managed to make.

"Well, that’s really kind," he said, edging past her and making for the percolator. Caffeine was the only answer. "Er, I’ll be settling in today you know, probably working a bit, and I really need my privacy to work, if that’s okay?"

"Of course." Mrs O was still a bit stiff – Dave cringed inwardly every time that word passed through his mind.

"Before you go, would you like some coffee?" he asked. "It’s cold out there."

"Well…" Mrs Oliver hesitated, her natural thirst for knowledge just edging out the part of her that was still in a state of righteous indignation at the thought of what she had found when she had picked up that bundle of cotton this morning. "…thank you, sir. That would be very nice."

"My name’s Dave," Dave said. "Please sit down."

By the time the coffee was made, Mrs Oliver had rustled up some toast and they sat down to a remarkably companionable breakfast, Mrs Oliver (‘please, my name’s Connie’) regaling him with stories of the villagers and Dave, in his turn, telling her about his life as an artist.

"Of course, I don’t know why you would want to buy this place," Connie said, finally reaching the subject matter Dave had been aiming towards for the past half an hour. "Such stories you hear!"

"Such as?" Dave asked as casually as he could. "Stories about Elijah?" He saw Connie start, and he leaned forward. "You’ve lived here most of your life, right? Do you remember him?"

After a moment’s hesitation, Connie nodded. "Yes, I remember him. He was a lovely man, but so sad for so long. His … companion died, you know, not too long after they moved in here. Folks say he never really got over it."

"Did you see him in the village much? What did he look like?"

"Oh, he was a dream!" Connie took another sip of coffee. "Wonderful manners, looked like he had walked out of a fairy tale… I’m sorry, Dave, are you all right?"

Dave managed to stop the coughing. He had been eating more toast just as Connie had mentioned the words ‘fairy tale’, and rather childishly, he had started to laugh.

"And Dominic? Do you remember him? Elijah’s friend?"

"Oh yes. He was a funny young thing! Oh listen to me, young thing. He was older than me, but …" Connie tailed off. "Now he’s younger, isn’t he? He’ll always be younger." She sat in silence for a moment, and then pushed herself away and out of her chair. "And now, if you don’t mind, I must be off. Shopping to do, you know. Alan – Mr Oliver – will be along later to have a look around the garden. There isn’t much to be done in the winter, but at least you and he can decide where he will start in the spring."

As Dave walked her to the door, Connie turned around. "They say as it’s haunted here, you know." She glanced over Dave’s shoulder up the stairs. "There’s no such thing as ghosts," she sniffed. "Just memories that won’t go away." With that, she turned and marched out of the door.

Dave closed the door after her and looked up into the shadows lingering by the newel post.

*

He spent most of the day in his studio, painting, taking advantage of what light there was on a short winter’s day. He heard nothing, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. He had a brief chat with Alan Oliver about the parlous state of the garden, and assured him that he was in sole charge of the place. "I just want to sit outside in the spring and summer," he had said. "I wouldn’t know a weed from a flower, I’m afraid."

When the early evening closed in, he stayed downstairs, reading, and, although he wouldn’t admit it, listening with half an ear for any strange sounds from above his head. But nothing. The cottage stayed silent, peaceful.

It was only as he made his way upstairs to bed, that anything happened, and then it was nothing he could actually put his finger on; the atmosphere changed. Always peaceful, the cottage almost felt warmer, as if it were May rather than January, but that wasn’t all of it. He felt … enveloped, warmed by the emotion pouring out of the air and into him. Such pure, deep love. It called to him, welcoming him.

His sleep was sound and dreamless.

*

Things seemed to settle down after that. He heard the occasional giggle, which warmed him and made him smile, and sometimes out of the corner of his eye, he would see a movement, but if he turned to look directly, there was nothing there. All through January he worked, warmed by Elijah’s presence – Dominic almost an afterthought in his mind – and inspired by the beauty of the country around him, which was gripped in a hard, white frost, the sun glorious, the temperature never getting above freezing.

