Title: I'm Here
Fandom: Donald Strachey Mysteries (movieverse)
Pairing: Donald and Timothy
Rating: NC-17 

Word Count: 20,453
References/Spoilers/Notes: Some references to the movies. No huge spoilers. All locations in Albany are fictional.
Disclosure: I wish they were mine. Alas, they are not, so I'm just taking them out for a spin with thanks to the men who created them and the actors who brought them to life.
Summary: When unexplained disturbances at a former funeral home threaten a neighborhood renewal project, Timothy asks Donald to investigate.

*************************************************

I'M HERE

by

Candy Apple

That late fall chill was in the air, and a multicolored blanket of leaves covered lawns and sidewalks alike. Tim knew that one of these fine Saturdays, he and Don would have to grab their rakes and deal with the mess, but for now, it was beautiful just the way it was. As he was backing out of the driveway on the way to work, his cell phone rang.

"Tim Callahan," he replied, uplifted by the sight of a swirl of autumn leaves carried on the brisk fall breeze.

"Tim, this is Chuck Beyers. I bought the big Filmore Drive place."

"Yes, of course, Chuck, I remember you. How are the renovations going?" he asked, smiling. His most recent community relations project involved encouraging area investors and businesses to renovate and revitalize a neighborhood that was at risk of falling into disrepair and crime. His success with it had brought a lot of good press to Senator Platt's re-election campaign, since neighborhood renewal and local crime prevention were two of her key priorities. Chuck Beyers had purchased a large, red brick, three-storey Georgian style house on two lots that had stood vacant since the funeral home that it had previously housed closed its doors.

"I'm having some issues with the property," he said.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Tim replied, frowning. While standing vacant for almost ten years had left a number of repairs necessary, it was his understanding that the building was structurally sound. Beyers planned on converting it into offices, since the rejuvenation of the neighborhood had gone successfully enough to make it one of the hot new areas for office space and trendy apartments. "Are you having problems with permits?"

"This is going to sound insane, but we've had a number of...disturbances here. I've had contractors walk off the job and refuse to come back...even a prospective tenant scared off. Did you have any indication of this kind of problem when you encouraged me to buy this place?"

"I don't understand, Chuck. What kind of disturbances?" Tim frowned, puzzled.

"People are hearing voices, footsteps...my decorator said she saw the figure of a man on the stairs when she was supposedly alone in the house. Needless to say, she quit, too."

"You think the placed is haunted?" Tim asked, his focus split between the call and the morning traffic.

"Oh, I'm beyond thinking. I have some footage I'd like you to see. I've had two teams of paranormal investigators in this place, and they captured some very...unsettling things on their cameras and recorders."

"Chuck, I never would have encouraged you to buy a property that wouldn't serve your purposes well, even to advance the rejuvenation of the Filmore Street area. I never heard anything negative about the building or the grounds, beyond the challenges you uncovered during the inspections. I'm very sorry if you feel there have been some kind of...supernatural events going on there, but I'm not sure what you think I can do about that."

"I'm on my way there now. I'd like you to meet me there, so you can see and hear some samples of what we're dealing with. I have a portable DVD player with me to show it to you."

"I'm on my way into the office. Perhaps we could meet for lunch and talk about this - "

"This place is the crown jewel of your neighborhood renewal project. If I go to the media with this - "

"Then you won't have much luck leasing office space, will you?" Tim retorted, annoyed at being threatened with the media. "Look, Chuck, we're on the same side with this. Before we lose sight of that, let's just slow down and look at this logically. It's an old house, there are a lot of repairs being done...there could be some very real reasons for hearing things - "

"I don't believe in ghosts, either, but it's kind of hard to stick with that idea when you've heard a disembodied voice that sounded like it was in the room with you, and heard footsteps when you were alone in the place."

"Okay, I'll meet you over there in about fifteen minutes. I'm sure there's some way to debunk all this, and I'll be happy to do whatever I can to help," he said, knowing that having the whole neighborhood project collapse a month before the elections wasn't in the senator's best interest. More so than that, he'd personally encouraged Chuck Beyers to purchase that property after meeting him at a Chamber of Commerce event and hearing his plans to convert an historic building with great architecture into exceptional office spaces. He felt he owed the man at least his time and attention.

