The Man in Black: A Gothic Romance (Crookshollow Ghosts)

by Steffanie Holmes

  It took me a few moments to realise the rhythm was Elinor’s heartbeat.

  I stepped forward, my hand shifting against hers, her fingers dancing inside mine. I pressed my other hand against her back, my palm sinking into her flesh. If I were alive at this moment, I would push Elinor against my body, and relish the warmth of her, the shape of her, against me. But I couldn’t do that, so instead I folded myself in closer to her. The front of my jacket brushed against her chest, sending waves of pulsing heat through my whole torso.

  “This is amazing,” Elinor breathed, her bow-shaped lips parting slightly. I didn’t trust myself to reply, so I smiled back at her. I started to sway, pushing my right hip forward, moving the warmth through her leg. Elinor sensed the movement through her skin, and she moved backward, turning her body with me. I stepped again, and again we slid across the floor, our bodies sweeping and dipping with the music.

  With my next step, I pushed myself closer, bowing my head slightly, so that my face hovered inches above hers. My eyes locked on those bow lips, ripe and delicious like the first berries of spring. I could feel my spectral cock straining against my boxers, ready for action. God, I want this woman—

  “I like the music,” Elinor said. Her voice wavered. She sounded nervous. I wondered if she was speaking because she sensed what I wanted to do, and she was trying to fill the space between us, to stop me from doing something I couldn’t take back.

  “Mmmm,” I shifted my fingers in her hand. The heat flickered, thrumming through my body with a quickened pace. She was nervous. Interesting.

  “I love the … distortion. The way it crackles right through my whole body.” Elinor breathed. “It’s almost as if the music is mirroring the sensation when we touch.”

  “This piece is originally written by the composer Niccolò Paganini, a Greek violinist in the early nineteenth century.” I murmured. If she wanted to talk, I could at least impress her. “He was known for making liberal use of the diabolus en musica, the devil’s tritone, which creates that haunting dissonance you hear in the piece. Of course, Paganini’s composition has been sped up and updated, and accompanied by the electric guitar, bass guitar, double bass, and drums, it’s quite the feat of modern gothic rock.”

  “Who is playing the violin in this piece?” Elinor asked, her lips barely moving, struggling to form the words.

  “I am, on Isolde. Ghost Symphony is my band.”

  “Eric …” Elinor’s face turned up to me.

  I leaned closer, I could practically taste the sweetness of those berry-red lips, feel the warmth of her mouth against mine. The air between us crackled with electricity. Elinor shifted her weight against mine, falling into me as she leaned forward, her lips pursed, waiting.

  I brushed my lips against hers. It was like no other kiss I’d ever experienced before. The heat leapt through my body, twisting from my mouth right through my core. I felt as though I’d swallowed a hot coal, and though it burned me deeply, it was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. I leaned forward, my weightless body pressed against hers, my lips parting to devour her heat as our bodies hummed with pulsing energy.

  Elinor wrenched her body away from me. The spell broke. The heat fled my body, leaving me devoid, weightless and without sensation. It was like being torn from a moving vehicle and sent spiralling into the air. At least, that was how I imagined it felt. I still couldn’t remember my accident.

  Elinor crashed against the desk, knocking the iPod onto the floor. My violin solo cut off in mid-arpeggio as the player skidded across the rug and crashed into the hearth. The screen flickered and went black.

  She was breathing heavily, and she stared at a spot past my shoulder. I noticed that her body was shaking. She gripped the desk with both hands, her knuckles white.

  “What’s wrong?” I took a step toward her, but she shook her head vigorously, her brown hair fanning about her face. Her glasses had slipped down her nose. She looked like she was about to burst into tears.

  “I can’t do it,” Elinor whispered. “I’m sorry, Eric. I just can’t.”

  I saw tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. I stepped back, holding up my hands in mock surrender. Was this because of me? Had I really scared her this much?

  “Elinor? What’s wrong?”