He walked at the very edge of the wildwood, the frozen ground treacherous underfoot. Once when he slipped and fell, he heard that marvellous laugh and turning, saw a slight form sitting on the old garden table, surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke.

"Elijah?" he said wonderingly. "Don’t go…" But by the time he had pulled himself upright, the table was empty. All that was left was the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, and the echo of a little boy giggle.

In February, the first of his visitors arrived, and the atmosphere of the house changed. The warmth and love surrounding Dave vanished almost as soon as his first guest set foot over the threshold.

The glorious clear, cold weather had vanished, and an unusually mild, wet February had taken its place, making the days miserable. Dave could hardly work as the atmosphere took its toll on him, and began to snap.

One night, caught in the throes of a restless sleep, the windows open wide to ease the stuffiness of the room, Dave half opened his eyes as he felt the bed sag.

"We don’t like them." Elijah’s voice was just above a whisper, the feel of his body warm against Dave’s side. "Make them go, Dave. We like you. We want you."

"What do I do?" Dave mumbled, fighting the fog of sleep to try and hang onto this moment, hold it and treasure it. He hadn’t seen or heard Elijah for a long time, and he wanted to keep this.

"Have you shown them your work?" The bed shifted again as Elijah moved away. "Let them see what you’re working on."

Dave opened his eyes, and then opened them again, but Elijah had gone, and Dave, gritty eyed and hot, felt as if he could have cried.

*

"I’m sorry," Dave said the next morning. "I’ve been a terrible host, haven’t I? I really am pleased to see you, you have to believe that."

His guest, Mike and Elizabeth, looked at each other, and then at Dave, slightly disbelieving.

"Well, you haven’t made us feel very welcome, I have to admit," Mike said finally. "And what’s with this place anyway? It always feels so fucking cold."

"You’re just not used to the countryside," Dave said with a grin, standing up and beckoning his friends to follow him.

"Dave, can I ask you something?" Elizabeth spoke hesitantly, only slightly encouraged by Dave’s nod. "Is this place … well, is it haunted?"

"What makes you think that?" Dave felt himself begin to tense, and forced himself to be calm. "No such thing as ghosts." He reached the top of the stairs and glanced automatically into his bedroom. No movement or sound, just the knowledge that he was being watched.

"You’ve changed since you got here," Elizabeth said. "You’ve become more – distant."

"And that means that I’m living in a haunted house?" Dave laughed, and led them towards his studio. "It’s just the effect of country life, Lizzie. Underneath I’m as much a bastard as I ever was." He pushed the door open. "Here we go. The latest batch of stuff. Been busy," he added modestly. "As you can see, I’ve been working mainly in clay and watercolours recently. Not into the photography thing at the moment, although I’ve got a couple of nice shots."

Mike and Elizabeth stayed rooted in the doorway, not knowing what to say.

"Well?" Dave looked at them, slightly annoyed. "Say something about how fantastic living in the country must be to have made me so amazingly prolific."

"Who is he?" Elizabeth’s voice was small and thin. Frightened.

"What? What sort of a comment is that?" Dave looked at the his work.

Elijah. Everything was Elijah. From tiny paintings to huge canvases, some just showing a part of his face – a cheekbone shading towards his ear, eyebrows, a tiny frown between them, his lips, parted, with a cigarette dangling from them, almost obscene in its hidden meaning.

There was a bust in clay, standing alone in the centre of the room; a full 3-D version of Elijah. Dave had only seen him once, in the dream on his first night in the cottage, but the memory had imprinted itself on his mind, and he had slaved over this likeness, trying to capture the way Elijah’s hair grew, fine wisps moving over his temples and forehead, the rest of it a thick mass of colour.

And it went on. All of it, Elijah. Even the photographs Dave had taken were of things he connected with Elijah – the garden furniture, the wildwood, a photo of the back of the house, the windows empty of movement.

Dave was stunned. He hadn’t realised, hadn’t known. He stuttered for a second.