"I've got a lot of money riding on this. It's making me a little edgy."

"I can understand that. Given the house's history, don't you think it's possible that some of this is just odd occurrences and imagination blending together - "

"Just see what I have to show you, and then tell me if you don't think there's something going on here."

When Tim arrived at the property, Chuck's car was already parked out front. The man himself was pacing in the circle drive outside the impressive structure, smoking a cigarette, looking at his watch. A stout, balding man in his fifties with a raspy voice, dressed in a somewhat ill-fitting brown suit, he reminded Tim of a slightly larger Danny DeVito.

The property itself was ripe with potential. Mature trees sent a myriad of brightly colored leaves to the ground. The large circle drive provided an impressive entrance, and there was sufficient parking behind the house to accommodate several office suites. Chuck hadn't been put off by the building's past, even when he'd faced the task of disposing of cobweb strewn embalming equipment.

"Good morning, Chuck," Tim greeted, trying to sound more upbeat than he felt, extending his hand, which Chuck shook.

"I've got the DVD player set up inside," he said, stomping out his cigarette and jerking a thumb toward the house.

"Well, let's have a look at it then," Tim said, following him inside. The impressive entry was nearly restored to its former splendor, the wall removed that had hidden the winding open staircase to what was the funeral home owner's living quarters. There were drop cloths, ladders, tarps, paint cans, and all the usual signs of ongoing renovations. The chandelier made the one in Don's and Tim's first house look minimalist. "It's really taking shape, Chuck. This is going to be a real high-end office space."

"Yeah, if it didn't already come with tenants of its own." He led the way into what had been one of the visitation rooms. There was a folding table set up there with the DVD player on it, and two folding chairs. A bit dismayed at sitting on the dusty chair in his dark suit, Tim brushed at the seat as discretely as possible before being seated. "Now this is footage from the staircase," Chuck said, hitting the play button.

Tim watched the small screen, and then leaned forward, squinting. There was definitely an odd, filmy shadow on the stairs, though he couldn't really say it looked exactly like a man.

"Did they eliminate all the other possibilities for this?" he asked. "Shadows, camera issues - "

"These guys are experts. They've got their own reality show."

"And that, of course, makes them experts? Do these people have credentials? Are they affiliated with any sort of...institution or university?"

"That isn't normal. You don't need some fancy degree to know that." He turned off the video. "But just to satisfy your need for credentials, this CD came from a bunch of researchers from NYU." He took the DVD out of the player and replaced it with the CD.

There were some normal sounding voices, then silence, and then a gravely, unpleasant sounding male voice.

I'm here.

"Well, that was certainly creepy sounding, but what kind of proof did they offer that it was genuine?"

"I've heard that voice, when I was here alone, after one of the contractors I was meeting with, left. And it's the same kind of voice some of the contractors have reported hearing. There's something going on in this place."

"Even assuming there is something...unexplained going on here, what do you want me to do about it?"

"I don't know, but I bought this place because you talked me into it, and now I'm stuck with Albany's answer to Hell House."

"First of all, you've shown me a shadowy blob on a DVD and a raspy voice that could be anyone on a CD. Most of these...paranormal investigators do have something to gain by finding something when they investigate. And as for me talking you into this, you're a businessman, Chuck. I showed you an opportunity I believed had great potential, and you agreed, and here we are. I didn't talk you into anything. I still believe this place has great potential. It's a beautiful building with historic charm, and it will make remarkable office suite space."

"With ghosts on the stairs and...and...demonic voices."

"Okay, okay, let's just think about this a moment," Tim said. "We both know there has to be a logical explanation for all this." Tim paused, chewing his lip a moment, and thought of the most logical person he knew, who also happened to be about the best investigator there was. "My partner is a private investigator," he said. "Let me run this all by him, get his input, see if he has an idea of how we can look into this properly."

"I've had investigators looking into it."

"Donald is a private investigator, not a ghost hunter. He'll know what to do, how to figure out a logical way to look into what's going on here. And if he needs to bring in experts, he'll do that, too."

"For some big fat fee per hour, no doubt."

"I can't speak for Don and what he'll charge, but I'm sure if he takes the case as a favor to me, he'll be more than fair with you on the price."

