by Mike Shade
Two weeks after fleeing his own home, Jason went back up to the tower room.
He didn't take a bat or expect to find a raccoon or squatter, invisible or otherwise there. He was done with the silliness. It was just another room in the house that he loved. In fact, it was the one room where he had expected to spend most of his time, to really make his own.
Armed only with his key, he headed up the stairs. He noticed they hardly creaked at all, but there was more dust here now, as if his own imagination had kept it dust and cobweb free and now that he wasn't letting his imagination run away with him, the dust was settling, the spiders getting busy.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The sun shone brightly through the windows, dust motes dancing in the air. There was no chill, no strange breezes. In fact, the room was somewhat warm and stuffy.
Laughing softly to himself, he went over to the veranda doors and opened them wide. He stepped carefully out onto the balcony -- he had yet to inspect this one and he'd hate to end the day falling through rotten boards.
He was looking out over the backyard, the greenhouse seeming small from up here, but the trees were big, higher than the roof. It felt like being in the middle of the forest and he imagined it would look awesome when the big maples and oaks started to change colors. It probably looked great in the winter, too.
He bounced a little on his heels, his old excitement over the tower room returning.
Why had he denied himself this, letting silly rumors and gossip spook him into staying away from the room?
He took a deep breath of fresh air and turned back to the room, ready to explore every nook and cranny. He wondered what other finds he'd make aside from the bookcases full of books and desk itself. Along with the roll-top desk and the bookcases was an old steamer trunk that he'd missed seeing the other times he'd been up here.
The room was awesome -- he was definitely going to get a round bed made for the middle of it, but for now he wanted to see what was in the trunk, maybe he'd find a key for the desk.
It was in exceptional shape, he doubted many people had touched it. The leather was cracked and worn, but reparable and the brass hinges looked as if they would work. The catch on the front had the monogram -- sOc -- ornately engraved. Oh, man, wouldn't it be cool if this was from the house's original owners?
He popped the latch and pushed the lid open about an inch before it slammed back down. Well that was odd, and there was that word again -- a word he'd come to use a lot here at Violet House. Maybe there was something wrong with the hinges. He tried to push open the lid again.
This time it didn't so much as budge.
He tried it a couple more times, putting the heel of his hand along the lid and pushing hard, but it was like someone was sitting on it now.
Very odd.
He traced the monogram, noting how smooth it was. He'd have to go check the newspaper clippings and see what the father and son's names were. He was pretty sure he remembered one of them being an 's' name.
One last try of the trunk proved it was still firmly shut.
He shrugged and stood, going to the bookcases instead and pulling out some of the books. They were really old, leather bound, pages thick though not brittle.
The French doors shut with a click, the dust on the floor swirling up in funny little designs. All right. This had gone far enough. It wasn't his imagination, it was really happening. Unless he was going crazy. But whether it was all happening in his head or for real, it seemed real enough to him.
He put his back to the bookcase and folded his arms across his chest, hoping he looked like he wasn't going anywhere. He looked slowly around the room. It seemed empty enough. "Who's there? Stop hiding!"
The swirls stopped, the breeze stilled and Jason knew -- knew, damn it -- that someone was watching him.
"I said stop hiding! I know you're there."
He thought his heart would stop when he saw the faint outline of a boy forming above the chest. "...not hiding..."
"Oh my God..." He really was going crazy because he could see a ghost. With his own eyes. He'd heard words. He felt light headed, his heart beating like a bird in a cage. He needed to sit down before he fell down. He stumbled to the window seat, eyes never leaving the dim shape of the boy.
Wide-eyes watched him over a button nose, the ghost looked like a teenaged boy from a Christmas card -- britches and a buttoned collar, black shiny buttons.
"...room...you it's mine... didn't mean..."
It was still talking.
Wow.
His house had a ghost.
He shifted and a book and some papers fell to the floor. Bending, he picked them up, freezing as he realized that one of the papers was a picture of himself. One he'd thought he'd lost.
