Spirit House Chapter 1 Revised
A very long time ago, I started a story called Spirit House. I was very excited about it. Two chapters in I hit a massive roadblock that I couldn't work my way around no matter how hard I tried, and so it's been languishing all this time in my memories without a hope of being finished.
With my muse running wild of late, I've been poking at it again, making some small revisions. I've actually gotten as far as writing the next chapter. Coincidentally, when leaving fb for a recent story the lovely, eris_raine, asked about Spirit House and whether there was any chance of more sometime in the future.
The answer, I'm pleased to say, is yes. I've decided to delete the old chapters, post the revisions, one today and one tomorrow, with the new chapter on Friday. It will be dedicated to eris_raine for being so sweet as to ask about an old favorite of mine that we've both been thinking about.
Here is a picture of the beautiful 15th century manor house Compton Wynyates that inspired Spirit House.
I know this is an old story, so please don't feel you have to make a comment, though I'm going to leave that option open, just in case there's someone who hasn't read it before, and would like to say something about it.
*deep breath* So here is Spirit House V 2.0.
Spirit House
Chapter 1
The day Liam O’Connor moved into Spirit House, he fell in love, hopelessly, irrevocably in love, the kind of love that took him over completely, until, as time passed, the only thing he could think of was the object of his desire.
It wasn’t the house, though the house was a beautiful fantasy, a hodge podge pile of rose red brick, all shades from pink to deepest wine with crenelated parapets and a forest of plain and purled chimneystacks, most of it dating from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Set at the bottom of a wide hollow strewn with ancient oaks and lilypad-covered fishponds, it stood dreaming in the late afternoon sun as Liam’s car wound its way down the graveled drive. A touch of magic seemed to hang in the air, winking from the myraid oriel and mullioned windows and swirling timelessly in the thin golden haze that drifted above its rooftops.
No, it wasn’t the house Liam fell in love with. It was a face in a painting, and it caught him completely unaware.
As he guided his small sports car expertly into the flat, paved roundabout that formed a parking area in front of Spirit House, relief surged through Liam’s tired bones. It had been a long trip from London. The mild headache that churned behind his eyes the entire way flowed out gently into the afternoon sunlight. He unfolded his stiff body from the car and stood listening with a sense of peace to the enveloping hush. Only the stirred sigh of a soft breeze ruffling through the nearby treetops broke the healing silence.
Once the house had been moated. Now, box hedges interspersed with a myriad of herbs and flowers traced the outline of its walls, while ancient ivies and climbing roses crept about the windows sills to peek inside the vacant rooms. The broad stone doorway was flanked by two potted topiaries. Above its arch, a family crest of rampant lion and opposed monkey were worn away by the passage of time-their fierce antipathy smoothed to amiable tolerance.
For several minutes, Liam stood quietly, breathing in the richly scented air, completely pleased with his decision to take the property. Spirit House was rarely on the market to let and the owner, a reclusive old gentleman, was a friend of a friend. An infusion of cash to the family coffers was required for a business undertaking and Liam had reaped the reward.
A brief, whirlwind visit a month earlier was enough to confirm its suitability for Liam’s purpose; a place of complete withdrawal where he could find the quiet necessary to finish the illustrations for his latest book and bring a modicum of sanity back to his life after a year of tumult. A man of impulse, he hadn’t paid close attention to specifics, only felt the atmosphere ease in welcome around him as he wandered from room to room.
“I want it,” he’d told the realtor in a firm voice.
The woman smiled at him beatifically. “Well done, Mr. O’Connor.”
Papers swiftly signed, check written, Spirit House was Liam’s for a period of twelve months with an option for one renewal.
The key to the house now lay snugly in Liam’s pocket. Leaving his gear jumbled in the Astin Martin’s tiny boot, he strode eagerly under the shallow portico and slotted the bit of grooved metal into its keyhole lock. The massive oak door swung open easily, revealing a mote-filled entryway of timeless charm. The sun filtered through a huge, thinly-latticed window to fall in striped pools of pale lemon on a black and white tiled floor. Worn by countless generations of feet, it glowed with a soft light all its own.
The only furniture in the hall was a pedestal table of scarred walnut with a copper bowl of roses resting placidly in its center and several burly wooden armchairs lining the walls. At the foot of the main staircase, directly opposite the front door, was a giant blue and white chinese jar full of walking sticks, umbrellas and a few tennis rackets that had most likely last seen use in the nineteen twenties.
Liam imagined a ghostly hand wedging a water-beaded umbrella into its crowded mouth as the owner took the carpeted stairs two at a time in a rush to towel off after a brisk walk in the freshness of a rainy morning. Whispers of phantom laughter still seemed to echo in the vaulted ceiling of the hall, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once, a soft reflection, drifting in the quiet air, of a long forgotten past. Liam smiled, amused by his fancy.
On the wall opposite the window, a ceiling-high painting of muscular horses and helmeted men spoke so loudly, Liam could almost hear the cry of battle and smell the harsh copper stink of spilt blood. He wondered briefly how he could have missed its presence in his visit with the agent. Swords flashed in a glint of sun sifting down through a boiling mass of gray clouds and pennants swirled on the smoky air. Arrows showered thickly from the darkened sky.
Liam’s artist’s eye traced its lines appreciatively. It was magnificent. Leaning forward, he read the burnished brass plate centered on the wide, gilt-heavy frame: Battle of Agincourt, 1415. Not being a history buff, the identification meant little to him, though he seemed to remember an ancient war fought between the English and French with an English victory.
Beginning to turn away, a face suddenly resolved itself from the chaotic melee, a face so vividly full of life it plucked the breath from Liam’s lungs and left him gaping open-mouthed at the painter’s skill. The visage was a triangular wedge of sharp bone and smoothly shadowed skin. Dark brows arched over intense blue eyes aglow with an almost unholy passion.
Liam stared, electrified for many minutes before he found himself moving closer. In a daze, he stretched his hand up to touch the canvas, but the figure hung frustratingly just out of reach. A huff of annoyance puffed past his lips. He subsided, limbs suddenly too heavy from the weight of the journey’s fatigue to make the extra effort. Taking a few shuffled steps backwards, he studied the wonderful creation entranced, before slowly turning away, glancing over his shoulder at it as he did.
Mundane matters plucked at him demanding his attention. The car needed to be unloaded, the laptop set up and calls made to assure friends he had arrived safely. Finding the kitchen and brewing himself a restorative pot of coffee was suddenly at the top of his list of priorities. He left the painting with great reluctance, remembering his way down the corridor to the left of the staircase past a series of closed doors.
Mentally ticking off pantry, kitchen, maids’ rooms and brick-floored mud room with its double sink and shelves of clay pots, Liam oriented himself. He would explore them all more thoroughly later, when the muzzy cloud of tiredness lifted from his brain. In the meantime, caffeine’s seductive song hypnotized him through a cream painted portal into a high-ceilinged space full of sunlit silence.
The kitchen was a pleasant melange of new and old. A long bank of wavy-paned windows took up almost an entire wall. Under their bright penumbra, two zinc-glazed sinks with old fashioned faucets extended into a stretch of white porcelain counter tops. Overhead, brushed steel light fixtures held neon tubing that would illuminate every corner of the room once encroaching night had curtained the glass.
State of the art appliances stood shoulder to shoulder with ancient oak cabinets that would have gladdened the heart of anyone who appreciated antiques. Here and there, on window sill and huge pine table, pots of red geraniums sang a cheerful note in the kitchen’s perfect melody. Liam only spared the captivating room the briefest of glances before setting about his search.