"It oughtta be free, since you got me into this."

"Let's get one thing straight, Chuck." Tim stood, tired of Chuck's accusations and implied threats. "You made a business deal. So far, you haven't shown me one concrete way in which you didn't get exactly what you paid for. I didn't misrepresent anything, and I didn't make any money on the deal. I wasn't the owner, nor was I your real estate agent. If you go after me in the media, you're going to destroy your own investment in the bargain. I don't owe you anything, but I do care about your investment in this neighborhood renewal project, and I care about your success as a one of our constituents. Donald is probably the sharpest man I've ever met, and if anyone can untangle this, he can. I don't know what he'll do about his fee, but whatever he charges you, you'll get your money's worth. He takes his clients and his cases very seriously. I want to help you, Chuck, but we've got to get this blaming and strong-arming out of the way, because I've heard enough."

Chuck stared at him a moment, looking a little surprised, but then he nodded.

"You have a business card for your boyfriend?" he asked. Tim took one of Don's cards out of his wallet and handed it to him.

"I'll talk to him this morning, fill him in on what you've told me, and tell him to expect your call."

"All right. Look, I'm sorry if I came on strong. I've got a lot of money tied up in this project, and it's falling apart a little at a time. I can't keep contractors, and once the word gets out, I won't get tenants, either."

"I understand. This isn't good for any of us. This building is truthfully the crown jewel of this whole neighborhood renewal. I promise you, we'll do whatever we can to help." He shook hands with Chuck again. They walked out of the house, and Chuck locked the door behind them.

"I'm putting the renovations on hold until something gives. Honestly, I don't wanna be in that place anymore than I have to."

"We'll get to the bottom of this. If anyone can figure out what's really going on here, it's Don."

********

After Tim finished telling Don about the Filmore Street property and Chuck Beyers' dilemma, there was a long pause.

"Jinkies! A haunted house! I'll just fire up the Mystery Machine, grab Scooby, and get right on it!"

"Very funny," Tim replied, irritated.

"Oh, come on, Timothy. You call me two weeks before Halloween to suggest I investigate a haunted funeral home? What did you think I was gonna say?" he mumbled through a mouthful of something. Tim figured it was a handful of candy corn from the bowl on his desk. Despite Kenny's propensity for healthy organic food, he and Don shared one raging Halloween season addiction - candy corn. So not only did Don love eating it, he had an enabler who brought in a new bag every time the bowls on their desks were looking sparse.

"How much candy corn is that already this morning?" Tim needled. Touche.

"It's a whole grain bagel. Kenny brought them in."

"You gilded the lily, Donald. You should have just said, 'it's a bagel', and I might have bought it. It's a good thing you're a better liar undercover. Look, you met Chuck at that investors' reception I hosted a couple months ago. Did he strike you as the type to flee in terror over a couple unexplained noises? Something's going on there. He showed me a DVD and played me a voice recording - "

"I remember him. Danny DeVito in a bad suit."

"I couldn't really see anything concrete on the DVD, but it looked like a shadow or...mass of some sort on the stairs. And Don, the voice recording? Hollywood couldn't come up with something that unsettling."

"Hollywood probably did, honey. It's some kind of a hoax. Either he's pulling it on you, or someone's pulling it on him, or you're both pulling it on me," he added, and Tim knew now he was joking.

"I told him you'd look into it, that you're the best investigator I know."

"I'm the only investigator you know," he retorted, chuckling.

"Okay, but you're still the best."

"Now who's gilding the lily to get what he wants?"

"If you take his case, I'll put a special goody in your trick-or-treat bag tonight."

"Really? Like what?"

"I'll give you a hint. You can suck on it but it's not a lollipop."

"Keep talking like that and I'll throw a bed sheet over my head and go haunt his house myself."

"Just talk to him and go look the place over. That's all I'm asking."

"Anything for you, beautiful," he replied, and while his voice was light with a note of humor, Tim felt all warm and happy inside at the words, because he knew they were true.

"I love you," Tim said, missing his partner. Don had been out all night doing surveillance work, and he had a long day ahead of him. "Think you'll be home tonight?"

"I'm sure gonna try. Kenny's chomping at the bit to do some night work, so I just might grant his wish. I'll try to be home for a late dinner. And I'll bring my trick-or-treat bag."