He looked from the picture to the ghost. "What? I can't understand you."
The ghost held its hand out, then stopped and seemed to take a deep breath. "This is my room."
"Oh."
He wanted to argue. It was his house, so this was his room. But this was a ghost. The boy that died of tuberculosis if he guessed right and why was his brain still working? "It's my house though, so that makes it my room."
"No." That see-through face got stubborn, lips set. "Mine."
"But it's the best room in the house and this is my house."
He couldn't believe he was sitting here, arguing with a ghost over who got to use the tower room.
"It was built for me. My furniture is here. I live here." More solid -- the kid-boy-man-ghost-thing was looking a bit more solid.
"You died though and the house got sold. It belongs to me now. And you haven't got a bed. I'm having a big round bed made to go in the middle of the room."
He looked around. "All you have is a desk and some bookcases."
Green eyes stared at him from under a mop of dirty blonde curls. "And a chest."
He chuckled, this was surreal. "And a chest. It's still my house, though and this is the best room in it."
"This is my house and I'm just being polite!" The little ghost was actually looking put out.
"I bought it from someone who bought it from someone who bought it from someone all the way back to your family -- they sold it. I'm not saying you can't live here, but it's mine." He still couldn't believe he was talking to a ghost -- arguing with it in fact -- he wondered how soon after arguing with ghosts Janise had been committed.
Well, he wasn't going to tell anyone that he was doing it.
"I'll be here long after you're gone. I've been in this room from the start and I'm staying!" The door to the tower room slammed open, the ghost's expression stormy. "You have plenty of room!"
He crossed his arms again. He'd out-stubborned his mother once or twice, he wasn't going to give in to this little boy. "So you can have the room back when I go -- you've got just as much room to choose from as I do."
The ghost shook his head. "Those rooms aren't mine. This room is mine." The French doors opened again, dust swirling, wind filling the room. "And you're sitting in my spot."
He looked down, eyes landing on the book and picture of himself. "What about this?" he asked. "This is mine and you took it."
The ghost's mouth opened and shut and opened and shut and then that pointed chin rose. "You weren't looking at it and I..."
His eyebrows rose as the ghost snapped his mouth shut and crossed his arms. Oh, he was going to burst out laughing any moment. Sitting here arguing with a ghost, both of them refusing to budge.
He tilted his head. "What's your name?"
"Samuel Christensen Ogletree. What's yours?"
"Jason Richard York. But you can just call me Jason. Can I call you Sam?" If his mother could see him now...
There was a second's pause and then Sam nodded. "Yes, I suppose I don't mind that."
He chuckled. "Thank you, Sam."
He looked around the tower room and sighed. "You sure you won't let me have the room, Sam? I've always wanted to have a tower room."
H
e could see Sam's shoulders relax; in fact, now he could see the woven patterns on his waistcoat. "I don't know you well enough to share. I'm sorry, Jason. This is where I am."
His eyebrow rose. "Are you trying to tell me you can't go to the other rooms in the house? Like the kitchen? Like my room?"
Well, well... ghosts could blush.
"No... no. I can go all over this house, but this is my room."
He sighed, wondering if he could cancel the bed he had Jimmy Copenhaver next door making for him. On the other hand...
"What if I had a bed made for this room? You don't have one. Would you consider letting me use the room in exchange for getting to keep the bed?" The room really needed a nice round bed in it, even if he wasn't going to get to sleep in it.
"What kind of bed?"
"A really nice one. Custom made." He got up and went to the middle of the room, spreading his arms out. "It would be round and big enough to fit me comfortably. The guy next door's a carpenter; he's making it for me. It's gong to have a half crescent headboard with violets carved along the top."
Sam appeared to be considering. "And the trunk and desk stay and you don't open them."
"Will you show me what's in them?" He shrugged. "I love old stuff and I'm curious. After all -- you've made yourself pretty much at home with my stuff."
