by Mike Shade
He rolled his eyes. "Mother."
"Just a grandchild or two. Would that really be so hard? For me, darling." She gave him a pleading look, one he was more than familiar with. "I'd never ask anything of you again."
He shook his head, not really wanting to go through this again. He knew she didn't really mind him being gay, except for the grandchildren thing.
"Imagine that? All your filial duty reduced to two small donations..."
"Mother," he sighed.
"Fine, fine." Her sigh was far longer and more practiced than his own. "I shall resign myself to lifelong disappointment."
"You wouldn't know what to do with a grandchild anyway."
"I would, too."
"Would not."
"Would too."
"Would not."
"Would too."
"All right, what?"
She blinked, looking surprised. "Well...Dress it up. Buy it things."
"Set it in the window so the neighbors can see your lovely progeny?" he suggested.
"Ooooo, you can do that?"
"I was kidding, Mother," he said dryly.
"I knew that."
He grinned at her, shaking his head.
"If it was a girl I'd take her to the museum."
"You can take boys to the museum." He grabbed the kettle as it started to whistle, filling the pot and putting the lid on it.
"Yes, I know -- I used to take you all the time and look how that turned out."
"Mother! You cannot blame my being gay on our visits to the museum."
"No, I blame your father for that."
"Mother!"
She smiled at him and patted the table. "Come on, Jason, bring the pot and sit with your mother."
"So you can badger me some more about grandchildren?"
"Actually I was thinking of talking you into letting me host the ladies auxiliary charity luncheon here next spring."
He groaned. "Mother..."
"Just think of all the upper crust ladies peeing in their pants over your Violet House."
"Think of the cleaning costs."
She slapped his hand. "Jason."
"You said they'd pee their pants -- not in my house."
"Don't be vulgar, darling."
"But..."
She gave him the look, the drop it I'm your mother look.
He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. "I'll think about it."
"Thank you, darling."
"That wasn't a yes."
"I know." She gave him a smug, happy smile.
He was sitting there, cup in hand, not sure whether to chuckle or groan, when a brush of wind slipped around his neck. He shivered, and then the wind somehow slipped into his shirt, brushing over his nipples.
He gasped, nipples going hard, his cock following. Oh God! Not now.
His mother's eyebrows rose and he took a quick drink from his teacup, nearly spitting it out as it burned his mouth and down his throat. "Shit, that's hot."
"Of course it is, it was boiling on the stove just a couple of minutes ago. Are you all right, darling? You look a little flushed."
He looked down into his teacup, little eddies moving across the surface. Like someone was cooling it, blowing on it.
He swallowed. "Um... I..."
Her hand came up to his forehead. "Jason? You look like you've seen a ghost."
He put down his cup and cleared his throat. "I'm fine, Mother. Just drank my tea a bit too quickly."
He could swear he heard a giggle, a breath across the back of his neck. Then he saw a bit of his mother's hair shift, a breeze just barely brushing it.
That was it. Tomorrow morning he was heading up to the tower room and he was going to deal with whatever pest had set up residence there. Wherever this breeze was getting in from, he'd make sure it was taken care of.
His mother smoothed her hair back in place. "The place seems quite drafty, darling."
He nodded. "Yes, most Victorian homes were, Mother."
He went on to explain about the secret passages and how everything was interconnected and often not sealed properly, skipping over the fact that the place was supposedly winterized by a number of the previous owners.
She nodded and smiled her oh yes, dear, I'm interested smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and it wasn't long after that she mentioned a dinner meeting with Mrs. Witherspoon.
"Don't make me wait so long for an invitation next time, Jason," she admonished him at the door.
"You could just drop by you know, if you wanted to see me. Or call."
"Nonsense -- you're busy and I would be interrupting. Now be a good boy and kiss your mother good-bye."
He kissed her on either cheek, smiling as her air kiss pushed past his own cheeks.
"Now you be sure and call me right away if you change your mind about the grandchildren. Mrs. Aniston's daughter is a lovely girl, bookish and quiet -- I'm sure she'd love your Flower House."
The hat on the side table floated to the ground as the door opened, almost pushing itself into his hand.
He picked it up and put it back onto the table. "Violet House, Mother."
She waved an impatient hand at him, mind obviously already on her next meeting. "Yes, yes, darling. Flower, Violet. It's a lovely house, I do hope you consider letting me hold the ladies' charity lunch here."
She blew him a couple more kisses and left.
He sighed, collapsing against the door. He had survived Mother. And what was more -- so had the house.
***
He curled up on the window box, rifling lazily through a book, watching the flowers bob outside. He loved the summer, loved the warmth and the long days and the children playing outside. This window box had been his favorite place since he'd been in Violet House.
He whistled, tracing the pictures with his finger. He knew the story by heart -- every word, every joke, every climax. Just like he knew every toy in the closet, every paper in the desk, every piece of clothes in the chest.
Heavens, he was bored.
Samuel grinned, moving the book, looking at the picture of the new man, Jason. He wasn't boring. He was interesting -- brought books and tools and paints and...