"Want me to bring you some lunch to absorb some of the sugar?" Tim asked, and Don laughed.

"I wish I could, but I have to meet a prospective client for lunch, and I have to work in good old Chuck and his haunted house sometime. Which suit are you wearing?" Don asked.

"My dark blue one. I have to fill in for the Senator at a building dedication this morning, so I'm in what you like to call my funeral director outfit."

"Are you wearing that new cologne I got you last weekend?" he asked.

"Yes, how did you know that?"

"I didn't, I was just kind of hoping."

"You're not doing what I think you're doing, are you?" he asked in a whisper, glancing toward his open office door. Anything risque he'd said, he'd whispered.

"What do you think I'm doing?" Don asked, but his voice sounded decidedly different. "Shit, Timmy, you make me so hot."

"Where is Kenny?"

"Running errands."

"Is your front door locked?"

"That's half the fun. God, I bet you smell good."

"Donald!"

"Yeah, I've been a bad boy. What're you gonna do about it?"

"If you want to make time for lunch, I could come over there and do that for you...with my mouth," he whispered.

"Oh, shit, fuck...Oh, God...Ahhh..." Then everything was momentarily silent except for some labored breathing.

"Donald?"

"I'm still here. God, that was good. Now I need a nap."

"You probably do anyway, honey. You're not getting enough sleep."

"What I really need is you over here rubbing my back like you do when I can't sleep."

"I would love to be there rubbing your beautiful back right now, baby."

"Timothy?"

"What, honey?"

"I miss you."

"I miss you, too," he replied, smiling again. "I love you."

"Could you do lunch about one?"

"I can swing that. It actually works better for me, because that building dedication is probably going to run into lunch hour. What about Chuck?"

"He's not invited."

"I meant when are you going to talk to him."

"I'll fit it in somehow."

"You better get yourself back together before you get a visitor."

"I will. You know that when I jerk off, I always think about you."

"I'm not sure why that's so romantic, but it is," Tim responded, blushing a little. The thought that Donald was faithful even in his fantasies made him feel special. Of course, he wasn't prone to fantasizing about other men, either. None of them ever quite measured up to Donald. "Me, too," he added, and he could almost hear Don smiling over the phone. "I'll bring sandwiches, and you can send Kenny out on more errands."

"See you at one, sweetheart." There was a long pause. "You jerk off?"

"Not very often. My partner keeps me satisfied."

"'Cause I'd hate to have you do something alone that I could help you with."

"Goodbye, Donald."

"See ya, honey." The connection was broken, but Tim sat there for a few seconds, holding the phone, still grinning.

********

Tim kissed Don's neck again, enjoying having him lovingly pinned against the couch cushions. The throw really wasn't big enough to comfortably cover two of them, but pressing together enough to make it work was that much more fun. Their clothes were happily mingled in a pile on the floor, and their naked bodies were generating enough heat to make the throw optional. Tim rocked gently inside Don, but his thrusts were deep enough to keep his partner moaning and moving under him. Their climax was intense in its pleasure and closeness, and they lay there for long moments in the afterglow, Tim spooned around Don.

"Was that better than the fantasy?" Tim asked, kissing one of Don's perfect ears he found so cute and irresistible when they were cuddled up like this.

"Always is," he replied, turning his head so they could manage a kiss.

"You seem so sleepy, honey. Why don't you postpone whatever's going on this afternoon and let me take you home and tuck you in?"

"If all goes well, I'll be home tonight. My boyfriend gives me these amazing back rubs that put me right under. Don't know what I'd do without him," he added, his voice a little husky.

"Fortunately, you don't have to worry about that," Tim replied, running his hand affectionately over Don's shoulder, kissing it. Don tried to roll over and Tim tried to accommodate the movement, and found himself on the floor next to the couch.

"Are you okay?" Don asked, but he was already laughing.

"I think the biggest bruise is on my pride."

"Tell you what," Don said, backing up against the back of the couch as much as he could so Tim could get back on it with him. "I'll spend a lot of time tonight kissing your pride and making it better," he said, patting Timmy's butt as they wrapped around each other and settled in for some kissing while they still had time.

