Haunted

The Cleary house hid alone in the hills outside the town, untouched by the regeneration project which had seen the oldest cottages in the area restored to picture postcard beauty with their newly whitewashed walls and thatched roofs. The aging tarmac that ran through the square was dug up and cobblestones were put down. Tourists were starting to trickle into the area to see the "real Ireland". Gil Gray, the owner of the local pub, had used the fund money to turn his establishment into an old fashioned inn complete with stables and horses out the back, which could be hired for the day at a reasonable price. It had been a good summer for visitors and the people were looking forward to better times, already discussing over pints of locally-made beer how they could fleece next year's nostalgic Americans for more cash.

Sean was obsessed with the Cleary house. He would sometimes take the dog for a walk just as an excuse to go up there. The whitewash had long since faded from its walls, which had crumbled over the years so that only three were left standing, their mossy stones beaten by harsh winters and rain, the warmth of life within long gone. The ruin was surrounded by trees, but only one looked as if it might have seen the house's inhabitants. An ancient, gnarled oak, half dead after being stuck by lightning, its few living branches clawing at the sky. There had once been a garden, but the grass was waist high now, the rusty iron gate bent and flaking. People called it the Cleary house, but no one either knew or was willing to explain who the Clearys had been, if they had ever existed. They said the house was haunted, but Sean never saw any evidence of ghosts. It was just a sad, shattered shell. But he was drawn to it all the same.

Maybe it was because of the nightmare that visited him every now and then. He had never told anyone else about it. No need to give them another reason to think of him as creepy, the guy who hung around the town square at night with his ghoulish friends, hair dyed black as shoe polish to match his eyes and nails. And it was almost worth the terror at the end, just to get the pleasure at the beginning. When he tried to remember the details, he would first see the glass in the window, slashed with drying trickles of rain and mud from the recent storm. And his own reflection, just swimming out of focus. Then there was

something cooking on the stove, a smell of herbs and peat smoke filling his head. His stomach felt warm after the ale. Someone was humming behind him, a tune he didn't recognise. The rocking chair stopped creaking, and the person got up. He kept looking out of the window, glad to be inside during such a storm. The tree in the garden was skeletal. It looked as if it had caught the full moon in its branches and was playing a game as the clouds began to shroud the light from his view.

The hands were warm as they crept underneath his nightgown, fingertips scratching and caressing his legs with the touch of love. Warm breath on his buttocks, the kisses light like whispers against his flesh. He was getting hard, his breath clouding against the window as the fingers stroked his balls, tickled against his pubic hair, feeling their way onto his prick. Then the massage began, up and down. He gripped the window sill, pressing his forehead against the glass, closing his eyes as he felt the hand move, the thumb sliding over the tip, wetting his shaft with his own juices.

The person stood up behind him. He felt a warm body press against him as his cock was released, and the nightgown pulled over his head. The material was itchy against his skin, dragging over his erect nipples, the sensation making him draw a sharp breath. The locket, newly-given and precious, still cool against his bare skin.

"I love you." The voice was a whisper against his neck, that made his skin break out in goosebumps. The hands, on the move once more, tweaking his nipples as he felt hot lips settle on his neck, biting gently, sucking hard. The mark of a lover left behind on his pale skin.

He tried to respond with all the love in his heart but his breath was taken away when he felt the finger slide into his crack and pausing, just for a minute, to circle his most secret spot with some kind of oil, before slipping inside. It felt slightly uncomfortable for a second then suddenly it was as if a burst of fire travelled up his spine into his brain, and he gasped aloud. He had never known such a sensation could exist, and he could only press back against the hand, desperate for more. His body was opening up like a flower in spring. And then he was breached, impaled, filled with his lover's prick, crying out as the fingers caressed his nipples again.

His lover began to move, slowly and gently, stoking up the fire inside him until he was sweating and gasping and the hands on his shoulders were gripping tighter and tighter. He felt the hot breath against his back come faster and faster. The juices from his cock were flowing almost continuously as that exquisite spot inside him was pounded and pounded until the tingling pleasure all over his body began to concentrate in his stomach, his balls. Suddenly he cried out in release, feeling his seed explode out of him, splashing the wall, the floor, as he felt his insides bathed in warmth, his lover's grip tightening painfully for a second then relaxing. "And I love you," he said, when he could speak again, feeling himself wrapped in strong arms.