His friend and agent, Wesley Wyndam-Price, had promised a fully stocked larder and good as his word, the cupboards bulged with provisions suitable for an eccentric American author/illustrator: tins of stew and beans, spaghetti and hash piled high beside crinkly bags of crisp snacks. Liam felt a smile slip over his tired lips. He could almost hear Wesley grumbling crankily at his unhealthy choices. Truly Liam liked to cook, but there never seemed to be enough time to indulge himself. He was always rushing to meet one deadline or another, balking at being hurried, and making it by the very narrowest of margins.
After rummaging about for several minutes, Liam found what he was looking for in a tall cannister appropriately marked: Coffee. Scooping the gritty substance into one of the stiff paper filters he found in a drawer, he slid the pleated bowl into place and flipped on the monster of gleaming chrome that passed for a coffee maker in the mansions of the rich.
The tension-knotted muscles along his shoulders and spine began to unravel in loose, settling skeins as the machine burbled to itself, filling the bland smelling kitchen with the delicious aroma of perking coffee. Liam sighed as he breathed it in, the small glands under his jaw beginning to salivate at the prospect of a hot cup of the potent liquid. Pulling out a slat-backed chair from the table, he collapsed limply, resting his elbows on the pine surface and his head in the palms of his hands.
The unforgettable, painted face immediately came back to him, emerging from the hazy fog of battle, its colors imprinted perfectly on his inner eye. Flushed cheeks. The head cocked slightly. Slanted eyes pinning him in place, their depths a wicked blue snare. The beginning of a smile hovered over a mouth almost too feminine for the strong, masculine countenance, the bottom lip full and temptingly girlish.
The solider was bare-headed, having lost his helmet in the fray. Blonde hair, partially escaping from a twist of leather at the nape of his neck, fell across a smooth forehead in a disheveled wave. The figure was lunging over the tossing mane of his mount, sword arm extended, body a curve of violence in perfect, athletic grace. The painting was so full of energy, it was alive.
===============
The clash of steel on steel rang out in loud, clanging notes above the furious combat. Harsh air seared Liam’s nostrils. Nearby, something was burning. Roiling black smoke mixed with the scent of blood to drift over the torn valley. Liam backed up fast, stumbling a little in his rush to escape the charging horseman. The pockmarked ground seem to sway and dip like the deck of a ship beneath his feet. He staggered clumsily and went down hard on his backside, scoring his palms on the unforgiving earth. The torn flesh burnt, oozing blood around embedded bits of stone and one sharp twig that pierced the base of his thumb. The breath was sucked from his lungs in a audible gasp at the fierce stab of pain.
From Liam’s prone position, he watched two soldiers in helmets and leather breeches sweep past him, running pell mell in pursuit of what looked to be a lad barely in his teens. The fingers of the boy’s hand clutched weakly at a lethal looking longbow that trailed in the dirt behind him. The sleeve of his shirt was streaked with gore. Shouting his defiance at his pursuers, he skittered up a thickly wooded incline and disappeared from view.
A warning shout suddenly beat on Liam with the force of a fist. His head snapped up to see the horseman rearing above him, his broadsword descending in a whistling arch, teeth bared with savage malice. The attacker’s blue eyes, fierce as a predatory cat’s, scraped like sharpened steel on Liam’s skin.
Cringing, he tried to scoot over a rocky outcropping that was suddenly barring his way. Hands and feet back pedaled. His horrified gaze clung unblinking to his assailant. At the last possible instant, the sword stayed its deadly fall, the displaced air feathering hotly over Liam’s cheek. Leather creaking, the warrior leaned forward in his saddle across the stallion’s sweat-slicked neck to stare down at him.
“You’re too damn pretty to chop into bits.”
The voice was a soft incantation. Silence fell around them with the dampening perfection of snow on a cold morning, only the two of them left in the world. The words drifted clearly to Liam, seducing him to stillness-and then the man winked.
===============
Liam’s eyes blinked open at the hiss of hot liquid boiling over. With a curse, he sprang up from the table to snatch a towel and wipe clumsily at the mess. He must have dozed for a bit. His mouth felt full of sand and a loud drum roll of blood thundered in his ears.
“Fuck. What the hell was that about?”
Shocked shivers curled down his spine. God. The dream had been so real. He could smell it, feel it, practically taste it. The hairs at the back of his neck tickled up in an electrical rush.
Liam sopped up the last of the small coffee puddles with the soaked towel and tossed it into one of the sinks where it landed with a splat. Off kilter and feeling disoriented, the counter top gave him a fixed point to cling to when the kitchen did a sudden merry-go-round loop before the room clicked back into focus.
“That was just plain scary. And did I mention weird? Cos it was weird, too.”
He spoke aloud. The words had a hollow ring to them in the large, cobble-tiled room. He looked in distraction around him as though seeking someone to confirm the weirdness of it. A piece of the dream came back. One blue eye dipped again, a crinkle of amusement threading its corner as it winked.
Liam swallowed and nibbled his lip anxiously. On automatic pilot, he pulled a mug from the cupboard above the coffee maker and poured it full, managing to slop a little over the rim with the nervous twitch of his fingers, scalding himself. It barely registered. He didn’t usually dream and never anything so compellingly vivid that it actually felt real.
“He winked at me. In the dream. Why the fuck would I dream about some guy in a painting winking at me and calling me pretty?” Liam frequently talked aloud to himself, but the stillness around him made the echoing sound of his voice suddenly feel a little creepy. “Never mind. I’m just tired from the drive. On edge. Possibly scared shitless. It was a dream. Just a dream. There were no such thing as ghost or painted figures escaping from paintings.”
Intent on taking his mind off the spookiness, Liam shambled out into the hall, coffee mug in hand to bolster his flagging energy. He decided on a quick tour of the lower floor to renew his brief acquaintance with the house, not liking the idea of getting lost after dark in its many rooms, and having no idea how to find his way around.
He pulled the small, hand-drawn map from his jeans pocket the realtor had given him after he’d signed the lease, and squinted at it in the dimming afternoon light. Orienting himself within the penciled lines, Liam stated out, purposely, avoiding the main hall where the painting hung, determined to put the dream out of his head.
He hummed and wandered, first down the hallway where the kitchen lay, then along a dusty corridor that ran parallel with the back of the house. He peeked into a pantry, a large, shelved space, mostly empty except for the supplies Wesley had had delivered. There appeared to be a lot of soup. In a vast, humming freezer tucked in one corner of the narrow room, frozen sandwich bread, and paper-wrapped bundles of meat were piled next to huge buckets of various flavors of ice cream; the sustenance of life. Liam grinned and continued his exploration.
He poked his way through a covey of rooms obviously intended to house servants in times past. They were mostly unfurnished, bare mattresses and drawn curtains making them appear uninviting and remarkably sad. The mud room was a disappointment. Liam had seen Hitchcock’s Rebecca. But there were no macs hanging in the corners with initialed handkerchiefs in the pockets, or gum boots in a neat row under the benches, intended for long walks on the beach with a cocker spaniel or two at one’s heels. The company of a dog suddenly sounded remarkably consoling, a dog that was big and had a lot of sharply pointed teeth...and growled threateningly at potential intruders. Liam decided to consult the local phone book tomorrow for demon dog breeders.
