*
Sean had a slight headache, not improved by the rain pounding on the windshield, the low, static-ridden muttering on the radio, or the fact that he was completely, utterly, hopelessly lost. The road he was on seemed to have turned into a fucking Möbius strip, and he couldn’t find the fork that he thought he’d turned onto half an hour ago despite doubling back. His GPS device had been useless, leading him down unmarked roads to nowhere (he refused to contemplate the possibility that he had taken a few wrong turns because of the rain and the darkness), and its voice – a deep, falsely reassuring baritone – had driven him round the bend, so he’d shut it off. Now he was plowing aimlessly through the dark and eyeing his sinking gasoline gauge with increasing distress.
Growling, he snapped off the radio and turned on the GPS system again.
“Recalculating,” the baritone soothed warmly.
“Oh, bugger off.”
“Continue 2.5 miles down Route 93, then turn onto East Catawissa Road.”
“Right, that’s what you told me last time. So why am I still here?” Sean picked up speed, squinting through the frantic motion of the windshield wipers. The rain had started this morning as a drift of fog curling around the private porch of the bed and breakfast, covering everything in a soft mantle of grey, misting autumn leaves that only yesterday had looked freshly painted. He’d wanted to walk in it, to absorb the crumbling romanticism of the hilly little town of Jim Thorpe, but Orlando had balked. He was tired, hung over. All he’d wanted to do was loll in bed. And the bickering had begun again, this time escalating into a full-blown battle that had ended with Orlando taking the town’s only taxi to a car rental place and driving back to Manhattan. He didn’t want to see Sean again; Sean was too staid, too boring. Too old.
That last had been hurled at him like a cannonball, as if it were the worst thing Orlando could possibly think of, and he couldn’t understand why Sean had barely blinked at it. That alone should have told him something. But maybe it was for the best, after all. Possibly Orlando had been right, even though he’d sharpened the fact into a weapon. Maybe the gap was too wide, and it always had been despite almost ten months trying to bridge it, and they’d never understand one another no matter how many times they broke up and got back together. Sean sighed and turned on the radio again, searching for some music. He found a station playing the Bay City Rollers and grimaced, but kept it on.
“Turn right on East Catawissa Road.”
Sean slowed down. “There is no East Catawissa Road,” he protested to the oblivious GPS. It had been two and a half miles, and he didn’t see a sign, nor a bend or intersection anywhere. “Fucking hell.” He drove on, desperate.
“Recalculating.”
“Oh, fuck you!” He snapped the device off again. “Useless piece of crap.” Suddenly he saw an oblong green reflector sign and slowed down. The white lettering was faded, but he was able to make out the words Laurel Lane. “Well, why not? How much fucking worse could it get?” He turned right and drove down a wooded road, trying to ignore the gasoline gauge. If he didn’t find a service station soon, he’d be in for a long walk in the dark and rain.
His spirits rose as the path emerged from the woods and became a two-lane road running alongside a river. Rivers always led somewhere; he had only to follow it and everything would be okay. He didn’t need the bloody GPS to tell him where to go. Relieved, he turned up the radio – the Clash now – and sang along, off-key, but with hearty enjoyment. The Clash segued into Led Zeppelin, and he sang along to that too. He felt his headache abating, then heard and felt a tremendous BANG in the rear of his car.
He swerved, fighting to maintain control of the vehicle, but hydroplaned and skidded sideways. Panic locked in his throat and he white-knuckled the steering wheel, biting his tongue hard enough to bring blood. The car continued its long, almost lazy path toward the river, and Sean stared helplessly, watching the road sheer away beneath him, sure that he was going to end up in the drink. He tried to remember whether one was supposed to open the windows right away and try to escape, or wait until the car was completely submerged and then open the windows. They were electric-powered. What if they shorted out in the water?