Almost drifting off to sleep when he saw the lights in the distance.

Fear crept into his stomach. No one ever came out this way, not unless there was some trouble. "You'd better go!" he whispered. He couldn't turn around, just stood there frozen, watching out of the window as he heard the chanting. Foul, angry voices on the wind. He felt a gust of air, heard the door close as his lover left. The mob approached, torches battling against the wind. They were all hunched in shades of grey, faces hidden by hoods.

"Kill the witch. Kill the witch. Kill the witch." The voices, louder now. What witch? He hadn't heard anything about any witch. Then again he rarely went into the village these days. Knowing they weren't coming for him should have made him relax. But it was a nightmare, it wasn't logical. The terror was paralyzing, and suddenly

he'd wake up with a shout, finding himself tangled in his sheets, gasping, soaked with sweat and spunk. Then he would have to creep downstairs with his sheets in a bundle, avoiding his mother's eyes as he pushed them into the washing machine, wondering all the time, am I gay? He didn't think so. Maybe it was inside him, waiting to spring out. He wasn't too bothered about the thought. Still, the dream was at odds with his actual feelings and that was weird. He thought about Declan, his best friend. The idea of doing anything sexual with him was ridiculous. Anyway what did it matter, if he was gay or not? He was already considered to be the village freak. No one else wanted to be a pathologist, or travel to places like Mongolia or Kyrgyzstan. And no one else fancied Siobhan, Declan's cousin. She was a skinny girl with plain brown hair that she scraped back in a severe ponytail. Her brown eyes were massive behind her glasses. But no one else saw the way her hair shone when she took it down, the kindness in her eyes when she took her glasses off. Sean thought she was beautiful.

It was a sunny day, despite the time of year. Halloween night, the time when the dead walked the earth. Sean figured it would be more fun hanging around with them than the old gits at the pub. There was no chance of getting into the city to any of the Halloween parties he'd heard about. He was nineteen, living with his mum, working part time at the post office while he re-sat his A-levels. University seemed like a distant dream. He had just splashed out on a motorbike, but couldn't afford to insure it. Maybe his dad would stump up the cash, if he ever came back from the USA. His mother said it was just a short contract, but he'd heard their quiet arguments just before his father had left, the vicious things they said to each other behind closed doors.

Declan had texted him that morning saying that his Halloween plans consisted of going to the pub quiz with his dad, who had just got out of prison. It was better than hanging around the square, freezing. Siobhan hadn't replied to his text, and wasn't answering her phone, so it looked as if Sean was going to spend the time partying with himself in his bedroom, and not for the first time. He finished polishing his bike, looking at it longingly. It would be a few months before he could afford the insurance. The bike gleamed invitingly in the sunlight and he sighed.

"Are you coming in for your dinner?" His mother leaned out of the kitchen, tapping a cigarette against the window sill. "I've made colcannon for Halloween."

Sean forced a smile. "Sure," he said. More mushy cabbage. He wondered why she even bothered cooking when there was a perfectly good chip shop next door, even now looking tempting despite the cardboard ghosts and witches that decorated its windows. A turnip lantern hung outside, the candle long since blown out by the wind. As he went inside and washed his hands, his thoughts wandered to the Cleary house again, and he tried to superimpose it onto the room in the dream. But it was so far gone into decay, the idea that it ever had windows at all seemed far fetched. He sat down at the table and started shoveling the hot cabbage into his mouth, tasting very little.

"So you haven't heard anything more about the Cleary house?" he said, making conversation, not hopeful of any new information. His mother was a relative newcomer to the village, having moved there twenty years ago. She was still known as "that new woman." Given that she had produced the village's first emo, she was even less likely to be accepted into the fold.

"Well actually," she said, her chair creaking as she settled into it, "Gil was saying the other day that they're talking about pulling it down."