"Did you get the case? At lunch hour?"

"Oh, yeah, I did," Don said, kissing Tim again, and again, and once more for good measure.

"What was it?"

"Who cares?" He wrapped his arms more tightly around Timmy and really kissed him this time, with lots of tongue, his hands roaming over Timmy's back and down to cup his cheeks.

Tim gave as good as he got, his hand straying down to cup Donald's balls, fingers teasing the soft skin of his perineum.

"Right there is good," Don managed, hooking one leg up on Tim's to give him better access.

"You like that, do you?" Tim teased, sliding down, kneeling by the couch and taking Donald's growing erection in his mouth, still massaging his balls, still teasing that little sweet spot the way he liked it. Donald couldn't stifle the shout when he came, and he lay boneless and content in Timmy's arms when it was over.

"I need to get over to Chuck's place. I told him I'd be there mid-afternoon."

"You didn't tell me about the new case," Tim said, cuddling him, rubbing his back and bottom, giving him a little preview of the rubdown he could expect later.

"It'll be a good flow of income. Nothing exciting. I'll be working with a lawyer, checking out workman's comp claims. Fuck, I hate those jobs."

"Well, like you said, when things get slow in the winter, it'll help pay the bills." Tim kissed him again, then regretfully patted his butt one more time. "I better get dressed."

"Don't do anything on my account."

"You said you had to get over to see Chuck, and I need to get back to work."

"I know," Don whined, kissing him again. "Five more minutes."

"Two."

"Three."

"Sold. Let's make 'em count," Tim said, chuckling, pouncing on Donald's mouth like they were newlyweds, launching a solid three minutes of eager, passionate kissing before finally tearing himself away to get dressed and be walking out all tidy and innocent by the time Kenny got back.

********

"Tim said this was quite a place. He wasn't kidding. You're turning all this into offices?" Don asked, following Chuck up the winding staircase.

"That's the plan, except I can't keep a contractor here. We only caught that shadowy looking thing on the stairs and the voice, but there's been a hell of a lot more than that going on. Nobody wants to be in this place alone."

"Can you think of anyone who'd want to sabotage your project?"

"Not off hand. I've been getting a lot of good press for having the biggest investment in this whole neighborhood renewal thing."

"Any old enemies who'd like to see you flop?"

"Some tenants were evicted from one of my investment properties for being behind in their rent, but honestly, I don't think they're clever enough to stage a haunting that fooled two teams of paranormal investigators."

"Whoa, this is some classy space," Don said, walking into what would be a posh waiting room in one of the upstairs suites. It was mostly finished, the polished woodwork gleaming by the light of the period appropriate light fixtures that illuminated the crown moldings and original hardwood floors.

"Think you might be interested in one of these suites?"

"Interested, yes, but it's a little out of my league."

"Hang around until this whole ghost thing gets out, and I can give you a real bargain."

"As much as I'd like the bargain, we'll do our best to get to the bottom of this ghost thing before it comes to that. I'll need the names and contact information for your ghostbusters, and a list of all your contractors. I want to talk to anyone who's had one of these experiences, and get a comprehensive picture of what exactly they're all seeing and hearing. Then we'll get some impartial third party experts - in construction, heating, electrical - to see if they can identify anything in the building that could be causing any of that."

"You heard that voice," Chuck objected, leading the way through the rest of the second floor until they climbed the stairs to the third. He'd shown Don the DVD and played the voice recording for him when he first arrived. "That's not a creaky floorboard. Floorboards don't talk."

"It was pretty muffled," Don said. "Besides, how do you know one of the investigators didn't fake it?"

"Because they expressly requested that I not tell them anything about the voices I heard, so that whatever they might hear or pick up was completely objective and not colored by what they thought they should be hearing."

"Hey, I admit, if this is a hoax, it's a damn good one. But fake mediums have been conjuring electronic spirits for a long time now, and even before the dawn of electronics, there were charlatans with accomplices hiding behind a curtain. I wouldn't call an exorcist just yet."

"Do you know one?"

"Strangely enough, I haven't had need of one, but if it comes to that, I'm sure I can find one. I don't think you need an exorcist."

Just then, a door slammed somewhere in the house.

"Oh, yeah?" Chuck asked, visibly shaken.