The corridor to the right of the grand staircase lead to a warren of odd rooms that flowed from one to another as Liam continued to wander abstractedly in the slowly waning light. They ran from imposing to cozily charming. Finely carved wooden screens and split oak wainscoting abounded. Molded, timbered ceilings were paired with smoothly plastered walls. Over-sized sofas and worn, whimsical armchairs gave the interiors a shabby chic elegance that rightly made England’s homes famous for their eccentric beauty. Liam couldn’t help but be ridiculously pleased by it all.
Opening a door off a narrow hallway, he found a sitting room with a tile-fronted fireplace and several large bookcases painted in soft blues and creams. The walls were lined with gold framed paintings of sheep, churning streams and a few portraits, very good in their unblinking austerity. He examined them with pleasure.
Small, worn rugs lay scattered over a plush, newer carpet of slate blue. The atmosphere was cosy and welcoming. Liam decided at once to make it his headquarters. There was a desk where he could plug in his laptop, multiple outlets running along the baseboard at its clawed feet. A pair of french doors beside it opened onto a small terrace where a paint-chipped wicker table and chairs made him think of lazy afternoon lunches and maybe a quiet supper spent drinking cold beer and enjoying the vista of smooth green lawns that curved down to a shadow of darkened woods.
Having investigated enough to give himself a sense of things, Liam was eager to lay claim to his new domain by bringing his gear inside before it grew any later. He headed out to the car in the sweet smelling twilight, careful to avoid looking at the huge canvas where it hung in the entryway in its elaborate gold frame. It stood in shadows now, the little remaining light from the cathedral window not reaching it, its bright colors dulled to banked embers in the gathering gloom.
The cool evening breeze tickled the down of hair on Liam’s arms. His feet crunched on the pebbled ground as he strode purposefully to the car. It was as he leaned in to pull out his few bags that his hands abruptly shouted out their protest at the harsh useage. Heart thumping roughly in his chest, Liam opened the fans of his fingers to stare down in alarm at his heavily lacerated palms. Near the plump join of one thumb to the webbed wing of flesh that connected it to the base of his index finger, a small, ragged puncture wound oozed thick drops of blood.
Unbreathing, his mouth an open circle of astonishment, Liam stared at what couldn’t be-and was. Logic dictated one thing, his heart another. He refused to believe it! There was no reason to think the injuries he was staring at had anything to do with his dream. That was insane. It was clear he must have hurt himself somehow in the kitchen when he was napping. Maybe he’d fallen from his chair and torn his hands on the rough gray pavers that covered the old floor. Then in a kind of fugue state, climbed back up and went on with the dream. That was the only possible explanation, he assured himself. Anything else would clearly mean he was certifiably nuts.
Searching his pockets for a handkerchief, Liam bound up the wounds, choosing to ignore the tremble of his hands and feeling much better once the torn skin was no longer visible. He was obviously more worn out than he thought. How else could he imagine the injuries were anything other than a normal mishap due to his exhaustion after hours of intense driving? Once the incident was put in the proper perspective, Liam’s relief was palpable and he returned with an easy smile to his chores.
Gingerly, he humped his few bags into the house, then went back for his laptop and the over-sized black leather portfolio that held the rough illustrations for his book. He liked to work in pen and ink for the most part. His skillful drawings had often been likened to the austere art of China in reviews, simple and powerful in their minimalist beauty.
Liam set the few suitcases at the foot of the long flight of stairs to take up later, then carried his computer and portfolio through to the sitting room, setting them down on the desk. With a sigh of tiredness, he slumped into the plump embrace of the worn, brocaded sofa where needlepoint pillows sagged in limp-feathered profusion around him. His spine concertinaed into flattened bits of bone, leaving his insides tamped down as surely as the thread bare pillows.
The ache of the long drive still crawled in his vitals. Small cars and big men were a poor fit, but Liam had liked the look of the Astin and he had a stubborn streak, overriding any suggestions that bigger might be more comfortable. On top of being squeezed like a pretzel in a too small can, the effect of the coffee was beginning to wear off, no match for the exhaustion coiling its tendrils through his head or the painful throb of his hands.
Liam vaguely imagined getting up to light the carefully stacked logs in the fireplace, could see himself striking one of the long, wooden matches standing in a china cup on the mantlepiece, the flame wavering then building as he tucked it under the pyramid of kindling beneath the stout pile of logs. That was as far as his thoughts would take him. Staring into the unlit hearth, Liam’s mind ricocheted back to what he had been trying to avoid thinking about since he’d taken his brief tour of the house. and then brought in his bags, averting his eyes primly from the object of his fascination.
It was no use denying it. The sleekly beautiful man in the painting had wound himself up in Liam’s head and the dream had only made it worse. The tug of the attraction was so strong, it was painful. He huffed at his patheticness; fantasizing over a bit of canvas and paint like a schoolboy with a rock magazine.
But, it wasn’t as though he had anyone else to occupy his thoughts. Liam’s relationships over the past year had crumbled from lack of attention-on his part. He had his work to sustain him. It took all of his creativity and most of his time and that was by choice. Yet, he had to admit, he’d been lonely now and again and except for a few clandestine encounters at dance clubs, he’d been celibate as well.
Sighing, he let his eyes slip shut. There was a sense of movement to his right, near the partially opened french doors, a shadow drifting at the edge of his vision that made him feel slightly dizzy when he tried to look at it. He breathed out, a slow exhalation of weariness that whispered between his teeth as he tipped sideways onto the cushions. Then he was asleep.
===============
“You’ve come back,” Liam whispered.
The face turned to Liam, smiling a soft, confident kind of smile. William crouched down beside where Liam lay on the sofa. Their heads were close, almost brushing together. If he tried, Liam could reach out and tangle his fingers in the thick blonde waves. He signed happily, thinking how wonderful William smelled, his skin heated and spicy, something deeply masculine that made Liam’s pulse pound.
“You called me, luv. Couldn’t help but come. And you’re hurt.”
He took Liam’s large hand in his slightly smaller one, turning it over, gently unwrapping the torn bits of cloth with a delicate touch. His fingers left sparks of electricity in their wake.
“Always get too caught up in it,” William apologized. “Think after so many years, I’d have it more under control. But you were so bloody strong. Just pushed yourself in-then pulled me right out.”
There was a low hum of white noise in Liam’s ears. He blinked as the lines of William’s body wavered. “This is a dream,” Liam said, disappointed..
His voice sounded distant, echoing, not like his normal voice at all. William stared at him, the expression on his face clearly showing his shock at Liam’s stupidity.
“Course it is, Liam. Don’t be thick.”
Liam wondered abruptly how he knew the dream’s name and it knew his. He shook his head petulantly. “I don’t get it. What are you doing here? You belong in the painting. Right? You’re not real at all. Are you a ghost, or....”
“And you call yourself an artist.” William let go of Liam’s hand and bounced impatiently to his feet. “He caught us, all of us, in the painting, didn’t he. Made it real. Took our essence and mixed it in with the colors somehow. Fuck. I don’t know. But I’m here. Trapped inside that sodding bit of canvas unless somebody really sees me-the way you did. You dragged me out of the dark, pet. Now you’re stuck with me until you get tired of it all and everything snaps back.” William cocked his head. “Too much for you?”
He stood up suddenly to wander away from where Liam lay, examining the room interestedly, picking up bits and pieces of bric-a-brac and setting them down again while peeking at Liam over his shoulder to see how he was taking the revelation. Liam only stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. William went on talking to cover up his nervousness.