The car’s rear end smashed into a tree, and Sean was flung toward the window. The airbag deployed, and he found himself with a face full of nylon balloon. Stunned, he sat still for a few minutes, listening to the ticking of the engine, a hissing noise he couldn’t identify, and Led Zeppelin merging with the Eagles.
Sean shut the radio off and sat for another few minutes, waiting for his heartbeat to resume its normal rhythm. He hadn’t gone into the water, he’d been wearing his safety belt, and the airbags had deployed. All good things. One of his rear tires had blown, however, and he’d hit a goddamned tree – two very bad things indeed. He got out of the car to assess the damage, and the thin, flat soles of his trainers slipped on grass and mud, and he skidded down the embankment he hadn’t seen toward the river. “Shit!” He pinwheeled his arms to stay upright, but overbalanced and fell into the water. It closed over his head, dark and freezing cold and terrifying.
The undertow pulled at his legs, dragging him down. He kicked and struggled, not sure which way was up. He felt his air dwindling – he’d swallowed water and wanted to breathe, but he couldn’t, not if he didn’t want to die, if the cold didn’t kill him first – and heaved with all his strength. His head broke the water, and he gasped before going down again.
This time, though, Sean knew which way was up. He forced his way through the numbing cold and broke water again. The river was moving fast, but he relaxed, letting the current move him along a bit, then began to swim diagonally, making for shore. He grabbed a clump of reeds that mercifully held, and pulled himself onto the swampy riverbank. He lay there for a moment, retching and heaving, then hoisted himself to his feet. Dimly aware that he was making some noise – gasping, sobbing with relief, laughing, Christ only knew – he made his way back to the wreck of his car. It was maybe the length of two football pitches away; in some rational corner of his brain he was shocked at how far the river had carried him in such a short time. He climbed back inside carefully and sat, grasping the steering wheel with its now deflated airbag, violent shudders twisting through his body. He felt as if he were about to pass out, and rested his head on the wheel. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.” He shook for a few minutes, then sat back, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.
Finally he was still, calmer. Time to assess the damage. He got out on the other side of the car – the side away from the river – and saw that it was the rear passenger tire that had blown, the rubber almost entirely torn away, heavy scoring on the rim from its prolonged impact with the road. The boot was smashed in. He tried to open it, but the key wouldn’t turn. He searched his pockets and pulled out his mobile. Without much hope, he peered at it, but it was as he feared – dead. Waterlogged. Ridiculously expensive thing that Orlando had persuaded him to buy, and fucking useless. He had a fleeting desire to hurl it into the river.
“Fuck.” His suitcases were stuck in the boot, along with a spare tire he couldn’t reach, he was soaked to the skin, and it was still pouring. He glanced at his watch, which still worked. It was seven-thirty at night, and already as black as a parson’s hat. The river road was deserted; he hadn’t seen a single car for at least half an hour. He’d have to walk anyway. He couldn’t get any wetter, and it wouldn’t do him any good to sit in the car. Sighing, he trudged to the roadside, hoping someone would see him and slow down.
He came to a little grocer’s and limped toward it. Maybe there was a public telephone outside. He went round the perimeter and cursed. Why was there never a phone – a working phone – when you needed one? He dragged himself on, shivering in the cold now, hoping he wouldn’t get sick.
Half a mile or so down the road, he saw a house on a low rise. There was no light on, but there was a car in the driveway. He slogged up the hill and rang the bell. No one came to the door, but he knocked persistently. Finally a light came on behind the door, and it swung open, revealing a lean silhouette.
“Hi,” Sean said. “Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but I had a car accident and I fell in the river. Could I use your phone to call a cab or a tow truck?”
The silhouette moved, and the porch light clicked on. The figure revealed was a lean man with longish brown hair, clean-shaven, wearing a faded plaid shirt and jeans, both stained with varicolored paint. He looked almost comically shocked to see Sean, swallowing and clearing his throat carefully before he answered. “There aren’t any cabs out this way. No tow trucks this time of night, either.” He had a soft, pleasantly graveled voice.