"I think that's a draft, not a restless spirit." As Don said that, he felt a slap to the back of his head. He spun around, pinning Chuck with an angry glare. "Keep your hands to yourself, pal."

"I didn't touch you."

"That's enough of this fucking bullshit," Don snapped, heading downstairs, with Chuck close behind him.

"What is it you think I did?" he persisted.

"Whacked me on the back of the head. I suppose you think that's funny? I don't know what game you're playing, but I don't have time for this."

"I swear on my mother's grave, I didn't touch you!"

"Somebody did, and you were the only one there."

"It wasn't me, and I can tell you, you're not the first person to complain about something like that. It's why my electrician quit."

"Because he was whacked on the head by a mysterious ghost hand? Oh, come on."

"Why would I whack you on the head?"

"Because I don't buy your ghost story. Because you're crazy. Take your choice. I know what I felt, and you were standing right there."

"I'm not in the habit of whacking people on the head for fun. This is serious. I need help."

"No arguments there," Don snapped, heading for the front door. He reached out and turned the knob, but it was locked. "Okay, come on, what's up with the door now?"

"It did that to me last week. It's locked in a way you can't open it from the inside. The lock doesn't work that way. Try it. Here's the key for the deadbolt." He handed Don the key, and he worked it in the lock every which way, but it wouldn't budge. Then the lights went out. Even though it wasn't dark yet, it was an overcast, rainy afternoon, and the loss of light made the house shadowy. "Now do you believe me?"

"You just said your electrician quit. Apparently, it was no great loss." He kept jerking the key in the lock to no avail. "How about your locksmith, did he walk out, too?" Don turned away from the door when he heard footsteps. Chuck hadn't moved.

"That's what I hear when I'm alone in this place."

"Someone's coming up the basement stairs," Don said, drawing his gun, striding purposefully toward the basement door, which he pulled back, aiming his gun at the opening. A blast of cold, foul-smelling air blew in his face, causing him to take a few quick steps back. No one was there. At least, no one visible. "You have a flashlight in this place?"

"Sure, I'll get it." Chuck hurried into the entry way and found a large flashlight among some tools there. He handed it to Don. "You're not going down there?"

"Why not? It's the only place we haven't looked, and that's where the sounds were coming from. Unless you don't want me to see your sound effects equipment."

"Why in the hell would I sabotage my own project?"

"I don't know, but it wouldn't be the strangest twist on a case I've ever seen."

"It's not like I'm burning it down or something. They don't insure against hauntings at State Farm," he protested. "What would I gain?"

"You were leaning pretty hard on Timothy. Maybe you figure if you make enough of a stink, you can get the state to buy back your losing venture to keep a media scandal quiet."

"You think they'd do that?" he asked, and Don glowered at him.

"I highly doubt it," he responded, starting down the steps, flashlight aimed down the staircase. "Well?" he asked, and Chuck shook his head.

"I'm not going down there."

"Oh, for God's sake," Don retorted, rolling his eyes. He started down the dark stairs himself, arriving in the basement to find nothing but a lot of storage space filled with boxes, old furniture, construction supplies, and other odds and ends. Just as he was about to turn and go back upstairs, his flashlight went out. "Shit. The only dead thing wandering around in this place are these fucking batteries," he muttered, and as his foot touched the first step to go up, the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut. "Hey, Beyers, if you think that's funny, you're an asshole. Now open the door. My goddamn flashlight is dead." There was no response, and he remained in utter blackness, unable to even see his hand in front of him. "Timothy, you owe me a back rub like you've never given me before. And a blow job," he whispered under his breath. "Another blow job," he added, smiling, thinking about their lunchtime tryst.

He started up the steps, feeling his way, when he felt someone latch onto his jacket from behind. Bony fingers dug into his shoulders.

I'm here!

Cold, foul-smelling breath brushed his ear, and his heart pounded. Angry, he spun around and jerked an elbow back into what should have been the body of his assailant, but he felt nothing more against his arm that bitter coldness, colder even than the dank basement itself. His foot slipped, and he felt himself falling, unable to stop it, landing painfully at the bottom of the steps on the cement floor. Though it flew in the face of all his logic and disbelief, he was more afraid of what was at the bottom of the dark stairs, in that black abyss, than he was of whatever injury he might have suffered in the fall. Breathing heavily, he pulled himself up, scrambling up the first few steps on hands and knees until he got back on his feet, making a run for the door, banging on it for all he was worth, falling through it when it suddenly opened, ending up in an undignified and terrorized heap on the floor.