“Understand what I’m sayin’? It’s you giving me reality. S’happened before. Nice to have a change now and then. Get out and stretch my legs.”
“No. I....ahhh,” Liam licked his lips. They tasted of coffee and his own confusion. “Something’s not right.”
William plowed on as though he hadn’t spoken. Long, elegant fingers threaded through a skein of blonde hair, pushing it impatiently away from his eyes.
“Can’t say the old pile’s changed much since the last time I was on the loose. Think that was in the twenties. Twins with the sight. Learned a few things then, I can tell you.” He smirked at Liam. “And a bloody cart load of new curses. Fuck off, tosser. How’s that one? Can’t go ‘round say God’s blood every two minutes now, can I?”
He turned decisively, coming back to Liam. A sliver of silver from the rising moon shone through the glassed doors illuminating his hair with highlights of glowing white. Just for an instance, he was a moving painting, not flesh and blood at all. Shivers danced over Liam’s backbone at the unnatural sight.
“Umm...that’s great. Yeah. Now I think I need to go back to sleep. I’m having a crises or something here. Maybe a nervous breakdown. Shoo.”
“Shoo? What am I, a dog?”
Laughing, the painted man was at Liam’s side in an instant, helping him to shift his legs off the cushions and pulling him upright, where he tottered unsteadily. A rain of small pillows tumbled about Liam’s feet. He kicked at them ineffectually while gripping a sleekly curved biceps. The man certainly felt real, his flesh warm and firm under Liam’s hand despite the thin covering of his linen shirt separating their skin. So close, Liam could see a pale blonde stubble shadowing the line of his jaw and smell the rich aroma of male perspiration overlain with a pungent apple scent. It all felt achingly familiar.
“Let’s get you up to bed then, pet.” The words tickled into the shell of Liam’s ear, sending warm shudders feathering over the hair on his arms. “You’ll feel better for a good night’s sleep, and we can talk in the morning. If you want to.”
Liam nodded, drooping with fatigue, feeling as though he were floating somewhere high above his body. It really was an amazing dream. He took a deep breath, which only succeeded in making him dizzier, and allowed himself to be led from the room.
=====================
The too bright flare of the rising sun on his face woke Liam from a deep, restful slumber. Lifting his head from its indented cradle, he stared around him with one squinted eye, tasting sleep heavy at the back of his throat and on his tongue. The bed around him looked bigger than a battleship, the rumpled blankets spreading out in a sea of dark blue waves. At least, it felt that large from Liam’s perspective; flat on his back with a pillow half covering his face.
Needle-point curtains, thick with flower and insects hung slightly agape at the window, allowing the fingered intrusion of golden light that had prodded Liam from unconsciousness. He shifted up in the bed, pillows clumping behind him to support his shoulders. The room was beautiful, but unfamiliar. Liam couldn’t remember how he had gotten there.
His last clear memory involved bringing in the luggage and taking his laptop to the sitting room-then blue eyes, so close he could see speckles of stormy gray and sapphire mixed in their depths. That couldn’t be right. He was alone at Spirit House. There were no blue eyes, no eyes of any color but his own brown. He scratched perplexedly at his flattened hair, continuing to look around.
Across from where he lay, beside the bedroom door, his suitcases sat quietly on the rush-matted flooring. Liam’s forehead furrowed in a massive frown as he tried to picture himself bringing them up from below, opening doors and choosing a room. But, he couldn’t. Though for being unconscious when he did it, he was very happy with his selection.
The ever-present fireplace this time was faced with dark wood, evoking the specter of the house’s ancient past. The rush matting and wheat colored curtains lightened what would otherwise have been a very dark room, the deep blues and forest greens lush against the brighter background.
The fire was unlit and looking down Liam realized abruptly, he wasn’t wearing his pajamas. He didn’t remember getting naked, but he was. His skin pebbled in cold little bumps of protest at the chilly development. Rubbing his arms to stir up circulation, Liam flung back the bedclothes and crawled out of his warm nest, feeling mildly embarrassed to be prancing about a strange house in the all together.
His suitcases, after a fumble-fingered search, yielded fresh underwear, a clean pair of jeans and a navy sweater that he pulled on hastily, not being able to squash the spooky sensation he was being watched. After pushing his feet into a pair of old slip-on sneakers, he clomped loudly down the main staircase, relieved to leave the feeling of watchful eyes behind him.
He sang at the top of his voice, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream,” at the top of his lungs, feeling the better for it. In fact, feeling like a new man with a new beginning before him. “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily.....”
His stomach began to growl hungrily in anticipation of breakfast. His usual of toast, coffee and a bowl of cold cereal held no allure. Instead, bouncing into the kitchen, he pulled open the massive refrigerator and found boxes of speckled brown eggs next to butcher-wrapped sausages and rashers of bacon. In the vegetable drawer, tomatoes and onions made him smile at Wesley’s hopeful determination to feed him up healthily. On such a glorious morning, Liam would allow the man his small victory.
Feeling happily domestic, Liam scoured the cupboards for frying pans and sharp knives to chop the vegetables into bite size wedges. Soon a tomato and green onion omelet was bubbling cheerfully over a gas burner while Liam forked the bacon and sausages, browning the fat-sputtering meat to perfect crispness.
While the coffee reheated, he stood at the long bank of windows, hungrily consuming his breakfast, suddenly too full of nervous energy to sit at table like a civilized man, shoving the hot food down in quick, ravenous bites. Outside, a thousand shades of green flooded the landscape, tempting Liam to scrap his strict work schedule and spend the morning exploring the estate.
Finished with his food, he clattered the dirty dishes into the sink, squirting a suds of rainbow-colored bubbles from a plastic bottle into the gush of warm water and left the whole mess to soak. It wasn’t a morning for washing dishes.
Spirit House was proving a serious distraction where work was concerned. Mellowed by his satisfying feast, Liam wandered back down the hall into the huge entryway, knowing full well the painting had been swirling at the back of his mind since he woke up. Standing beneath it in the clean, sunlit space, he found the picture as mesmerizing as the first time he saw it. The details slowly resolved themself around the main figure; the beauty astride his enormous charger.
In the far right foreground, two soldiers chased a boy. They had been in Liam’s dream, but he wasn’t aware of having actually registered them before. His subconscious must have plucked them out, a dramatic counterpoint to the main tableaux. The men looked rough and dangerous beside the boy’s supple figure, his face awash with a mixture of terror and innocent courage.
Spoils of war, an oddly familiar voice murmured in Liam’s head. He couldn’t place it, but the husky tone was as stirring as worn velvet brushed over his bare skin. They’ll catch him and fuck him into the mud. Poor little bugger, the voice whispered.
Liam’s eyes flicked to the main subject, studying the pale face, with its lowered lashes casting sooty lines on the concave curve of high-boned cheeks. He could have sworn the glint of blue eyes had been visible yesterday, but he must be wrong. Everything about the figure flowed downward towards his fallen foe; man, horse, sword, in sweeping, sensuous lines of power.
Only a hair’s breath from death, the prone man’s face was much fuzzier than the sharply delineated features above it. A shock of dark hair and broad shoulders were a blur of movement smudged in thick splashes of paint. Liam puzzled over a hand thrown up as though to stay the blade’s lethal fall, not quite remembering that detail either. But then, he had been fixated on the rider’s face, so it wasn’t surprising.
“Bloody right you were.”