  Elinor looked like she was about to say something, but instead she just shook her head, turned on her heel, and fled the room. Her heels clacked as she raced up the stairs, and the door to my bedroom slammed shut, shuddering through the house.

  I hung my head, watching the patterns on the old rug fade in and out of focus. I couldn’t believe things had gone so terribly, so quickly. What had I done wrong?

  Elinor

  He’s dead.

  I flung myself down on the bed and buried my face in the pillow. The memory of Eric’s kiss still burned on my mouth. I closed my eyes, but all I could see in my mind was him leaning in, his lips brushing mine, softly at first, but then deeper. His face wasn’t against mine, it was partially inside it. In that moment he had become part of me, his body falling into mine so that we were one. The feeling was indescribable. My whole body still tingled from the shock of his touch. No kiss had ever felt like that before ...

  He’s dead. He’s dead. He just kissed me, and he’s dead.

  It was as if I was caught in some tragic gothic novel all of my own. And I’d done it to myself. Damn my loneliness and desperation. Eric was infuriating, and cocky, and rich and famous and freakin’ gorgeous, and completely out of my league, which made him exactly my type. I could feel myself starting to like him, really like him. And I liked working with him on the mystery of his death, putting my brain to work on something other than trust agreements. And I especially liked the way he looked at me when I made that phone call to the ticketing agency …

  But Eric was dead. I had to remember that. The very reason I was helping him find his murderer instead of doing my actual work was so that he could cross over and get to wherever dead people are supposed to get to, which was not into my arms. Eric was a fucking ghost—I couldn’t even touch him, not really. How would we even …

  My cheeks flushed as my mind conjured up an image of Eric’s naked body and flashed it across my vision.

  No. I clamped my hands over my eyes. What was I turning into? Who was this girl who went all weak-kneed for a man she’d just met? A man who wasn’t even fucking corporeal? I can’t even touch him, and the worst part of all … one day I would have to say goodbye to him. We don’t have a chance to have a life together, because he’s already had his life. He’s gone, and I can’t care about him, or else I’m going to get hurt. I’m going to fade away, just like last time …

  No. I couldn’t think about that. Not now. I needed to stay strong. Somehow, I was going to have to go down and face Eric, tell him that I would help him figure out what happened to him, but that was the sum-total of my role in his afterlife. I would apologise if I’d given him the impression that there could be something between us, but from now on he needed to keep his distance from me.

  I rolled over and pulled my blanket over my head. Any minute now … I’ll get up and go downstairs and talk to him. Any minute … just as soon as I’ve sorted out these horrible butterflies flitting around in my stomach ...

  “Elinor?” Eric called. I peeked around the edge of my blanket, but I couldn’t see him in the room anywhere. His voice sounded muffled. He was respecting the locked door, and staying in the hall. I was grateful he was such a gentleman. I didn’t want him to see my eyes all puffy and my hair all rumpled. I had some standards.

  “Go away,” I cried.

  “I’m sorry. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have been so forward.”

  I said nothing. I didn’t want to admit that I had no problem with him being forward. I just didn’t like him being dead.

  “Elinor …” Eric’s voice was pleading. He sounded really distressed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Yes. I want to very much. “I want you to leave
me alone, please.”

  Eric didn’t reply. I listened hard, but couldn’t hear anything. It was one of the problems of living with a ghost. You couldn’t tell if he’d gone away or not.

  After a few minutes of silence, I felt certain Eric had left. I pulled my glasses off and buried my face in my pillow again. This time the tears came, thick and fast, great rivers of sticky, salty water running down my cheeks. I cried for Eric, who had lost his life well before his time, and I cried for Joel, because I hadn’t allowed myself to think of him for a few weeks, and I was definitely thinking about him now. And I cried for myself, because I had finally found the perfect man, a man who actually liked me, a man who matched me and excited me, and that had seemed so impossible after Joel … but I couldn’t be with him, because he was dead.

  Everyone I fall for dies.

  Eric

  You idiot. You complete and utter Neanderthal.