"Er, er… it’s … it’s one of the lads from the village. I’m thinking of changing the way I exhibit and just concentrate on one subject, but using many mediums. His name’s …"

Elijah.

Dave looked around, but the room was empty.

*

"You’re scaring us," Mike said, carefully closing the passenger door, watching as Elizabeth tightened her seatbelt, her hands trembling very slightly. "You’ve changed, man. Get help. Get out of here. Please come back with us."

"Oh stop making such a drama out of it," Mike said. "I told you what I was doing, stop having such a hissy fit over it." He laughed, trying to hold back the sheer joy as he watched them prepare to leave. He could feel the atmosphere in the house lightening, easing, welcoming him again, and he knew that he had done the right thing. Elijah was pleased.

"Just remember, we’re your friends, and we love you," Mike said, hugging Dave. "If you want to come back to the city for a break, you’re welcome to stay with us."

"Thanks, Mike. Really, thanks, but I’m fine. I don’t want to be anywhere but here. I’m sorry you don’t like the place, but to me it’s like coming home in a way that I can’t explain. I don’t think I’ll ever leave here."

He blew a kiss to Elizabeth, and watched as the car bounced down the road, out of sight, before turning back to the house, his arms spread wide, as if to embrace the whole building. His face was alight with joy, and if Mike and Elizabeth could have seen him, they would have been very worried indeed.

He walked back into the welcoming warmth of the cottage and closed the door, carefully locking it behind him, before turning around, his back against it, and gazing up the stairs. The light was on in his room, even though he knew he hadn’t touched it, and the atmosphere was loving. Without any bidding, he climbed the stairs.

Maybe what happened them was a mixture of tiredness and over-active imagination, and should be easily dismissed as such, but Elijah thanked Dave, he rewarded him for getting rid of the unwelcome visitors. He gave himself to Dave; he opened himself up and took him in, leaving Dave clawing the sheets, begging for release.

It was only as his orgasm crested and he opened his eyes, that Dave saw it wasn’t only Elijah. Dominic was crouched over him, his eyes smiling and gentle. Just before Dave fell into sleep, he heard a new voice in his ears, Dominic’s voice.

"I waited for him for long, long years. He’s worth the wait."

*

As the miserable February gave way to a brighter March, and a soft, gentle April, Alan Oliver came and began work on the garden, and the air was filled with sound of mowing, the smell of fresh cut grass. Dave threw the windows wide open, and revelled in the simple pleasure of being alive.

He began to venture into the village slightly more; before he had always relied on Connie Oliver to bring his provisions, or he had driven into the nearest big town to stock up on food, but as the evenings lengthened, he began to walk down to the pub once or twice a week, sit with the older men of the village, ask them about Elijah.

They all remembered him, although some pursed their lips when Dominic was mentioned. They may not have approved of his relationship, but they all agreed on one thing: Elijah had been a prince among men, a true gentleman.

"You ask about Elijah a lot," a young man said to Dave as he stood at the bar. "You live in his old house, don’t you?"

"Yeah," Dave smiled at the newcomer, liking what he saw. He felt a tightening in his groin, and realised that it had been a long time … part of his mind shied away from what Elijah and Dominic did to him when they visited his dreams.

"What’s it like?" The young man smiled. "Sorry, my name’s Jake."

"Good to meet you, Jake." Dave shook the proferred hand, and introduced himself. "Did you know him?"

"Indirectly," Jake said, taking his pint and gesturing with his head to an empty table. Nodding, Dave sat with him.

"Indirectly?"

"Yeah, my mum used to do the cleaning, a bit like Mrs Oliver does for you. She thought he was a bit .." Jake tapped the side of his head. "He spent a lot of time wandering about talking to someone called Dominic."

"That was his – companion." Mike winced at the euphemism, and could clearly picture Dominic, laughing at the use of such a word to describe him.