He pulled himself up and fled, irate not to see Beyers anywhere. The front door was open, and he rushed through it, stumbling down the front steps and finally stopping on the lawn, leaning his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. The front door slammed behind him.

"Beyers! Where are you, you chicken shit son of a bitch?" he shouted. His heart was pounding so hard it throbbed in his ears, and now he could begin to feel the assorted bumps, bruises, and scrapes from falling down the steps. His whole body shook, and he hated himself for being so afraid of something that had to have a logical explanation. Somehow, someone had jumped him in the house and managed to get out of the way when he tried to elbow the attacker. But there was no noise, no sound of anyone retreating, and how could he feel someone's hands on his shoulders, someone's breath against his face, and not be able to hit them with his elbow?

And how could anyone's breath feel like a cold winter wind and smell like death?

********

Tim unlocked the front door and walked in, a bag of groceries in one arm, his briefcase in the other hand. He planned on making Don something special for dinner, since he'd been eating junk out of bags in his car for the past couple nights. He was surprised to see Don standing at the kitchen counter, drinking a glass of whiskey with a shaking hand.

"Don?" He set the bag on the counter, noticing immediately the dried blood on the side of Donald's head, the disheveled state of his clothes, and a couple other reddish stains, one on his shirt sleeve and one on his pant leg. "Honey, what happened?" He approached Don, and was surprised when Don turned and latched onto him, wrapping his arms around Tim's middle and holding on as if he would never let go. "It's okay," he soothed, kissing Don's temple, cradling the back of his head gently, sheltering it against his shoulder. "What's wrong, baby? What happened?"

"I'm glad you're home," he said, which worried Tim even more, because he wasn't talking about why he was in the condition he was in, or why he was shaking.

"How badly are you hurt, honey?"

"Just banged up." He pulled back and tried for a smile, but it didn't quite make it. "I know there's some explanation for what's going on in that place, but I'll be damned if I can figure it out. Something is in the basement there. It had its hands on me...I smelled its breath. I couldn't reach it. I couldn't touch it but it was as close to me as you are."

"Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"I went through the house with Beyers, and there were some weird noises, and the lights went out. It wasn't anything that couldn't be explained somehow - crappy wiring, loose floorboards... We heard footsteps on the basement stairs, and he said he'd heard them before. I took a flashlight down there...it felt like arctic air that hit me when I opened the door...and there was this god-awful smell. I've smelled that before, Timothy. It was the smell of death."

"Could it be a dead animal? They had to have exterminators in there when he first bought the place. There were rats in the cellar - "

"This wasn't a dead rat. It smelled like human death. The flashlight went out, and it was totally dark. I couldn't see at all, not even right in front of my face. When I tried to go up the steps, something grabbed my shoulders from behind and breathed on me...that cold and that smell. I tried to hit it, knock it away with my elbow, but there was nothing there. It had its...hands on me, but I couldn't touch it."

"I'm so sorry I got you into this. I never would have suggested it if I thought there was any real danger." He stroked Don's cheek gently. "How did you get so banged up?"

"I fell down the steps. It threw me off because I tried to hit the thing and all I could feel was freezing cold air. I ran out of there as soon as the door opened, ran outside...Beyers was gone. He must have taken off as soon as he could get out the door."

"What was wrong with the door?"

"The front door wouldn't open. It was as if it was locked from the outside, so we couldn't get out. It was open when I got out of the basement, and I just took off out of there."

"Whatever it was, whatever was in that basement, it's not here. You're home, and you're safe, and you're not going back near that place, ever again."

"I can't steady this," he said, holding out his hand, the two of them watching it shake.

"It looks like you've got a couple of cuts or scrapes that need cleaning up. Let's go upstairs and take care of those." He took Don's shaking hand in both of his and kissed it. "It'll be okay, honey."

