A Haunted Love
By J.M. Snyder
Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords
Visit http://www.jmsnyder.net for more information.
Copyright 2010 J.M. Snyder
ISBN 978-1-45240-265-9
For more titles by J.M. Snyder at Smashwords visit https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jmsnyder
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Cover Photo Credit: Stephen Orsillo
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: J.M. Snyder
All Rights Reserved
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
NOTE: “A Haunted Love” originally appeared in the electronic anthology, Cupid’s Arrow, published by Aspen Mountain Press, and was available as a stand-alone e-book by that same publisher.
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A Haunted Love
By J.M. Snyder
It’s February. The sky darkens later now, and the days aren’t quite as short as they used to be. We already put away the candles and greenery from our ‘Christmas in the Colonies’ bit and hired a few new employees in anticipation of the field trips schools usually do in the spring.
I’m really looking forward to summertime—each year it gets hotter and hotter. I don’t know how I manage in the cotton breeches and starched shirt I wear at work, but it could be worse. I could be Angela over at the inn, with her bustle and her ten yards of fabric and her tight-ass corset. Or Thad at the capitol building in his ironed breeches and polished shoes and long-tailed coat. Or Jeremy at the smithy’s, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bent over a hot furnace all day long, hammering out horseshoes and bits of iron for the tourists.
It could be a lot worse.
Me, I’m just a stable boy. Nothing glorious, but back in Colonial America most jobs weren’t. At least I can wear my shirt open, unlaced to the middle of my chest, and I don’t have to worry about mopping the sweat off my back because I’m supposed to sweat while I work. Part of the ambiance, I guess. It makes it real.
I spend my workday carrying crates from one end of the stable to the other, brushing down the three horses we keep on site, and rattling off my spiel about how my master’s steed is the fastest in the thirteen colonies, once owned by Patrick Henry himself, and no, before you ask, it wasn’t the one he rode that fateful night.
For a small tip I can even recite the poem, though I’ve been known to hunker down beside a little girl and whisper it to her for the price of a smile as she watched me with wide eyes. The kids eat that re-enacting shit up. “Listen my children and you shall hear…” They love it.
After the sun goes down, the cobbled streets thin out as the tourists catch the bus back to the hotels. I usually sit on one of the benches in the square until the lamp lighter makes his rounds. Greg is a short fellow with a quick laugh; how he got the lighter position when he can barely reach the candle inside each street lamp beats me. In the gloaming, his footsteps echo off the stones and I’ll watch the lights flare to life one by one as he approaches.
When he gets close enough to where I sit, he’ll always say, “Hey, how you doing, kid?” Like he’s so much older than me. He can’t be forty, if that, and he has to wear a cap to cover the short, spiked hair he’s dyed an un-Colonial shade of blue. The management doesn’t like their re-enactors to be out of character.
They like my hair, long blonde unruly curls I’m itching to cut, but then I’ll be unmarketable. Who shaved all their hair off back then? I mentioned it once and my boss said I’d have to wear a powdered wig if I did. Those things are itchy and heavy and hot. and whoever heard of a stable boy wearing a powdered wig? I’d have to move up to government, so I said no thanks and kept my curls, pulling them back in a tight ponytail while I work but letting them loose the minute I’m off the clock.
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There’s a slight breeze rustling through the bare-limbed trees like a sigh. The mild winter gives us nice weather during the day, and faint pink buds already bloom on the tips of the branches like dots of icing decorating a cake. At night, the temperature drops but not much, bringing in a thick fog that clings to the buildings as if it rose from the empty cobbled streets themselves. In the stables a few yards away, the horses neigh softly and farther down the street comes Greg’s steady step, even though I can’t see his light yet.
It grows colder now the sun has set. My bones ache from another long day spent tending the horses and cleaning stables. How colonists managed to eke out a living is beyond me. I couldn’t do it if I didn’t have the luxury of a well-lit, heated apartment downtown to return to each night, or weekends away from all this. It’s hard work even if it’s only play-acting.