“Fuck,” Sean breathed. “Sorry. I’m just not sure what I’m going to – my mobile shorted out in the water, and I’m freezing. I’m not –“ He laughed a little. “You’re probably not going to believe me, but I’m not a psychopath or anything. Could I – could I just come in for a few moments and warm up a bit? I can pay you.” He dug out his soggy wallet.
“That’s okay. Come on in.” The man held the door open wider, and Sean walked past him into a cozy living room. He saw a couch of battered brown leather, some overstuffed armchairs, a low coffee table that looked handmade. Where the walls weren’t crowded with overflowing bookshelves, they held paintings from floor to ceiling, big, unframed contemporary pieces. Best of all, there was a brick fireplace with a fire crackling merrily away.
Sean felt his cold flesh thawing. “Could I stand there for a bit?”
“Sure. Hang on, I’ll be right back. Oh.” He stuck his hand out. Like his clothes, it was stained with paint. “Viggo.”
“Sean.” The offered hand was warm and a bit rough, with a strong grip. “Sorry to barge in on you like this. I know it’s quite late.”
“No problem. I was up. Back in a minute.” Viggo switched on a floor lamp, then trotted up a set of polished wooden stairs and disappeared.
Sean crouched in front of the fire, soaking in the blessed warmth. He peered at the paintings. Contemporary art wasn’t really his taste, but there was something solid and cheerful about these pieces, bold strokes of color crosshatched with thin slashes of black and white, bits of script here and there like blocks of graffiti poetry emerging from a brick wall. The chill was melting from his bones when Viggo returned from upstairs with clothes draped over his arm.
“Listen, Sean, I hate to be blunt, but nothing’s going to happen for your car situation tonight. I’d take you somewhere myself if there were anything open, but my car’s transmission is shot and my phone’s not working. Why don’t you put these on, and you can bed down on the couch if you want to. There’s a bathroom near the kitchen – back that way. I’ll make some tea. You like tea?”
“I’d love some tea,” Sean said truthfully. “I hate to put you out, though.”
“It’s no trouble.” Viggo regarded him with some curiosity. “You’re probably feeling a little…strange, after your accident.”
“Shaken up, mostly,” Sean admitted, and accepted the pile of clothing. “I’d love to get out of this wet stuff.”
“Just hang it on the shower rod.” Viggo showed Sean a tiny but impeccable bathroom. He smiled warmly at Sean before shutting the door.
Sean stripped off his wet clothes hastily, cold again now that he was away from the fire. He found a folded towel and rubbed down before putting on the garments Viggo had given him – a pair of wool rag socks, sweatpants, a t-shirt, and an Aran jumper, thin at the elbows and daubed here and there with color, but wonderfully warm. No underwear, he noticed, but then he probably wouldn’t have worn a stranger’s underwear anyway. He came out of the bathroom to find Viggo in the kitchen, readying two mugs of tea.
Viggo uncapped a bottle of Jameson. “You look like you could use a slug,” he said, poising it over the tea.
“God, yes.”
“Right on.” Viggo carried the tea into the living room, and they sat in front of the fire. He smiled, revealing very white and slightly gapped teeth. “So what’s your story?”
Sean laughed. “How did I wind up here in the wilds of Pennsylvania, you mean? Damned if I know.” He’d never been an easy talker, and suddenly this man’s act of charity made him feel shyer than usual. He looked around the room. “Did you paint all these?”
“Yep. You paint?”
“Oh, no. I was just admiring them. Do you paint for a living?”
Viggo shrugged. “I used to. What do you do?”
“I’ve got a bookshop in New York.” Sean took a cautious sip of his tea. It was hot and delicious and strongly laced with whiskey. “That’s lovely, thanks. Uh, I’m a rare-book dealer, eighteenth-century English stuff, mostly. I was in Jim Thorpe meeting the family of a collector who’d died recently.” With a jolt he was thankful anew that his car hadn’t hit the water; there was about twelve thousand dollars’ worth of first-edition Fielding, Steele, and Walpole in the back seat.