Sean felt his heart stop for a moment. "They can't do that," he said. Pull it down? It was part of the history of the area. The idea sent shivers down his back. Something inside him was screaming NO! Then there was no hope.

No hope for what? But the thought, so close, faded away, leaving him with a sensation of loss that made his heart ache.

"Of course they can," she said, oblivious to her son's discomfort. "It belongs to Gil and May, you know that. They can do whatever they want with it. No sense letting the land just sit there going to waste when they could farm it, or whatever."

That was new information at least. Gil and May weren't Clearys. Maybe May had been, before she had married. He resolved to find out. But his stomach was full, and he started to yawn. The sun was setting outside. It was too early to go to bed. Strange weariness started to seep into his bones, so he went upstairs, just for a nap, of course. He'd get up again in an hour or so. He still had three seasons of Buffy to watch, and she was more than worth getting up for.

But then the dream came again, only this time the fucking was harder, more aggressive; his nipples were twisted until he shrieked with mingled pleasure and pain. When he came, he thought his eardrums were going to blow out. It seemed to go on and on, the excruciating pleasure. And all the time, the feeling of being loved. He wasn't afraid any more.

Then he saw the lights. But it was different this time. They weren't chanting about the witch. His lover wasn't leaving. There was a whisper in his ear, come to me. Come to me, my love. I'm waiting for you. You know where I am.

With a shout, he woke up, the words ringing in his ears, the familiar stickiness in his pants. The dream had seemed short, but the sky was black outside. It was already ten o'clock. He got up and showered quickly, balling the sheets into the washing basket and vowing to empty it in the morning before his mother got up.

He grabbed a small backpack, a torch, sleeping bag and some other supplies. The night was freezing but clear and dry. If it rained…well, he was going to take the chance. He could always come back again.

He knew where he had to go. The Cleary house was waiting for him.

=====

Under the new moon, the road was so dark Sean could hardly see anything at all. There was almost complete silence, no bird song, no wind in the trees. His torch barely illuminated the path. Every time a nocturnal creature rustled the bushes, his hair almost stood on end. The small fields that stretched over the hills looked were a dark patchwork of greys.

Finally he saw it, the rickety style that led to the path he was looking for. There was a sharp pain in his finger as he climbed over, the wood groaning under his weight. A splinter of wood was lodged under his skin, and he cursed, rubbing at it. As he crept forward, he looked up at the old oak, and started.

Someone was hanging from the branch. The head twisted, the rope swinging in the wind. The body was starting to turn around towards him and

his chest was tight as his shaking hands flashed the beam of light upwards. There was no one there. His imagination was running rampant on the black canvas of night. Exhaling, he pressed forward, through the high grass. The windows had long since broken and rotted away, giving the house a blind look. This was a stupid idea. All his hair was standing on end. His mouth was dry, adrenalin was pumping through his body. He realised he was terrified. It felt good somehow, like he was truly alive at last.

He had to be inside the house. At least it would provide some shelter if the weather turned, or if the bitter autumn wind started up again. The gap where the door had once been was a black yawn, and he stepped through it, feeling the moss under his fingers as they groped over the stone wall. His eyes were wide but he could see nothing. A twig snapped under his foot and he jumped.

Suddenly a light shone in his face from the corner. Voices were screaming, and he realised as his heart almost stopped in his chest that his voice was one of them. He pointed his torch blindly at the source of the noise, the glare dancing in his eyes as he stumbled backwards thinking oh my god, you stupid shit, what the hell am I doing …

"Sean?" The glaring beam dropped to the floor. "OH MY HOLY FUCK, you scared the shite out of me! What are you doing here?"

Two dark shapes were huddled together against the back wall like giant slugs. Siobhan shone her torch up under her chin, and flashed it at Declan, who was in a sleeping bag beside her. He gave Sean a thumbs-up sign then the hand retreated under the covers again. His teeth were chattering. Siobhan dragged a wayward blanket back up to her chin. She was wearing pink wool mittens and a matching hat and her dark eyes were so huge under the glasses that she looked like an anime character. "Don't be afraid," she said. "It's only us."