Slipping off my bench, I stretch out on the damp grass beneath one of the large oaks around the square. The last bus into town leaves a little before midnight, which is hours from now so I have some time to unwind a bit…folding my arms behind my head, I stare up at the sky through the fog-laced branches. The breeze breathes into my open shirt, tickling its way around my chest and hardening my nipples to make me shiver as it cools my sweat. Wisps of clouds scurry across the moon, chasing the stars. When I close my eyes, I imagine it must have felt like this hundreds of years ago—the sounds of the city don’t drift out here, so there’s no noise, no music or traffic or people to disrupt the illusion. I don’t hear anything but the leaves and the horses and Greg’s footsteps, distorted in the foggy night.
At times like this it’s so easy to pretend this really is a colony, a whole new world with the rest of history stretched out before it, all the wars and the politics and the stuff we learned in school yet to come. With my eyes shut, I feel the years peel back, layer after layer. I see myself lying on a colonial knoll, not some grass covered spot in a historical park. We haven’t explored beyond the Mississippi, haven’t discovered gold in California or oil in Alaska. We’re still British subjects, aren’t even America yet. Here on quiet nights, alone, the past melds with the now and I’m not even sure what year it is anymore. It could be the 1800’s as easily as it’s the 21st Century.
I’m not wearing a watch, but my shift ended at seven and when I closed my eyes, there was still a tinge of rosy sunlight clinging stubbornly to the horizon. If Greg has begun to light the street lamps, one of the last tasks before the colony shuts down for the night, then I guess it’s probably a little before eight o’clock. Time enough for a quick nap.
I know Greg will wake me up when he passes. He’s done it before, when I fell out after work. Marie in HR would have a fit if I stayed the night at the colony, snoozing on the bench like a homeless bum. Greg has warned me about it many times. But it’s so peaceful here after dark and suddenly I’m so damn tired, I can’t move if I try. I feel myself drift in and out of consciousness as intermittently as the breeze blowing through the leaves above me. A few minutes of shut-eye, that’s all I need. Plenty of time left to catch the last bus into town.
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I wake with a start.
It’s freezing now. As I sit up and rub the feeling back into my arms, I stare into the thick fog and listen. The branches creaking above me, the faint guttering of flame in the lights, is all I hear.
Greg must’ve already passed by then, if the lamps are lit. In the fog he didn’t even see me, so he didn’t wake me up. How long was I out? Hours probably.
The bus.
I hope I didn’t miss it. Much as I like to doze off at work, I’d hate to be forced to spend the night here. After eight even the inn closes, and the only place I have a key for is the stables. God, the last thing I want to do is lie down with the horses. I might be a re-enactor and I might take my history seriously, but I have to draw the line somewhere.
I stretch as I stand and when I walk, my shoes ring off the cobbled stones. The sound echoes through the square, off the buildings, surrounding me until it sounds as if the place is full of people, but I don’t see anyone else through the fog.
I run a hand through my damp hair and realize the temperature has dropped. It’s now much too cold for the scant clothing I wear during the day. Never would I fall asleep after my shift again. Next time I’ll just get on the bus, go back home, forget all about the colony until I’m paid to be here. Sleeping on the grass, how stupid. Like I can’t get fired for that shit.
Around me the street lamps glow like tiny suns haloed by the fog. As I pass beneath a lamp, the next one down the street suddenly materializes into sight, like a phantom trail leading the way. The bus runs right along the edge of the park, not more than twenty yards from here. Maybe I’m not too late. I wish I could see the moon—at least then I might be able to estimate the time. I wasn’t that tired. I couldn’t have slept too long.
Behind me I hear a faint step. Relief floods through me—someone else, thank God. It can’t be that late then, if there are still people in the park.
“Greg?” I whirl around, eager to see someone, anyone. If it’s Greg, then it isn’t too late at all, and even if the last bus has already come and gone, he can give me a lift.
But I don’t see anything except swirls of fog rolling through the square. Maybe I’m only imagining things. Maybe I should hurry to the stop, in case the last bus hasn’t run yet. I even turn in that direction, already heading that way, when I hear another step, a shoe on the cobbled stones and the snap of a twig beneath sudden weight.
“Greg?” This time I turn in mid-step and hurry back the way I came.
I swear I heard someone. If not Greg, maybe someone else. Didn’t Jeremy once say he worked late some nights? If it’s him, I know I can still catch the bus. He lives in the same apartment complex as me.