“Pretty town.”
“Oh, yes.” Sean hesitated, then offered his host a rueful smile. “I had a fight with my…partner, though, and he left early. So that spoiled things a bit.”
Viggo leaned back in his chair, assessing Sean candidly. “Well. His loss.” He smiled.
Sean found himself blushing. He coughed and gestured at the walls. “Tell me about your paintings.”
Viggo talked, easily and at length, and Sean found himself enrapt. He’d always been a good listener – it was a rare skill among book dealers to be a better listener than a talker – and Viggo was voluble and funny. Sean, feeling himself unbending after a little social lubrication, carefully waded into the conversation. For all Viggo’s chattiness and decided opinions, he had a restful, quiet personality, listening respectfully to Sean’s opinions, and Sean discovered that he was more at ease with Viggo than he’d been in months with Orlando. Viggo brought out a plate of cheese, sausage, and crackers. They finished their tea and had more, with a bigger slug of Jameson’s, then progressed to straight shots, four more each. They moved to the floor in front of the fire and relished the heat on their faces. Sean stole glances at Viggo from time to time, admiring his clean profile, his sharp cheekbones, his bright, lively eyes.
“So. Tell me about this Orlando character who let you get away,” Viggo said, and the doorbell shrilled. His face changed, and he swore softly under his breath.
Sean glanced at the clock. It was past eleven. Had they been talking for more than three hours? “Late for visitors, unless someone else fell in the river,” he joked.
“It’s just the neighborhood kids,” Viggo said, looking uncomfortable. “You know – pranks. They’ll go away.”
The bell rang again, and the doorknob jiggled, as if someone were trying to open it. Sean glanced toward the door, frowning. “That’s a little persistent.”
Viggo nodded. “Yeah.” He heaved himself to his feet. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back.” He trudged to the door and unlocked it, then turned the handle. Before he’d opened it more than six inches, piercing screams came from the other side, and the unmistakable sound of running feet. Viggo sighed, closed the door, and came back to the fire. He stirred it quietly. “Stupid kids.”
“You threw the fear of God into them somehow,” Sean said, impressed. “You must show up at the door with a shotgun sometimes.”
Viggo shook his head and looked up at the clock. “I’m sure you’re tired.” The animation had gone out of his face.
“I’m not at all, but I’m sure I’m keeping you up,” Sean said reluctantly, feeling that somehow the doorbell prank had drained the zest from the evening. He found himself angry at the idiot kids who’d perpetrated it. “Thanks again for letting me stay here.”
“Not at all. You’re really good company.” Viggo switched off the lamps, and then took a few blankets from a chest. He laid them on the couch. “I haven’t – it’s lonely out here sometimes.”
“Do you get to New York often? You’re not all that far.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve been there. I don’t get out a lot lately, seems like.”
“Why don’t you come and visit me sometime?” Sean offered a lopsided smile. He wasn’t much good at the seduction bit, but he found himself entranced by this man. “I’ll take you on a tour of the galleries.”
Viggo smiled. “I’ll think about it.” He put out a hand for Sean to pull himself up, and held on to it as Sean rose. He seemed to argue with himself for a moment, and then stepped closer until his body was almost touching Sean’s. “I like you.”
Sean was dizzy from the heat and the whiskey. “I like you, too,” he whispered. Suddenly, without thinking, he moved in for a kiss. Viggo’s mouth was warm and wet, lusciously pliant. Sean wrapped his arms round Viggo, then slid his hands down to his arse. Nice and tight. Viggo returned the favor, and they moved to the couch. Sean began to undo the buttons of Viggo’s shirt. “I don’t usually do this sort of thing.”