The words were spoken so close to him that Liam felt the fan of breath stirring in the short hairs at the curve of his ear. His head whipped around, tendons popping. He swallowed audibly, stepping away from the apparition.
“Said we’d talk in the morning.
With my muse running wild of late, I've been poking at it again, making some small revisions. I've actually gotten as far as writing the next chapter. Coincidentally, when leaving fb for a recent story the lovely, eris_raine, asked about Spirit House and whether there was any chance of more sometime in the future.
The answer, I'm pleased to say, is yes. I've decided to delete the old chapters, post the revisions, one today and one tomorrow, with the new chapter on Friday. It will be dedicated to eris_raine for being so sweet as to ask about an old favorite of mine that we've both been thinking about.
Here is a picture of the beautiful 15th century manor house Compton Wynyates that inspired Spirit House.
I know this is an old story, so please don't feel you have to make a comment, though I'm going to leave that option open, just in case there's someone who hasn't read it before, and would like to say something about it.
*deep breath* So here is Spirit House V 2.0.
Spirit House
Chapter 1
The day Liam O’Connor moved into Spirit House, he fell in love, hopelessly, irrevocably in love, the kind of love that took him over completely, until, as time passed, the only thing he could think of was the object of his desire.
It wasn’t the house, though the house was a beautiful fantasy, a hodge podge pile of rose red brick, all shades from pink to deepest wine with crenelated parapets and a forest of plain and purled chimneystacks, most of it dating from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Set at the bottom of a wide hollow strewn with ancient oaks and lilypad-covered fishponds, it stood dreaming in the late afternoon sun as Liam’s car wound its way down the graveled drive. A touch of magic seemed to hang in the air, winking from the myraid oriel and mullioned windows and swirling timelessly in the thin golden haze that drifted above its rooftops.
No, it wasn’t the house Liam fell in love with. It was a face in a painting, and it caught him completely unaware.
As he guided his small sports car expertly into the flat, paved roundabout that formed a parking area in front of Spirit House, relief surged through Liam’s tired bones. It had been a long trip from London. The mild headache that churned behind his eyes the entire way flowed out gently into the afternoon sunlight. He unfolded his stiff body from the car and stood listening with a sense of peace to the enveloping hush. Only the stirred sigh of a soft breeze ruffling through the nearby treetops broke the healing silence.
Once the house had been moated. Now, box hedges interspersed with a myriad of herbs and flowers traced the outline of its walls, while ancient ivies and climbing roses crept about the windows sills to peek inside the vacant rooms. The broad stone doorway was flanked by two potted topiaries. Above its arch, a family crest of rampant lion and opposed monkey were worn away by the passage of time-their fierce antipathy smoothed to amiable tolerance.
For several minutes, Liam stood quietly, breathing in the richly scented air, completely pleased with his decision to take the property. Spirit House was rarely on the market to let and the owner, a reclusive old gentleman, was a friend of a friend. An infusion of cash to the family coffers was required for a business undertaking and Liam had reaped the reward.
A brief, whirlwind visit a month earlier was enough to confirm its suitability for Liam’s purpose; a place of complete withdrawal where he could find the quiet necessary to finish the illustrations for his latest book and bring a modicum of sanity back to his life after a year of tumult. A man of impulse, he hadn’t paid close attention to specifics, only felt the atmosphere ease in welcome around him as he wandered from room to room.
“I want it,” he’d told the realtor in a firm voice.
The woman smiled at him beatifically. “Well done, Mr. O’Connor.”
Papers swiftly signed, check written, Spirit House was Liam’s for a period of twelve months with an option for one renewal.
The key to the house now lay snugly in Liam’s pocket. Leaving his gear jumbled in the Astin Martin’s tiny boot, he strode eagerly under the shallow portico and slotted the bit of grooved metal into its keyhole lock. The massive oak door swung open easily, revealing a mote-filled entryway of timeless charm. The sun filtered through a huge, thinly-latticed window to fall in striped pools of pale lemon on a black and white tiled floor. Worn by countless generations of feet, it glowed with a soft light all its own.
The only furniture in the hall was a pedestal table of scarred walnut with a copper bowl of roses resting placidly in its center and several burly wooden armchairs lining the walls. At the foot of the main staircase, directly opposite the front door, was a giant blue and white chinese jar full of walking sticks, umbrellas and a few tennis rackets that had most likely last seen use in the nineteen twenties.
Liam imagined a ghostly hand wedging a water-beaded umbrella into its crowded mouth as the owner took the carpeted stairs two at a time in a rush to towel off after a brisk walk in the freshness of a rainy morning. Whispers of phantom laughter still seemed to echo in the vaulted ceiling of the hall, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once, a soft reflection, drifting in the quiet air, of a long forgotten past. Liam smiled, amused by his fancy.
On the wall opposite the window, a ceiling-high painting of muscular horses and helmeted men spoke so loudly, Liam could almost hear the cry of battle and smell the harsh copper stink of spilt blood. He wondered briefly how he could have missed its presence in his visit with the agent. Swords flashed in a glint of sun sifting down through a boiling mass of gray clouds and pennants swirled on the smoky air. Arrows showered thickly from the darkened sky.
Liam’s artist’s eye traced its lines appreciatively. It was magnificent. Leaning forward, he read the burnished brass plate centered on the wide, gilt-heavy frame: Battle of Agincourt, 1415. Not being a history buff, the identification meant little to him, though he seemed to remember an ancient war fought between the English and French with an English victory.
Beginning to turn away, a face suddenly resolved itself from the chaotic melee, a face so vividly full of life it plucked the breath from Liam’s lungs and left him gaping open-mouthed at the painter’s skill. The visage was a triangular wedge of sharp bone and smoothly shadowed skin. Dark brows arched over intense blue eyes aglow with an almost unholy passion.
Liam stared, electrified for many minutes before he found himself moving closer. In a daze, he stretched his hand up to touch the canvas, but the figure hung frustratingly just out of reach. A huff of annoyance puffed past his lips. He subsided, limbs suddenly too heavy from the weight of the journey’s fatigue to make the extra effort. Taking a few shuffled steps backwards, he studied the wonderful creation entranced, before slowly turning away, glancing over his shoulder at it as he did.
Mundane matters plucked at him demanding his attention. The car needed to be unloaded, the laptop set up and calls made to assure friends he had arrived safely. Finding the kitchen and brewing himself a restorative pot of coffee was suddenly at the top of his list of priorities. He left the painting with great reluctance, remembering his way down the corridor to the left of the staircase past a series of closed doors.
Mentally ticking off pantry, kitchen, maids’ rooms and brick-floored mud room with its double sink and shelves of clay pots, Liam oriented himself. He would explore them all more thoroughly later, when the muzzy cloud of tiredness lifted from his brain. In the meantime, caffeine’s seductive song hypnotized him through a cream painted portal into a high-ceilinged space full of sunlit silence.
The kitchen was a pleasant melange of new and old. A long bank of wavy-paned windows took up almost an entire wall. Under their bright penumbra, two zinc-glazed sinks with old fashioned faucets extended into a stretch of white porcelain counter tops. Overhead, brushed steel light fixtures held neon tubing that would illuminate every corner of the room once encroaching night had curtained the glass.
State of the art appliances stood shoulder to shoulder with ancient oak cabinets that would have gladdened the heart of anyone who appreciated antiques. Here and there, on window sill and huge pine table, pots of red geraniums sang a cheerful note in the kitchen’s perfect melody. Liam only spared the captivating room the briefest of glances before setting about his search.