  Listening to Elinor cry through the door was too much. I had upset her so terribly, and I felt like the world's biggest arsehole. Head pounding with frustration, I left Elinor sobbing on the bed and floated into my mother’s room. I wanted to slam the door, but of course, my hand went right through the doorknob as if it weren’t there at all. I settled for balling my hands into fists and slamming my head repeatedly against the wall, which wasn’t nearly as satisfying as it sounds since my head would go right through the wall and into the cavity behind. The mouse that had made a nest in amongst the insulation stared at me with wide, frightened eyes every time I popped through into his domain.

  You idiot. I chastised myself. You pushed her. You always push. It’s what you always do to the people you care about. You push and you push them until they leave you forever. And now she doesn’t want anything to do with you.

  Elinor had been nothing but kind to me, visiting the site of my car crash and getting that list of names from the ticket agency. And instead of thanking her sincerely, I’d pushed myself on her like a … like a … brute. Disgusting.

  I couldn’t seem to help myself around her. She was so … tantalising. And clever. Ever since my career had taken off I had been surrounded by women willing to whip their clothes off in a moment in order to be with me. And that was certainly welcome. But there hadn’t been a single one that challenged me intellectually. Until her.

  She’s read Hoffman. How many women have you met who’ve read Hoffman? The answer was zero.

  I had to remember that a girl like Elinor wouldn’t get starstruck. She was much too sensible for that. She needed time to know me and trust me before she was ready to go to bed with me. Or whatever the spectral equivalent of sex was.

  I had to be patient. That’s OK, I could do that. I’ll give her some time to calm down. When she emerges later, I’ll apologise, and we’ll start over. And I will keep my ghostly urges to myself for now.

  I hope.

  Elinor

  One of the downsides of being the only living person in Marshell House was that even though you’re upset and the only thing you want to do is hide in your room forever and not face the incredibly sexy ghost downstairs, eventually your stomach starts growling and you need to get something to eat.

  It was well past dinnertime when I finally gave in to the rumbling in my stomach and decided to venture downstairs. I splashed some cold water on my face, wiping away the sticky residue of my tears. I took off my corporate clothes and pulled on my largest sweater and most unflattering pair of jeans. I didn’t want to give Eric any ideas if I could help it.

  Cautiously, I opened the door to my room and peered out. There was no one—dead or otherwise—in the hall. I stepped out, my foot making a loud creak as it fell on the floorboards. I tiptoed across the landing and looked over the balustrade into the entrance hall below. Nothing. No sign of Eric anywhere.

  Maybe I could get to the food without having to talk to him. Maybe he was sleeping somewhere. Do ghosts sleep? I hadn’t even asked him about that. I had so many questions that still remained unanswered, questions I couldn’t ask now, because of the kiss. I leapt down the stairs as quickly as I could, and dashed through the receiving room into the kitchen.

  I skidded to a stop. Eric was sitting at the kitchen table. Well, not sitting so much as hovering in a rough approximation of where the chair was located. His black clothing looked so out of place amongst all the flowers and cat ornaments. He gave me a friendly, lopsided grin.

  “Hi,” I said, waving nervously.

  “Hi,” he replied, his eyes warm. How did he look so relaxed, so collected? Obviously the incident before hadn’t affected him that much, after all. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He must have hundreds of girls queuing up to be with him. In fact, there were probably hundreds of freaky goth girls out there who would love to get funky with Eric the Ghost. He didn’t need me, even when he was dead.

  “What are you doing?” I leaned against the door frame, not sure what to do. I hadn’t expected to see him sitting there.

  “Oh,” Eric stared glumly at a cup on the table in front of him. I recognised it as a cup I’d filled with water earlier, when I’d wanted a drink. But I’d only finished half of it. “I wanted to bring you a cup of hot tea, because you were upset, and tea always seems necessary when one is upset.”

  “That’s sweet.” My heart skipped a beat. Maybe I was wrong about the freaky goth girls.