“Neither do I.” Viggo eased the jumper off of Sean’s body and lifted his t-shirt to suckle Sean’s nipples. When Sean went to unbutton his jeans, he grasped Sean’s hands and gently pinned them to the couch. “Are you in a hurry?”
Sean blushed ferociously. “No. That is – no. But I’m used to...Orlando was always in a hurry.”
“Let me guess. Young guy, right?”
“A lot younger, yeah.”
“Figures,” Viggo laughed. “They’re always in a rush. Personally, I’ve never thought sex was something to speed through, you know?” He bent and tongued Sean’s nipple again, making a humming noise and sensation that went straight to Sean’s cock. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re right,” Sean rasped. Piece by piece, they stripped each other until they were naked, their skin glowing golden in the light of the fire. Sean explored every inch of Viggo’s lean body, and let himself be explored, shivering at each sensitive and knowing caress of Viggo’s roughened painter’s hands. They took liberties with fingers and tongues and teeth in the low light, rubbing and stroking and lightly tickling. When Sean finally took Viggo, draped over the warm leather of the couch, he forced himself to move with deliberation, stroking Viggo’s cock in his lightly closed fist, moving slowly in and out until his body was covered with sweat. He stifled a yell when he came, and felt stickiness on his hand. They stayed still for a long time; Sean rested his flushed cheek on Viggo’s shoulder and marveled that he’d been frozen only a few hours before.
*
When Sean awoke, Viggo was in the bed beside him, gently grazing Sean’s upper arm with the back of his hand. “Hi,” Sean said, his voice hoarse.
“Hi. Did you sleep well?”
“I guess so. I’m not tired.” Sean sat up and peered out the window. “God, it’s gloomy out, isn’t it?”
“A little, yeah.”
“I’ve got to get going.” Sean turned to Viggo, bashful at the memories of the night before. He hadn’t been that boldly exploratory in years. “Thanks...for everything.”
Viggo gave him a slow, appetizing smile, and leaned in to kiss him. “Thank you. Listen, why don’t you stay a while?”
“I can’t,” Sean got out of bed and noticed that the sun, a pale silvery disk, was high in the sky. He was normally an early riser. He hadn’t even got up to piss, and he’d drunk more than his fill of tea and whiskey. “I’ve got to get back to work. But the offer’s still open. In fact...” He hesitated, then plunged forward. “Why don’t you come with me? Unless you have a job.” He couldn’t remember if Viggo had mentioned one, only that he didn’t paint for a living any longer.
Viggo averted his face. “I’m...I’m not sure I can. I haven’t really tried to go anywhere since - well, for a long time.” He looked at Sean. “I’d like to try.”
“I see. Maybe a weekend, then?” Sean shrugged, not sure what the trouble was. “Do you need money, Viggo?” he asked gently. “I could help you out, if you needed it.” He was flush, ridiculously so. The business was brisk enough, and he had a wisely invested inheritance from his grandparents that allowed him to live in a West Village co-op without fear of ever running out of money.
Viggo laughed in genuine delight. “No, no. That’s so sweet of you, though, Sean.” He moved toward Sean and hugged him spontaneously. “I’ll think about it. Look, I think you should...what are you going to do?”
“I doubt my mobile’s dried out yet. I think I’ll go to that grocery store I saw on the way to your house and ring for a tow truck. I’ll probably have to spend the day at a garage unless they can replace my wheel right there. At least I have some reading material.” He smiled. “Then get back on the road, back to New York. Look, I’m serious about you coming. I don’t – I don’t say this sort of thing often, but I feel like I need to know you.” He gazed down at the floor, feeling foolish.
“I hope you won’t change your mind about that,” Viggo said softly.
Sean looked up, surprised. “Why would I?” He leaned forward and brushed a long lock of hair out of Viggo’s eyes. “I’ve got to get dressed. Let me write down my address and phone for you. Come and see me, okay?”