"You brought your stuff into my house." Sam nodded. "Maybe. If you're a good man. These are important things. Can I still stay here whenever I want? In the window seat?"
"Do you mind sharing it? Mother never let me sit in our window seat. And I want to make new pillows for it. You could choose the pattern -- same with the wallpaper."
"Pillows are nice. No pink and no yellow. I like blue." Samuel grinned, the look lighting the ghost's entire face. "Are you going to bring more books in? I read some of your books. They're very interesting."
He couldn't help but smile back. "Yeah? Which books did you like?"
"The ones about the rocket ships, best." Samuel pointed to the balcony. "I can see the moon and stars from there."
"Oh, I'm a big sci-fi fan myself! I haven't had a lot of time to read, lately, what with all the fixing up and stuff, but I can go get some more. I'm due a visit to the book store." He grinned, he might be going crazy, but he was having fun doing it. He'd been in this house alone for too long.
Samuel crossed his legs. "Well then... we'll share. I like the things you've done so far. So does Violet. She's happy."
He nodded and went back to sit on the window seat. Samuel looked less... ghostly now. "I'm going to make her beautiful again. From top to bottom, inside and out."
Samuel nodded. "Janice wanted to. She tried very hard but didn't get past the greenhouse."
"I'm doing the greenhouse last." He looked at Sam closely. Yes, the ghost was definitely getting more real. "Was she really crazy? Or did she just try to tell people about you?"
"I never even talked to her. She only slept in Mother's bedroom and spent her days in the greenhouse." Samuel shrugged. "She was very sad. She cried a lot. It echoed and echoed."
"Heh. I guess she was already nuts then."
He tried to get more comfortable on the window seat and frowned -- the pillow was pretty thin. "Would you like to come downstairs with me and go through the sample books? We could pick a wallpaper and some material for the window seat cushions and for curtains, maybe even a rug. We find something we both like today I can order them and have this room finished in a couple of weeks. The bed should be done by then, too."
Samuel looked him very seriously. "I would like that. Which room?"
"They're in my office -- the formal sitting room. I'll meet you down there?" He wasn't sure how the ghost thing worked, but he had a feeling Sam wasn't going to walk down there with him.
Samuel nodded and then faded away, leaving the room quiet and still.
He was at the stairs before he realized he still had his picture in his hand and he went back and put it on the window seat, looking around the room and shaking his head. It looked peaceful and normal, not like somewhere that a ghost should live.
He closed the French windows and headed downstairs.
His office was empty -- looked empty -- but a ledger on his desk had flipping pages and a pencil spun idly on the polished wood.
"You're pretty nosy for someone who doesn't want his own stuff touched."
The pencil stopped suddenly and the pages fell still.
He went over closed the ledger. "That my business stuff. I need it to stay private, Sam, 'cause that's what my clients are expecting."
He went to sit down and then realized he didn't even know if Sam was in his chair or not. And could he sit right through Sam and wouldn't that hurt?
"Could you... um... show yourself? I know I talk to myself a fair bit, but it's a little unnerving to deliberately talk to someone else when I can't see them."
The curtains ruffled and then he could make out a thin, pale shade, watching him. "...here..."
He tilted his head. "Is it hard? Getting... what do you call it? Solid?"
Samuel shrugged. "It is easier sometimes. I do not... I do not do it often."
He frowned. "Does it hurt?"
"No. It is... like physique courses. Exercise."
"Okay. I just wouldn't want you to hurt yourself just so I could see you, you know?" He gave Sam a smile and reached over for the stack of wallpaper samples. "Wallpaper first? There're some beautiful blue ones in here."
"I like blue." Suddenly Samuel was gone, that sweet wind brushing over the side of his neck, over his fingers. Then Sam's fingers appeared, pointing to a rich, but simple pattern. "That one matches the old."
He shivered, growing hard at the soft touches and he had to clear his throat before he could speak. "Then that one it shall be."