  “But of course I forgot that I can’t just turn the kettle on. I read in a book once about ghosts being able to manipulate temperatures, so I thought I’d try to make tea like that. I’ve been staring at this water for nearly an hour and nothing has happened.”

  I eased myself into the chair opposite him. “It was a nice thought, anyway. Which book was that?”

  Eric grinned. “Tales from the Crypt.”

  “I used to read those, too.” I grinned. “They had lots of comics in my high school library. I had to hide them from my parents, though. I have an old hardcover copy of Great Expectations I brought at a junk shop that I hollowed out so I could hide them inside. To this day my parents still believe Charles Dickens is my favourite author.”

  “I think we would’ve got on very well in high school,” said Eric.

  “Eric, I’m sorry for running away.”

  “It’s OK. I understand.”

  “I’m not sure that you do.”

  “I was too forward. I ruined a perfectly pleasant moment.”

  “No … you didn’t ruin anything. But you and I, we can’t make something more out of this than what it is. I’m helping you so that the mystery of your death can be solved and your spirit will be able to rest, but I can’t … it can’t be anything more than that.” I grabbed the cup of cold water and gulped it back, just to have something to do with my shaking hand. “I can’t get attached to you, knowing that you’re going to leave me. You’re dead, Eric, and I’m just not strong enough to have a tryst with a dead guy.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back. Eric stared at me, his eyes wide and wounded. He looked miserable. “I understand.” he said, softly. “But you should know, if things were different, Elinor, I—”

  I shook my head. “Don’t do that. If things were different, we never would have met. And I might never have discovered how much I like the violin.”

  Eric’s face brightened. “You enjoyed the song?”

  “Very much so, it was beautiful. It actually evoked feeling, unlike the kind of music I usually listen to, which is just kind of a distraction. I hope you’ll play me some more later.”

  “I will.” Eric nodded vigorously. I dared a smile. It seemed as if we’d reached a truce of sorts. Although now that I had told him we had no chance together, and he seemed as if he would respect that, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. I had been right all along—Eric must not have wanted me that badly, after all. He didn’t really feel what I felt. He was just an oversexed rock star who’s been cooped up inside with no women for days. I was the best he’d got and he was desper
ate to get off. It looked as if I had dodged a bullet by avoiding him.

  I made myself some dinner—pasta with pesto and a mountain of parmesan cheese, and a few pieces of crusty garlic bread warmed up in that ridiculous gas oven—and took it into the study. Eric hovered over a chair by the window, his feet stretched out in front of him and his arms behind his head.

  “Doesn’t that get uncomfortable?” I asked him, pointing my fork at his legs.

  “I don’t have muscles anymore, so they can’t get cramped,” he said. “Do you want to play a game?”

  “Huh?” I balanced my plate on my lap and ran a slice of garlic bread through the sauce, sopping up a glob of cheesy goodness.

  Eric pointed to the chessboard set out on the coffee table beside him. It was covered by a thick layer of dust. “I thought we could play,” he said.

  “How are you going to play against me?”

  “Simple. I’ll tell you where to move my pieces, and you can put them in place.”

  “I don’t know …” I looked over at my open laptop. I had intended to do some more work, to make up for what I’d missed today. And I was hoping to call Cindy before she went out for the night, get an update on Operation Shag Damon. After meeting Eric, Damon didn’t seem like that much of a catch anymore, but he had one important thing going for him: he was alive.

  “Come on, Elinor. You’re stuck in this house with me for two weeks, at least. You might as well take advantage of my company. It’s either play this with me, or spend hours texting your friend who’s having all that fun in London without you.”

  I looked over at the stack of paperwork beside my laptop, and my phone sitting on top, then back at Eric, then back at the papers again. “OK. Sure.”

  Eric looked surprised, as if he didn’t really expect me to say yes. I got up from my chair, and plopped down in the seat opposite him, placing my bowl on the small table beside me. I stuffed a huge mouthful of pasta into my mouth, and indicated that he should move first.