Samuel shivered as he felt himself grow heavier, trying to take form. Yeah, Jason brought wanting with him, too.
There was a sneeze, the noise sounding as if it came from the bottom of the stairs to his tower. That shook him, heaviness leaving him altogether. He locked the door and waited with a frown. His room. His.
Footsteps now. Definitely coming up the stairs. Heavy, definitely human, one stair after another breached, the sounds inescapable. He growled, walking through the door and taking a peek. Jason. With a bat.
Oh, no. His room.
He reached out and pushed at the bat.
Jason gasped and the bat dropped, falling on the stair above the one Jason was standing on. Jason frowned, leaned down and picked up the bat, taking a firm grip. He started climbing again, hand tight around the base of the bat.
Samuel frowned harder. "Now look you, I don't mind sharing my house, but I won't share my room. It's mine!" He pushed the bat again, shaking it.
Jason frowned. "What the fuck!"
It didn't stop Jason from coming up though, in fact Jason was looking more determined than ever. "I don't know what's in there, but I'll call the ASPCA if I have to!"
Samuel retreated, moving into his room, where he was safe. Protected.
His room.
Jason got to the top of the stairs, unlocked and opened the door and carefully crossed the threshold. "All right you mangy coon, show yourself!"
Samuel walked over and slammed the door shut. This was his room.
"Shit!" Jason whipped around, brandishing his bat at the door.
Samuel nodded. "This is my room, Jason. Mine. You go downstairs."
He opened the door, pushing Jason toward the doorway. Time to go.
"Fuck!" Jason swung the bat around, clearing a circle of air around him.
> "You are being stubborn, Jason. This is my room. Go downstairs." Samuel yanked the bat away and rolled it downstairs.
Jason cried out and slammed himself against the wall, creeping slowly along it, away from the door. Jason's hands were shaking, eyes wide and terrified in his face, muttering something.
Samuel sighed, shaking his head, retreating to his window seat. "Don't be scared, Jason. I won't hurt you, but this is my room."
Jason kept muttering, working his way around to the first window. As he checked it, making sure it was closed, that there wasn't any wind coming in, his muttering got louder. "-such thing as ghosts. There no such thing as ghosts."
"There's such a thing as me, though."
When Jason reached his window, Samuel reached up, brushing Jason cheeks. Jason froze, eyes wide, looking right through him.
He touched again and sighed. "Please. This is my room, Jason. Mine."
A shudder ran through Jason and he turned and fled, crying out as he tripped over the last few stairs. Then there were more hurried footsteps and finally the front door slamming closed.
Samuel sighed and shut the door again, locking it tight. He looked at the window seat, the sun, the book, the photograph of Jason.
Maybe it was time to go play in the attic for a while.
With a sigh and a shiver, the room stood empty.
***
Jason's cup settled awkwardly onto the little table, the noises of people talking and traffic hiding the noise of the porcelain against metal.
It was noisy and crowded at the little outdoor café, busy with people. People he didn't know, who wouldn't touch him. Because people didn't. Touch. Without you knowing them really well. Hell, his own mother rarely touched him, with her air kisses and showy hugs.
His breathing was no longer labored and he risked his shaky hands, taking another sip of the coffee.
The breeze blew, cool and impersonal against his cheeks and bare arms. Jason raised his hand to his right cheek, stroking it softly. Something had touched him in the tower room. And it wasn't the first time he'd felt that touch. His cock got hard just thinking of it.
Jesus. Got hard just thinking of it. There was a ghost in his home, or he was going crazy, or maybe both, and he was sitting here getting hard over it. He suddenly had a lot more sympathy for his predecessor at the house. He wondered how long Janise had been there before she'd started going crazy.
There was another breeze, this one a little softer and it made him start, his heart beginning to beat fast and hard again. He was a long way from Violet House, surely the... whatever it was couldn't have followed him here. Surely it was tied to the house. He nodded to himself. Yes, that made sense.
Made him feel better to believe it anyway, and that was a start.
He still didn't believe in ghosts, but his choices were getting rather limited. Something was obviously living in the tower room. There wasn't a single window open and there hadn't been any breezes. But he'd heard the wind whispering like voices just out of his range of hearing, the bat had been grabbed from his hands, tossed down the stairs, the door had been opened and closed. There wasn't a spec of dust anywhere in the tower room.
And something... someone had touched him. The other night in his bedroom and today in the tower room.
So Violet House either had a ghost or...someone who was invisible was squatting in his home.
He didn't even realize he was giggling until he noticed the odd looks he was getting from the people at nearby tables.
As he snapped his mouth closed and wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, he wondered how late the cafe stayed open.
***
Jason locked the front door, stopping to admire the stained glass panels.
They'd been installed just that morning and were perfect, giving the hall a warm glow.
The week had been quiet, no strange breezes, no noises, everything he put down he found again. Except for his glasses, but then he was always losing those. He'd obviously let Gladys and Diane, the suggestion that Violet House was haunted by ghosts, and living alone get to him.
Though quiet on the supernatural front, it had been a long, hard week. He got a lot done and had dropped into bed each night, sleeping deeply.