His friend and agent, Wesley Wyndam-Price, had promised a fully stocked larder and good as his word, the cupboards bulged with provisions suitable for an eccentric American author/illustrator: tins of stew and beans, spaghetti and hash piled high beside crinkly bags of crisp snacks. Liam felt a smile slip over his tired lips. He could almost hear Wesley grumbling crankily at his unhealthy choices. Truly Liam liked to cook, but there never seemed to be enough time to indulge himself. He was always rushing to meet one deadline or another, balking at being hurried, and making it by the very narrowest of margins.
After rummaging about for several minutes, Liam found what he was looking for in a tall cannister appropriately marked: Coffee. Scooping the gritty substance into one of the stiff paper filters he found in a drawer, he slid the pleated bowl into place and flipped on the monster of gleaming chrome that passed for a coffee maker in the mansions of the rich.
The tension-knotted muscles along his shoulders and spine began to unravel in loose, settling skeins as the machine burbled to itself, filling the bland smelling kitchen with the delicious aroma of perking coffee. Liam sighed as he breathed it in, the small glands under his jaw beginning to salivate at the prospect of a hot cup of the potent liquid. Pulling out a slat-backed chair from the table, he collapsed limply, resting his elbows on the pine surface and his head in the palms of his hands.
The unforgettable, painted face immediately came back to him, emerging from the hazy fog of battle, its colors imprinted perfectly on his inner eye. Flushed cheeks. The head cocked slightly. Slanted eyes pinning him in place, their depths a wicked blue snare. The beginning of a smile hovered over a mouth almost too feminine for the strong, masculine countenance, the bottom lip full and temptingly girlish.
The solider was bare-headed, having lost his helmet in the fray. Blonde hair, partially escaping from a twist of leather at the nape of his neck, fell across a smooth forehead in a disheveled wave. The figure was lunging over the tossing mane of his mount, sword arm extended, body a curve of violence in perfect, athletic grace. The painting was so full of energy, it was alive.
===============
The clash of steel on steel rang out in loud, clanging notes above the furious combat. Harsh air seared Liam’s nostrils. Nearby, something was burning. Roiling black smoke mixed with the scent of blood to drift over the torn valley. Liam backed up fast, stumbling a little in his rush to escape the charging horseman. The pockmarked ground seem to sway and dip like the deck of a ship beneath his feet. He staggered clumsily and went down hard on his backside, scoring his palms on the unforgiving earth. The torn flesh burnt, oozing blood around embedded bits of stone and one sharp twig that pierced the base of his thumb. The breath was sucked from his lungs in a audible gasp at the fierce stab of pain.
From Liam’s prone position, he watched two soldiers in helmets and leather breeches sweep past him, running pell mell in pursuit of what looked to be a lad barely in his teens. The fingers of the boy’s hand clutched weakly at a lethal looking longbow that trailed in the dirt behind him. The sleeve of his shirt was streaked with gore. Shouting his defiance at his pursuers, he skittered up a thickly wooded incline and disappeared from view.
A warning shout suddenly beat on Liam with the force of a fist. His head snapped up to see the horseman rearing above him, his broadsword descending in a whistling arch, teeth bared with savage malice. The attacker’s blue eyes, fierce as a predatory cat’s, scraped like sharpened steel on Liam’s skin.
Cringing, he tried to scoot over a rocky outcropping that was suddenly barring his way. Hands and feet back pedaled. His horrified gaze clung unblinking to his assailant. At the last possible instant, the sword stayed its deadly fall, the displaced air feathering hotly over Liam’s cheek. Leather creaking, the warrior leaned forward in his saddle across the stallion’s sweat-slicked neck to stare down at him.
“You’re too damn pretty to chop into bits.”
The voice was a soft incantation. Silence fell around them with the dampening perfection of snow on a cold morning, only the two of them left in the world. The words drifted clearly to Liam, seducing him to stillness-and then the man winked.
===============
Liam’s eyes blinked open at the hiss of hot liquid boiling over. With a curse, he sprang up from the table to snatch a towel and wipe clumsily at the mess. He must have dozed for a bit. His mouth felt full of sand and a loud drum roll of blood thundered in his ears.
“Fuck. What the hell was that about?”
Shocked shivers curled down his spine. God. The dream had been so real. He could smell it, feel it, practically taste it. The hairs at the back of his neck tickled up in an electrical rush.
Liam sopped up the last of the small coffee puddles with the soaked towel and tossed it into one of the sinks where it landed with a splat. Off kilter and feeling disoriented, the counter top gave him a fixed point to cling to when the kitchen did a sudden merry-go-round loop before the room clicked back into focus.
“That was just plain scary. And did I mention weird? Cos it was weird, too.”
He spoke aloud. The words had a hollow ring to them in the large, cobble-tiled room. He looked in distraction around him as though seeking someone to confirm the weirdness of it. A piece of the dream came back. One blue eye dipped again, a crinkle of amusement threading its corner as it winked.
Liam swallowed and nibbled his lip anxiously. On automatic pilot, he pulled a mug from the cupboard above the coffee maker and poured it full, managing to slop a little over the rim with the nervous twitch of his fingers, scalding himself. It barely registered. He didn’t usually dream and never anything so compellingly vivid that it actually felt real.
“He winked at me. In the dream. Why the fuck would I dream about some guy in a painting winking at me and calling me pretty?” Liam frequently talked aloud to himself, but the stillness around him made the echoing sound of his voice suddenly feel a little creepy. “Never mind. I’m just tired from the drive. On edge. Possibly scared shitless. It was a dream. Just a dream. There were no such thing as ghost or painted figures escaping from paintings.”
Intent on taking his mind off the spookiness, Liam shambled out into the hall, coffee mug in hand to bolster his flagging energy. He decided on a quick tour of the lower floor to renew his brief acquaintance with the house, not liking the idea of getting lost after dark in its many rooms, and having no idea how to find his way around.
He pulled the small, hand-drawn map from his jeans pocket the realtor had given him after he’d signed the lease, and squinted at it in the dimming afternoon light. Orienting himself within the penciled lines, Liam stated out, purposely, avoiding the main hall where the painting hung, determined to put the dream out of his head.
He hummed and wandered, first down the hallway where the kitchen lay, then along a dusty corridor that ran parallel with the back of the house. He peeked into a pantry, a large, shelved space, mostly empty except for the supplies Wesley had had delivered. There appeared to be a lot of soup. In a vast, humming freezer tucked in one corner of the narrow room, frozen sandwich bread, and paper-wrapped bundles of meat were piled next to huge buckets of various flavors of ice cream; the sustenance of life. Liam grinned and continued his exploration.
He poked his way through a covey of rooms obviously intended to house servants in times past. They were mostly unfurnished, bare mattresses and drawn curtains making them appear uninviting and remarkably sad. The mud room was a disappointment. Liam had seen Hitchcock’s Rebecca. But there were no macs hanging in the corners with initialed handkerchiefs in the pockets, or gum boots in a neat row under the benches, intended for long walks on the beach with a cocker spaniel or two at one’s heels. The company of a dog suddenly sounded remarkably consoling, a dog that was big and had a lot of sharply pointed teeth...and growled threateningly at potential intruders. Liam decided to consult the local phone book tomorrow for demon dog breeders.