"My old man used to say that they shagged like rabbits," Jake said. "When he thought I couldn’t hear him, obviously. I met him a couple of times, Elijah. I thought he was nice, just lonely." He shrugged and took a mouthful of his pint. Dave watched the way his throat moved as he swallowed.

"From what I hear, he was nice," he agreed after a minute’s silence. "Any idea why he came here?"

"He liked the house, he told my mum. It was secluded enough for him to live his life away from photographers. He’d been really famous when he was younger, and he didn’t want it anymore. He told mum he just wanted to be left alone."

"He was gorgeous," Dave said quietly, checking Jake for any reaction. Like calling to like, he didn’t think he was wrong, but this would be acid test.

"Yeah, he was," Jake agreed. "I remember seeing him a couple of times and just thinking, what a waste, you know? He could have had anybody he wanted, but I think he only wanted Dominic."

It was a foregone conclusion after that, and when Dave casually said he was leaving, Jake left only a minute or two after him, and caught up with him in the dark lane leading to the cottage, letting his shoulder brush against Dave’s.

The house looked welcoming in the soft twilight; the lights were on, both downstairs and in the bedroom, and the door opened at a slight push from Dave.

"Don’t you lock it?" Jake asked, shrugging out of his jacket and gazing around him.

"No need," Dave said. "Nobody would take anything from here. It’s haunted, remember!" And he pulled a comically hideous face and rushed at Jake, tackling him to the sofa, where they kissed for a while, softly, experimentally at first, learning the fit of each other, before beginning to make more demands on each other.

"Upstairs," Dave finally gasped, tearing himself away and half staggering out of the room. Jake stood up and followed, shedding his shirt as he went, and pulling at Dave’s until Dave moved his arms and slid out of the garment, the sudden movement causing Jake to almost fall down the stairs.

Falling onto the bed, legs tangled together, hips moving and straining against each other, Dave didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary until he was pinned under Jake, and he laughed up at him. His eyes shifted to one side and he saw them both, almost more clearly than he ever had. Kissing each other, Elijah’s hands cupping Dominic’s arse, oblivious. For the moment that mattered, Dave’s concentration wavered, and Jake, noticing the movement, twisted round to see what Dave was staring at.

"Fuck!" Jake half fell off the bed, backing towards the door, watching as Dominic and Elijah carried on kissing. "Jesus! Can’t you see them?"

"They won’t hurt you," Dave said. "They don’t want to hurt anybody. They like you, they want you to stay."

"You’re fucking mad!" Jake hastily zipped his jeans and hunted around for his shirt before remembering it was downstairs. "You need professional fucking help."

He swung out of the room, leaving Dave staring after at Dominic and Elijah, who both looked so sad that Dave forgot about Jake, just wanting to comfort them.

"People will come looking for you now," Elijah’s voice said in his mind. "You’re going to be branded a freak."

"I won’t let them hurt you," Dave said, part of his mind registering the slamming of the door. He heard the key turn and the bolts shooting across.

"They can’t hurt us," Elijah answered. "But they can hurt you." He pulled away from Dominic and began to approach Dave. "Come with us now. Come with us forever. We like you. We want to keep you."

As Dave watched Elijah, he became aware of Dominic moving, coming up on his other side, and some part of his mind told him that if either of them touched him, he would be lost.

"I…." he began.

"Won’t hurt." Dominic’s voice was still a surprise to Dave, and he turned to look. "Won’t hurt. There are so many of us here, in this house. You just see us, but there are so many."

"Don’t you want to be with us forever?" Elijah’s voice this time, and Dave swung round to face him, aware all the time that they were coming closer. He could run, he knew he could. They would never hurt him, but if he ran, he would never see them again. Never see Elijah, or hear him laugh. Never watch as Dominic’s face softened with love. He would be on his own, the freak who lived with ghosts.

They came closer.

*

Outside, Jake paused in the lane to light a cigarette, noticing how much his hands were shaking. Glancing over his shoulder at the house, he couldn’t help frowning. Surely, the lights had been on just a minute ago?

The End

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