Tonight he was feeling a little less burnt out and as he slipped into bed he debated whether to read for awhile or... engage in more sensual activities.
He decided to turn out the light.
He had curtains on his window now, a thick back panel with a lacy front that would match the dark green and cream wall paper that was going to go in here. He felt better doing this in the full darkness. With the curtains drawn he felt hidden and cozy, unseen. He kept his eyes open, but he didn't keep the covers on. He wasn't afraid.
He touched himself, hands sliding over his skin; face, neck, chest, belly, thighs. His cock was slowly growing, reaching up for his hand like it had a mind of its own. He could remember the sensation of the breeze against his skin the last time he did this and his cock jumped eagerly.
Spreading his legs, he wrapped his hand around his cock, pulling firmly as he forced his mind to the young man he'd seen in the hardware store the other day.
He'd forced himself to go out a little more this past week, not to stay cooped up all by himself in Violet House. There had been several trips to the hardware store for bits and pieces and one of the clerks... had been very cute with short hair and dark, hot eyes and very real, warm hands. Their fingers had touched, collided really, when the clerk had handed him back his money.
It wasn't much, and the kid was really too young, but he built a little fantasy based on that one real touch and used it as he jacked off.
It wasn't bad, but it was just jacking off -- him and his hand and going through the motions. A little voice in his head reminded him that last time, with the breeze, that had been incredible, as if there'd been another person there with him, but he pushed that away and focused again on the warm clash of hands as his money was returned to him.
He could hear his breath getting faster, gasps as he got close, and the sound of his hand slapping against his skin as he pulled on his cock. His eyes dropped closed and all of a sudden the memory of the cool not-kiss flooded his mind and he came, lips reaching in the air.
Panting, he reached for the tissue and wiped away his spunk.
He punched his pillow and curled up on his side, bringing the blankets up with him.
Man, he wanted to get laid. Needed it maybe. He'd never really missed it before -- he was gay and shy and things were easier just ignoring the odd urge or taking care of it himself while he was in high school and college, but now...
Now he wanted those phantom touches to be real, he didn't want illusory kisses, no matter how real they felt, he wanted someone to touch him and lie next to him, someone he could whisper with when they were done and who would eat raisin toast with him in the morning. Maybe they'd argue about who had to go get it and joke about how in the old days someone would come and bring it to them.
Maybe it was time to let his mother... no, he wasn't that desperate. Once Violet House was just right he'd start making a bigger effort to put himself out there. For now, she was his lover and she was very time-consuming and demanding.
He settled down to sleep, nestled and warm inside Violet House.
***
He slept, energy exhausted, the happiness and teasing pleasure he used to exist, to play and roam, dissolved. He floated, not noting the passage of sun and moonlight on the floor, the dust as it filtered onto the floor, the way the attic heated in the summer's sun.
Periodically he would hear a rumble, a banging, deep within the bowels of the house below and he would waft toward motion, toward wakefulness, but the dreams and peace of before would pull him back down and surround him.
Touching them, the living, was tiring, painful almost, when they did not believe. And he'd been silly, quite foolish, mooning over the new intruder for more than a fortnight. Petting the photograph. Touching that smoo
th cheek, by the Saints above!
Pretending that he was going to have a friend. A friend! Among the living! (Or even a lover -- because that had been what he was pretending, wasn't it? That the man downstairs welcomed his cold touches and phantom breath and could maybe even touch him back, let him feel once more...)
Violet was his friend, his home, his place.
He knew her, basement to attic and she loved him, keeping him safe and warm and home.
So he dreamed of running along the empty hallways, of playing hide and go seek in the secret passages, of riding the dumbwaiter and reading scary stories in his room and making popcorn balls and pulling taffy.
Of the taste of oranges.
And peppermint.
And cinnamon.
And fresh bread.
And kisses.
He loved the taste of hidden kisses in the gardens and in the kitchen and on the balcony. Kisses flavored with nerves and giggles and need and stolen jelly.
Attar of roses -- the secret passages used to reek of it, the servant girls giggling and meeting their intendeds there. Then, later, the headier stronger scents of horses and pomade and soap and musk took up residence.
The scent of wintergreen soap.
Mother's plum pudding.
He ached for the feel of velvet waistcoats or heavy satin dresses. Fresh, white linen sheets that had just come off the line, crisp and fine against the skin, the scent of peonies caught inside.
He missed outside -- the rain, the snow, the real wind. The feel of making a grass whistle, of going into the general store and buying horehound candies and licorice whips and sharing as you walked back home and teased the little girls sharing sugared orange slices and tin rings.
Oh, and church socials. Dances. Ball games and piano lessons and philosophy lectures. Learning to tie his own cravat. Learning to unfasten someone else's. Drinking lemonade from crystal glasses and...
Samuel grinned, sinking deeper and deeper into a stained glass world where, if he was very careful, he could pretend it was all real. All good.
All right.
It wasn't his room, but he could float here and hide here and regain the energy he'd lost. Best of all, he could remember.
Remember when he was real, too.
Chapter Five