The corridor to the right of the grand staircase lead to a warren of odd rooms that flowed from one to another as Liam continued to wander abstractedly in the slowly waning light. They ran from imposing to cozily charming. Finely carved wooden screens and split oak wainscoting abounded. Molded, timbered ceilings were paired with smoothly plastered walls. Over-sized sofas and worn, whimsical armchairs gave the interiors a shabby chic elegance that rightly made England’s homes famous for their eccentric beauty. Liam couldn’t help but be ridiculously pleased by it all.
Opening a door off a narrow hallway, he found a sitting room with a tile-fronted fireplace and several large bookcases painted in soft blues and creams. The walls were lined with gold framed paintings of sheep, churning streams and a few portraits, very good in their unblinking austerity. He examined them with pleasure.
Small, worn rugs lay scattered over a plush, newer carpet of slate blue. The atmosphere was cosy and welcoming. Liam decided at once to make it his headquarters. There was a desk where he could plug in his laptop, multiple outlets running along the baseboard at its clawed feet. A pair of french doors beside it opened onto a small terrace where a paint-chipped wicker table and chairs made him think of lazy afternoon lunches and maybe a quiet supper spent drinking cold beer and enjoying the vista of smooth green lawns that curved down to a shadow of darkened woods.
Having investigated enough to give himself a sense of things, Liam was eager to lay claim to his new domain by bringing his gear inside before it grew any later. He headed out to the car in the sweet smelling twilight, careful to avoid looking at the huge canvas where it hung in the entryway in its elaborate gold frame. It stood in shadows now, the little remaining light from the cathedral window not reaching it, its bright colors dulled to banked embers in the gathering gloom.
The cool evening breeze tickled the down of hair on Liam’s arms. His feet crunched on the pebbled ground as he strode purposefully to the car. It was as he leaned in to pull out his few bags that his hands abruptly shouted out their protest at the harsh useage. Heart thumping roughly in his chest, Liam opened the fans of his fingers to stare down in alarm at his heavily lacerated palms. Near the plump join of one thumb to the webbed wing of flesh that connected it to the base of his index finger, a small, ragged puncture wound oozed thick drops of blood.
Unbreathing, his mouth an open circle of astonishment, Liam stared at what couldn’t be-and was. Logic dictated one thing, his heart another. He refused to believe it! There was no reason to think the injuries he was staring at had anything to do with his dream. That was insane. It was clear he must have hurt himself somehow in the kitchen when he was napping. Maybe he’d fallen from his chair and torn his hands on the rough gray pavers that covered the old floor. Then in a kind of fugue state, climbed back up and went on with the dream. That was the only possible explanation, he assured himself. Anything else would clearly mean he was certifiably nuts.
Searching his pockets for a handkerchief, Liam bound up the wounds, choosing to ignore the tremble of his hands and feeling much better once the torn skin was no longer visible. He was obviously more worn out than he thought. How else could he imagine the injuries were anything other than a normal mishap due to his exhaustion after hours of intense driving? Once the incident was put in the proper perspective, Liam’s relief was palpable and he returned with an easy smile to his chores.
Gingerly, he humped his few bags into the house, then went back for his laptop and the over-sized black leather portfolio that held the rough illustrations for his book. He liked to work in pen and ink for the most part. His skillful drawings had often been likened to the austere art of China in reviews, simple and powerful in their minimalist beauty.
Liam set the few suitcases at the foot of the long flight of stairs to take up later, then carried his computer and portfolio through to the sitting room, setting them down on the desk. With a sigh of tiredness, he slumped into the plump embrace of the worn, brocaded sofa where needlepoint pillows sagged in limp-feathered profusion around him. His spine concertinaed into flattened bits of bone, leaving his insides tamped down as surely as the thread bare pillows.
The ache of the long drive still crawled in his vitals. Small cars and big men were a poor fit, but Liam had liked the look of the Astin and he had a stubborn streak, overriding any suggestions that bigger might be more comfortable. On top of being squeezed like a pretzel in a too small can, the effect of the coffee was beginning to wear off, no match for the exhaustion coiling its tendrils through his head or the painful throb of his hands.
Liam vaguely imagined getting up to light the carefully stacked logs in the fireplace, could see himself striking one of the long, wooden matches standing in a china cup on the mantlepiece, the flame wavering then building as he tucked it under the pyramid of kindling beneath the stout pile of logs. That was as far as his thoughts would take him. Staring into the unlit hearth, Liam’s mind ricocheted back to what he had been trying to avoid thinking about since he’d taken his brief tour of the house. and then brought in his bags, averting his eyes primly from the object of his fascination.
It was no use denying it. The sleekly beautiful man in the painting had wound himself up in Liam’s head and the dream had only made it worse. The tug of the attraction was so strong, it was painful. He huffed at his patheticness; fantasizing over a bit of canvas and paint like a schoolboy with a rock magazine.
But, it wasn’t as though he had anyone else to occupy his thoughts. Liam’s relationships over the past year had crumbled from lack of attention-on his part. He had his work to sustain him. It took all of his creativity and most of his time and that was by choice. Yet, he had to admit, he’d been lonely now and again and except for a few clandestine encounters at dance clubs, he’d been celibate as well.
Sighing, he let his eyes slip shut. There was a sense of movement to his right, near the partially opened french doors, a shadow drifting at the edge of his vision that made him feel slightly dizzy when he tried to look at it. He breathed out, a slow exhalation of weariness that whispered between his teeth as he tipped sideways onto the cushions. Then he was asleep.
===============
“You’ve come back,” Liam whispered.
The face turned to Liam, smiling a soft, confident kind of smile. William crouched down beside where Liam lay on the sofa. Their heads were close, almost brushing together. If he tried, Liam could reach out and tangle his fingers in the thick blonde waves. He signed happily, thinking how wonderful William smelled, his skin heated and spicy, something deeply masculine that made Liam’s pulse pound.
“You called me, luv. Couldn’t help but come. And you’re hurt.”
He took Liam’s large hand in his slightly smaller one, turning it over, gently unwrapping the torn bits of cloth with a delicate touch. His fingers left sparks of electricity in their wake.
“Always get too caught up in it,” William apologized. “Think after so many years, I’d have it more under control. But you were so bloody strong. Just pushed yourself in-then pulled me right out.”
There was a low hum of white noise in Liam’s ears. He blinked as the lines of William’s body wavered. “This is a dream,” Liam said, disappointed..
His voice sounded distant, echoing, not like his normal voice at all. William stared at him, the expression on his face clearly showing his shock at Liam’s stupidity.
“Course it is, Liam. Don’t be thick.”
Liam wondered abruptly how he knew the dream’s name and it knew his. He shook his head petulantly. “I don’t get it. What are you doing here? You belong in the painting. Right? You’re not real at all. Are you a ghost, or....”
“And you call yourself an artist.” William let go of Liam’s hand and bounced impatiently to his feet. “He caught us, all of us, in the painting, didn’t he. Made it real. Took our essence and mixed it in with the colors somehow. Fuck. I don’t know. But I’m here. Trapped inside that sodding bit of canvas unless somebody really sees me-the way you did. You dragged me out of the dark, pet. Now you’re stuck with me until you get tired of it all and everything snaps back.” William cocked his head. “Too much for you?”
He stood up suddenly to wander away from where Liam lay, examining the room interestedly, picking up bits and pieces of bric-a-brac and setting them down again while peeking at Liam over his shoulder to see how he was taking the revelation. Liam only stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. William went on talking to cover up his nervousness.
“Understand what I’m sayin’? It’s you giving me reality. S’happened before. Nice to have a change now and then. Get out and stretch my legs.”