Viggo smiled, but there was a trace of sadness in his eyes that Sean didn’t know how to dispel. “Okay.”
*
The grocery store was small and dingy, and looked as if it hadn’t had a good scrub for thirty years. Sean moved through the tiny aisles to the back of the store, where an old man sat behind a cash register, surrounded by four other elderly fellows, all of them talking excitedly. Sean hung back, waiting for a pause in their conversation.
“Joe Timchak up the hose company called Stuie Warke. All they do is sit and scratch their asses on taxpayer money,” one old party said.
“Yeah, you say that until your house is on fire because you never get your goddamn chimbley cleaned,” another replied, popping a match alight with his thumbnail. He lit an unfiltered cigarette and dragged deeply. “So what did he say about it?”
“What was to say?” the first man shrugged. “Accident, probably. Car was banged to shit in the rear. Nice car, too. Jaguar.”
“What was the fella’s name?”
“Didn’t say. It’ll come out in a day or so, I imagine.” The man at the cash register spoke with majestic assurance, putting a natural stop to the conversation.
Sean chose that moment to step forward. That was his car they were talking about. He hoped they hadn’t towed it already. “Hello. That’s my car, the Jaguar. Do you know if it’s still there? My tire blew out and –“ He stopped, not wanting to tell the whole story. “Could I use your phone?”
“Haven’t had something like that since ’68, with Timmy Pavlick,” another duffer said.
“It was ’69,” said the man at the register.
“’68,” came the calm reply.
Sean stared, nonplussed. “I hate to bother you, but my car –“
“It was ’69,” the cashier said, “because that was the year Joey Kolavich’s boy Steve sewed the American flag to the seat of his dungarees. I almost kicked his skinny ass to kingdom come myself, the goddamn little pinko.”
“Didn’t he head to ‘Nam that year?”
“The following, I believe. Medic.” The cashier hawked back and spit neatly into a coffee can.
“Excuse me!” Sean snapped, annoyed.
“It was ’68,” the dissenter said. “Because it was a week later that Hubert Humphrey came making his speech, and Timmy Pavlick’s mother went screaming at him about building guard rails by the river. You remember, Milt.”
“Was it ’68?”
Sean gaped. How could they just ignore him? “Jesus fucking Christ…”
“Well, perhaps it was. They never did get those guard rails up, neither.”
“Too bad for that fella. You suppose he slipped?”
“Joe Timchak thought so. Maybe he was dazed after the accident. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe he had a heart attack when he hit the water. Christ knows. He hadn’t been dead that long, anyway, that’s what Joe said.”
Sean stood absolutely still. A peculiar sensation filled his chest.
“Joe Timchak don’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. County coroner will be able to tell, though. It’ll be in the paper tomorrow.”
“Not too far from the old Mortensen place, either. Funny thing, fella drowning near the haunted house.”
“Maybe he saw a ghost!” The old parties let out a rale of phlegmy laughter.
Sean stepped forward. “Hello?” he said softly.
“Jesus H. Christ on a sidecar,” one of the old men said. “It’s colder than a well-digger’s ass in here, Tom. Go check the thermostat, willya?”
“Hello?” Sean waved his hand in front of the cashier’s face.
“I’ve got it turned up to seventy-two. Put your coat on, Milt.” The cashier frowned. “I feel a draft, though. There better not be another goddamn hole in the roof.”
Sean stumbled backward and hit a shelf. Two cans of soup fell to the floor. The old men jumped.
“What the hell?”
Sean didn’t wait for other reactions. He turned and fled the store. The bells affixed to the door jangled as he pushed it open and ran into the cold, grey air. His heart pounded, and he felt as if he couldn’t get any air. He looked around helplessly. Down the road, he saw a collection of emergency and police vehicles near the river. And a stretcher, with a shrouded body.
“Don’t look at it.”