He cleared his throat again, reaching for his notepad and his pencil, noting the order number. "All right -- do you want a rug? I can find something that matches the blue from the wallpaper -- just a solid color wall to wall. It'll keep the room warmer in winter."
"Carpets are nice. No yellow." He could feel the brush of Samuel against his cheek and then the cool breeze backed away.
He touched his cheek, stroking where Samuel's touch had been. "Blue -- to match the walls. And Diane left a book of material samples for the window cushions. Now where did I leave that?"
A soft giggle sounded and the book came floating down from the top of the bookshelves.
He grinned and grabbed the book, setting it down and flipping it to the blue pages. "Thanks, Sam."
Another sweet, quiet giggle sounded, Samuel just a vague outline. "You are most welcome, Jason."
He found himself smiling at Samuel. Oh, he thought maybe he liked having a ghost. Very much.
Samuel grinned, transparent fingers sliding over the material. "Why did you choose this house, Jason? Why Violet?"
"Well, I wanted a period place that I could restore, to use as a showcase for my clients -- let them know what I could do. And Victorian's always been one of my favorite styles. To be honest, my initial interest was because she was going cheap, but then I got a look at her and I fell in love." He grinned. "I know it sounds silly, the real estate agent knew she had me the minute I set foot in the place, but at that point I didn't care what it cost, I knew she was the one for me."
Confused green eyes watched him for a second and then Samuel nodded. "Oh. I see."
He felt his cheeks heat. "I thought you would have understood my falling in love with her," he said softly. "Mother thought I was crazy. I guess maybe she was right, after all I'm sitting here talking to my new house's ghost."
"Oh!" Samuel's face brightened. "Yes. She is worthy, is she not? So many stories."
"She is," he said, smiling again. "And now I know how to spend the long winter evenings -- hot cocoa, a warm fire and stories about Violet House."
Samuel blushed, the breeze around him suddenly warm.
Which reminded him of one thing that was still niggling at the bac
k of his mind, still bothering him, really, and now that he knew, really knew, about Samuel, he didn't think he'd be able to just get naked and go to sleep later unless they talked about it. He felt his own cheeks go warm again, his traitorous body tightening, nipples going hard, cock firming.
"I.. uh... wanted to ask you about... uh... um... the other night."
"The other night?" Samuel grew more faint, eyes shining.
"When you uh..." He cleared his throat and bit his lip and looked away, but then he forced his eyes to meet Samuel's. The touches he'd been given today by Samuel were just too close for that night having been his imagination.
"When I was in bed, touching myself. Someone else was touching me, too, and I thought I was just imagining it, but I wasn't, was I?"
"No. Are you angry?" Samuel's hand slid over his jaw. "You looked as if you were happy. I stopped when your pleasure ceased, Jason."
Unable stop himself, he nuzzled into the touch. It felt so real, so soft and nice. And arousing. "I'm not angry," he murmured. And he wasn't, even though he probably should have been. He stared into the green eyes, watching as Samuel seemed to become solid before his very eyes.
"No? You looked hungry, spread on the bed, and I wanted to help." Samuel's curls caught the light, seemed to shine. "And I wanted to touch."
Oh, he was hard and he could hardly breathe, eyes caught in Samuel's, this ghost that seemed so real. "I'd never... I've never been touched before. Like that, I mean."
"No? Did you like it?"
He laughed, the sound little more than a needy gasp of air. "What do you think?"
"I think you might like me to do it again." Those green eyes shone.
He moaned without meaning to, just a little, softly. "I think so, too."
Samuel leaned forward, lips brushing over his cheeks like a puff of air. "You intrigue me, Jason."
A sweet shudder rippled through him. "I do?"
He turned to look into those green eyes. They were so close and he would swear, if he hadn't already seen what he'd seen, that Samuel was real.
"Yes." A warm hand slid down his chest, heading toward his cock. "Do you believe in me?"
"Yes," he whispered, breath caught in his throat. This wasn't some breezy touch, this was as real as any hand he'd ever felt, how could he not believe it?