“No. I....ahhh,” Liam licked his lips. They tasted of coffee and his own confusion. “Something’s not right.”
William plowed on as though he hadn’t spoken. Long, elegant fingers threaded through a skein of blonde hair, pushing it impatiently away from his eyes.
“Can’t say the old pile’s changed much since the last time I was on the loose. Think that was in the twenties. Twins with the sight. Learned a few things then, I can tell you.” He smirked at Liam. “And a bloody cart load of new curses. Fuck off, tosser. How’s that one? Can’t go ‘round say God’s blood every two minutes now, can I?”
He turned decisively, coming back to Liam. A sliver of silver from the rising moon shone through the glassed doors illuminating his hair with highlights of glowing white. Just for an instance, he was a moving painting, not flesh and blood at all. Shivers danced over Liam’s backbone at the unnatural sight.
“Umm...that’s great. Yeah. Now I think I need to go back to sleep. I’m having a crises or something here. Maybe a nervous breakdown. Shoo.”
“Shoo? What am I, a dog?”
Laughing, the painted man was at Liam’s side in an instant, helping him to shift his legs off the cushions and pulling him upright, where he tottered unsteadily. A rain of small pillows tumbled about Liam’s feet. He kicked at them ineffectually while gripping a sleekly curved biceps. The man certainly felt real, his flesh warm and firm under Liam’s hand despite the thin covering of his linen shirt separating their skin. So close, Liam could see a pale blonde stubble shadowing the line of his jaw and smell the rich aroma of male perspiration overlain with a pungent apple scent. It all felt achingly familiar.
“Let’s get you up to bed then, pet.” The words tickled into the shell of Liam’s ear, sending warm shudders feathering over the hair on his arms. “You’ll feel better for a good night’s sleep, and we can talk in the morning. If you want to.”
Liam nodded, drooping with fatigue, feeling as though he were floating somewhere high above his body. It really was an amazing dream. He took a deep breath, which only succeeded in making him dizzier, and allowed himself to be led from the room.
=====================
The too bright flare of the rising sun on his face woke Liam from a deep, restful slumber. Lifting his head from its indented cradle, he stared around him with one squinted eye, tasting sleep heavy at the back of his throat and on his tongue. The bed around him looked bigger than a battleship, the rumpled blankets spreading out in a sea of dark blue waves. At least, it felt that large from Liam’s perspective; flat on his back with a pillow half covering his face.
Needle-point curtains, thick with flower and insects hung slightly agape at the window, allowing the fingered intrusion of golden light that had prodded Liam from unconsciousness. He shifted up in the bed, pillows clumping behind him to support his shoulders. The room was beautiful, but unfamiliar. Liam couldn’t remember how he had gotten there.
His last clear memory involved bringing in the luggage and taking his laptop to the sitting room-then blue eyes, so close he could see speckles of stormy gray and sapphire mixed in their depths. That couldn’t be right. He was alone at Spirit House. There were no blue eyes, no eyes of any color but his own brown. He scratched perplexedly at his flattened hair, continuing to look around.
Across from where he lay, beside the bedroom door, his suitcases sat quietly on the rush-matted flooring. Liam’s forehead furrowed in a massive frown as he tried to picture himself bringing them up from below, opening doors and choosing a room. But, he couldn’t. Though for being unconscious when he did it, he was very happy with his selection.
The ever-present fireplace this time was faced with dark wood, evoking the specter of the house’s ancient past. The rush matting and wheat colored curtains lightened what would otherwise have been a very dark room, the deep blues and forest greens lush against the brighter background.
The fire was unlit and looking down Liam realized abruptly, he wasn’t wearing his pajamas. He didn’t remember getting naked, but he was. His skin pebbled in cold little bumps of protest at the chilly development. Rubbing his arms to stir up circulation, Liam flung back the bedclothes and crawled out of his warm nest, feeling mildly embarrassed to be prancing about a strange house in the all together.
His suitcases, after a fumble-fingered search, yielded fresh underwear, a clean pair of jeans and a navy sweater that he pulled on hastily, not being able to squash the spooky sensation he was being watched. After pushing his feet into a pair of old slip-on sneakers, he clomped loudly down the main staircase, relieved to leave the feeling of watchful eyes behind him.
He sang at the top of his voice, “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream,” at the top of his lungs, feeling the better for it. In fact, feeling like a new man with a new beginning before him. “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily.....”
His stomach began to growl hungrily in anticipation of breakfast. His usual of toast, coffee and a bowl of cold cereal held no allure. Instead, bouncing into the kitchen, he pulled open the massive refrigerator and found boxes of speckled brown eggs next to butcher-wrapped sausages and rashers of bacon. In the vegetable drawer, tomatoes and onions made him smile at Wesley’s hopeful determination to feed him up healthily. On such a glorious morning, Liam would allow the man his small victory.
Feeling happily domestic, Liam scoured the cupboards for frying pans and sharp knives to chop the vegetables into bite size wedges. Soon a tomato and green onion omelet was bubbling cheerfully over a gas burner while Liam forked the bacon and sausages, browning the fat-sputtering meat to perfect crispness.
While the coffee reheated, he stood at the long bank of windows, hungrily consuming his breakfast, suddenly too full of nervous energy to sit at table like a civilized man, shoving the hot food down in quick, ravenous bites. Outside, a thousand shades of green flooded the landscape, tempting Liam to scrap his strict work schedule and spend the morning exploring the estate.
Finished with his food, he clattered the dirty dishes into the sink, squirting a suds of rainbow-colored bubbles from a plastic bottle into the gush of warm water and left the whole mess to soak. It wasn’t a morning for washing dishes.
Spirit House was proving a serious distraction where work was concerned. Mellowed by his satisfying feast, Liam wandered back down the hall into the huge entryway, knowing full well the painting had been swirling at the back of his mind since he woke up. Standing beneath it in the clean, sunlit space, he found the picture as mesmerizing as the first time he saw it. The details slowly resolved themself around the main figure; the beauty astride his enormous charger.
In the far right foreground, two soldiers chased a boy. They had been in Liam’s dream, but he wasn’t aware of having actually registered them before. His subconscious must have plucked them out, a dramatic counterpoint to the main tableaux. The men looked rough and dangerous beside the boy’s supple figure, his face awash with a mixture of terror and innocent courage.
Spoils of war, an oddly familiar voice murmured in Liam’s head. He couldn’t place it, but the husky tone was as stirring as worn velvet brushed over his bare skin. They’ll catch him and fuck him into the mud. Poor little bugger, the voice whispered.
Liam’s eyes flicked to the main subject, studying the pale face, with its lowered lashes casting sooty lines on the concave curve of high-boned cheeks. He could have sworn the glint of blue eyes had been visible yesterday, but he must be wrong. Everything about the figure flowed downward towards his fallen foe; man, horse, sword, in sweeping, sensuous lines of power.
Only a hair’s breath from death, the prone man’s face was much fuzzier than the sharply delineated features above it. A shock of dark hair and broad shoulders were a blur of movement smudged in thick splashes of paint. Liam puzzled over a hand thrown up as though to stay the blade’s lethal fall, not quite remembering that detail either. But then, he had been fixated on the rider’s face, so it wasn’t surprising.
“Bloody right you were.”
The words were spoken so close to him that Liam felt the fan of breath stirring in the short hairs at the curve of his ear. His head whipped around, tendons popping. He swallowed audibly, stepping away from the apparition.
“Said we’d talk in the morning.