The street lamps bob into view like buoys on a sea of fog. I don’t realize I’m running until I see a guy passing beneath one of the lamps, walking away from me.
I stop.
It’s another re-enactor, dressed like I am. His breeches pull tight across his butt with each step he takes and his shirt billows in the breeze that scurries down the street. From the back I don’t recognize him, but at this point, who cares? He probably works at the plantation, or maybe he’s part of the tea party bunch, down on the wharf.
Wherever he works, he must have a car, right? At this hour, he has to be heading home. “Hey!” I shout.
He keeps walking as if he doesn’t hear me. As I watch, he disappears from the lamp’s light, almost as if he was never really there.
I chase after him. “Hey, wait!”
He walks through the next cone of light, hands shoved into his pockets, a thin whistle carrying from his lips through the dense fog. I sprint ahead and reach out, and for a brief instant my hand goes numb when we touch. I hadn’t realized it was so damn cold outside.
Then he turns and looks at me, pulling out of my grip. His eyes are so dark, they look like pools of shadow in the light cast down from the lamp. “Kind sir,” he starts, in that indignant manner all re-enactors have when they’re in character.
I laugh. “Jesus, am I glad to see you.”
I give him one of my brightest grins, the kind that makes girls giggle and keeps the tourists coming through my stables. “You work here, right?”
When he nods, I hurry on. “I fell asleep…stupid me, I hear you…and I don’t know what time it is. The bus leaves at midnight, the last one into town. Do you know if it’s already gone? I really don’t want to stay in the stables tonight. God, Marie will kill me if I have to sleep on site and she finds out. Are you from this colony? I haven’t seen you before.”
He stares at me with wide eyes and I laugh again, take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Did you catch any of that?”
For a moment, I think I frightened him away. I’m just so relieved to see someone else here. Now that I’ve shut up, I notice dark red hair pulled back from his face into a tight little ponytail at his nape and blue eyes so deep they’re almost black. I’ve never met anyone with eyes like his before. He can’t be much older than I am and he wears his shirt unlaced in the same manner I wear mine. He must work one of the trades then, like me. When the breeze blows the fabric against his skin, it accentuates his arms and chest.
Suddenly I find myself thinking this might be the cutest guy I’ve seen here, ever. Why couldn’t we have met up sooner? The whole winter passed and I didn’t hook up with one person, not one. All Jeremy talked about was his latest girlfriend and Thad had it bad for Angie, and Greg is too old. He’s not even all that cute, just funny and I don’t really go for funny, I go for hot.
This guy here in his tight-ass breeches and his flouncey shirt…he is hot. and he isn’t talking to me. Damn. “Look,” I try again with another disarming grin, “what time is it? Can you speak?”
“I can speak.” He takes a step back and glances down the street as if thinking he should make a run for it or maybe call for help.
But then he looks at me again, staring at my shoulder-length, unfettered curls—people love the curls—then my lips and finally into my eyes. I feel another chill like I did when I touched him, a delicious shiver that runs down my spine to stab at my groin. Damn, he has pretty eyes.
“It’s after midnight.” My heart sinks at his words. “Has been for almost an hour now.”
“Fuck,” I mutter.
He glares as if I slapped him. So he’s one of those re-enactors, the ones who take the whole stint over the edge. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job, love the whole historical bit, but I’m not fooled into thinking this is truly 18th Century America here. Some guys go all out—when they’re in costume, they are colonists. They stay in character as long as they’re dressed the part. These types even change before they get on the bus, just because it’s anachronistic.
Me, I ride the bus in full colonial garb but then again, I like the stares and the way kids point and call me Johnny Appleseed. Which I’m not, I’m a stable hand, and right now I’d give anything to be on that bus heading home.
The guy clears his throat. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I must be on my way—”
“Wait.” Before I can stop myself I touch him again. He’s the only other person here and I don’t want to be alone. “Can you give me a lift?”
“A what?” His eyes harden and he picks at my fingers, trying to pry them off his arm. “Sir, I don’t even know you. We haven’t been formally introduced—”
I laugh. This one’s cute; I like the way he insists on staying in character. Fine, I can play along. If it gets me a ride home and maybe his number before he disappears, I’m game. “Allow me to introduce myself, then.”