Sean spun and saw Viggo, standing a little distance away, his hands in his pockets. “What…what the fuck? Viggo, what…?” He shook his head, more frightened than he’d ever been in his life. More frightening still was that Viggo looked…not altogether there. Grey, watery light seemed to be coming from behind him.
No. Coming through him.
“I’m sorry,” Viggo said softly. “I couldn’t tell you. You wouldn’t have believed me.”
“I’m not...” Sean touched his hands, his face. “I’m here. I can’t be –“ He threw a nod at the vehicles. It couldn’t be. Couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Viggo said again. “There was no other way for you to find out. There’s always that moment when you need to interact with the living, and you find you can’t. And no one can tell you about it. You have to experience it for yourself. And it’s horrifying, I know it is.”
“But I came out of the water,” Sean whispered.
Viggo shook his head. “When you rang the bell last night – when you saw me –“
“Did you know?”
“Not until you started talking. Until I knew that you could see me. People don’t, you know.”
“But we ate. We drank fucking Jameson whiskey, for Christ’s sake.”
“Not really,” Viggo murmured.
Sean held his hands up and looked at them. They looked fine, slightly ruddy from the cold wind. “I’m going crazy. I can’t have...” He couldn’t say it, then forced himself. “Died.”
“Don’t.” Viggo stepped forward and grasped Sean’s hand. He was warm, solid. Alive! “No. Not alive, Sean. You can go back into the store, or over to the accident site. They’re not going to see you. They might hear a noise you make, or feel a cold breeze on their skin...but they won’t see you. It’s best that you keep away from the living. They’ll only make you lonelier, seeing and hearing all that life. You’ll want to keep trying to reach out, but you’ll only frighten and confuse them.” He pulled Sean close and spoke into his ear. “Believe me. I know.”
Sean moved back a little. “When did you-”
Viggo smiled. “Oh, twenty years ago, thirty. I stopped counting.”
“How?”
“That’s a story for another time, I think.”
“I still can’t believe it.” He stared at Viggo. “So am I trapped here? Are you? What do I do now? Is this hell? Are we here forever?”
“I don’t know,” Viggo said. “I don’t have answers. Maybe it’s like a prison term. Maybe it’s forever. I’ve never tried to leave. I never wanted to go somewhere with more life.”
“Are there other...ghosts?” Was that what he was? A ghost? “Have you seen any?”
“You’re the first. Sean, I know this is almost impossible to understand right now, but would you do me a favor? Stay, at least a little while. I’ve been lonely. I haven’t been able to talk to anyone in – seems like forever.”
Bewildered and scared, Sean burrowed into Viggo’s comforting warmth. Beyond them both, two EMTs slid the gurney into a white-and-blue ambulance and drove away, without sirens or flashing lights.
*
That was five years ago. The Mortensen house near Jim Thorpe stands abandoned and empty, and the door hasn’t opened on its own since – or maybe the kids who claimed they saw that were lying. Nobody much remembers the man who drowned in the Lehigh River; he was from out of town, a stranger, unmourned and not missed.
But there’s a bookshop in New York, tucked in the West Village, that’s a little chillier than it ought to be, even on warm days. Sometimes there are books left on the reading table when Cate, the current proprietor, knows she hasn’t moved them. Every now and then, stacks of books she’d left for the next morning have been put neatly in their appropriate places. Occasionally she fancies she hears soft laughter, jolly, almost sweet. And one early winter morning, there was a little oil painting leaning against the counter like an offering, a bright wash of red crosshatched with white, and a tiny snatch of poetry in one corner.
Cate hangs the painting behind the register. And all manner of existence is peaceful.
End.
Summary: On a dark and stormy night....
Rated: R
Categories: Actor RPS Pairing: Sean/Viggo
Warnings: NoneChallenges:
Series: NoneChapters: 1 Completed: Yes
Word count: 5490 Read: 866
Published: 01 Nov 2009 Updated: 01 Nov 2009
Story Notes:
A tale for Halloween.