Sean's legs were suddenly weak and he sat down, feeling the grass damp beneath him. "What the hell are you doing here?" he said. "I thought you were going to the pub, or something."

"Here, I brought a tarp. Sit down, cuddle up." She patted the ground beside her.

"We must be mad," Declan moaned, squeezing his eyes tight shut and pulling the blanket over his head.

Sean dragged out his sleeping bag and wriggled into it, snuggling against Siobhan. She smelt of apple shampoo. He was so relieved to see them that he could hardly speak.

"Did you bring any supplies?" Declan said. "We've only got crisps and shit."

Sean grinned and reached into his backpack. "It just so happens that my mother's whiskey fell into my bag on the way out the door. Don't know how that happened." He twisted off the lid and took a gulp. It burned its way down his throat, and he felt the warmth spread through his body. "Didn't bring any cups so we'll have to share slobbers."

"Oh thank Christ," Declan grabbed the bottle and took several large gulps, his face twisting as he tried to keep it from coming straight up again. Sean smiled. Declan was rubbish on anything other than beer.

Siobhan took a small sip and handed it back to Sean. "So," she said. "Here we are then."

"Yes, here we are," said Declan. "Sleeping over at the Cleary house on Halloween night. We are now officially insane."

Feeling slightly light headed, Sean asked, "So why are you here?"

Siobhan looked solemn. " Same reason as you, probably. We've been… brought here," she said. "Declan and me, we didn't come together. I found him here about half an hour ago. Then…here you are. I wonder if there'll be any more."

The wind had started up again, and the trees moved behind them, hush, hush, hush. It carried a faint tune from a distant fiddle. The party must have spilled out of the pub into the square. Sean could hear the laughs and shouts which almost drowned in the trickling of the nearby stream. His heart started to pound again. Siobhan was right. The compulsion to come to the Cleary house couldn't have been a coincidence. He remembered the words in his dream, come to me, my love and wondered if Declan and Siobhan had been having similar dreams to his own. However, he felt reluctant to share the dream. Not because of the content, but because it felt like it wasn't his to share.

The whiskey was passed around again, and they began to relax. It wasn't so bad, the Cleary house, as long as you were sitting out of the biting wind. Sean's eyes started to close. If you concentrated hard enough, you could almost see the yellow paint on the walls. The smell of rabbit stew made his stomach grumble. Someone was cutting wood outside. Then…

The scene changed. A young woman, cheeks pink from the biting cold, was hurrying along the muddy path that led back to the village. Her hair glowed auburn in the fading light, her eyes green and wide with panic. Blackberries fell from her basket as she began to trot, clutching her skirts, failing to keep the hems from trailing in the mud. Father would be so angry. She had promised to be home before sunset but then Tom Cleary had come and distracted her, again.

The first time she'd seen Tom, he'd been in the inn her father owned, drinking with his twin brother Michael. They were both so tall, almost like giants. She and her sister had sat on the stairs peeking through a hole in the wall. Tom was gregarious and liked a bit of craic, Michael was quiet and smiled occasionally, but kept himself to himself. Tom's hands moved expressively as he talked, and his grin was wide and open. He cut a fine figure in his suit, and Kathy pressed her legs together, watching those long fingers mimic a man walking down a path and falling into a river. The old regulars watched the display, sucking their pipes and cackling at the joke.

Little bird, he'd called her the first time they'd spoken. He'd found her out wandering around the beech trees that lined the river near the cottage he shared with his brother. Little bird, you've flown far from home. She'd blushed and giggled, scuffing her boots on the ground. But she didn't move away as he pushed her gently back against the tree, stroking her flushed cheek with a fingertip, tracing the outline of her mouth as she stared into his brown eyes, breathless. He was so tall, he had to stoop to kiss her, and as his lips touched hers, she felt a warmth and an ache between her legs that she had never felt under her fiancé's chaste kisses. Guiltily she remembered Robert and made an effort to push Tom away but her arms were like water. I've been watching you for such a long time, he muttered, his breath hot against her neck as his long fingers expertly untied the laces behind her back that held her gown together, pushing the shawl apart to expose her breasts.