"I don't believe in ghosts," he said. "Do you really believe in ghosts? I mean, beyond us laughing at those ghost hunting shows over a bowl of popcorn," he asked Tim, and pinned him with such an intense look that it almost made Tim step back a little. He didn't know what to say, because he knew how much credence his partner would give whatever he said. Don looked like a strange blend of a detective on a case and a child who needed someone to dispel his fear of the dark. There was no other recourse than the truth. Don deserved nothing less.

"Yes, I do."

"Shit," he replied, leaning backwards against the kitchen counter, looking as if his last hope of denying what he'd been through had just been taken away.

"Look, honey, you had a bad scare, whatever it was that you really encountered in that house. That's what matters. Whether it was a ghost or a trick of some sort, the result is the same, and the important thing is that you can calm down and feel safe, and we can get your sore spots taken care of from that fall."

"When you were in the seminary...what did the Church really think about ghosts and evil spirits?"

"You make it sound like I infiltrated the Mafia," Tim teased, wetting a paper towel so he could start cleaning the blood off Don's face. He was glad when Don snorted a little laugh at that. "The Church doesn't have any secret teachings about ghosts, at least, none that I was ever told. We are expressly forbidden to initiate contact with the other side," he said, carefully cleaning the blood, tracing it back to an egg on the side of Don's head. "But the Church does believe in ghosts, both in 'good' ghosts, for lack of a better word, and in evil spirits that can cross the barrier by disguising themselves as good or neutral spirits. That's why we're not supposed to initiate contact with seances or Ouija boards or any of that. Because that may open a portal for something to come through that we are not equipped to deal with. Something evil, using that open channel to cross over."

"Terrific."

"That doesn't mean the spirit that you encountered, if it was a spirit, was evil."

"It sure as hell wasn't good."

"Do you want to know what I think?"

"Yes, that's why I asked," he snapped.

"What I think, is that ghosts are just disembodied humans. They're prone to the same anguish and frustrations we all suffer. Whoever that entity is, how do we know how long it's been trapped there? The building stood vacant for over ten years after the funeral home closed. Everyone it reveals itself to is afraid of it, wants to get rid of it. You weren't afraid of it, Donald, at least not initially. When you thought it was in the basement, you went to check it out instead of running out of there and refusing to ever go back. Maybe it was just that desperate to communicate with you that it broke the barrier and touched you."

"Swell. So it wants to be friends with me now? Timothy, that thing didn't seem friendly."

"I'm not suggesting that you ever go there again, or that you make contact with it. This is why the Church prohibits contacting spirits, because even the experts among us know just enough to be dangerous and not nearly enough to know what they're really dealing with. This entity sounds like it's...aggressive. But so are you when you want to get something done."

"It kind of pisses me off that it got the upper hand like that."

"Whatever is in that house, I think it's something we can't explain, and that we don't know enough about to play around with. I thought it would be a simple case of finding out what's behind the things people have seen or heard, maybe uncovering some kind of fraud or hoax...I never would have suggested you get in the middle of that if I thought it was anything like this."

"I know. I'm not blaming you - I signed up for it. I didn't expect this either." Don sighed. "So what about exorcisms?"

"They're not nearly as common as Hollywood would have you believe. In the old days, someone with epilepsy, mental illness, or any other seizure disorder was likely to be considered 'possessed'. The Church investigates some of those claims, but it's not like you can pick up the phone and call 1-800-demon, and someone is dispatched with an exorcism kit."

"What about getting a priest to bless the place?"

"I'm sure one would," Tim replied. "Come on. We're not dealing with it tonight. I'm going to patch you up and fix you something warm to eat. We have plenty of time to worry about the netherworld tomorrow."

Don didn't move, and he still looked troubled.

"What's really bothering you, honey?" Tim asked gently, touching his shoulder.

"That thing touched me, held onto me. I could feel fingers digging into me. What if it doesn't stay in that basement?"

Tim didn't know how to come up with a wise answer for that. Despite Don's belief that he knew everything, and that he was an expert on all matters spiritual because he'd been a seminarian, nothing in his background qualified him to answer that frightened query. So he pulled Don into his arms and held him.

"Documented cases of possession are even more rare than documented cases of paranormal activity. Besides, Chuck never mentioned anything following him out of the house. So apparently whatever is there, is somehow bound there, either by its own choice or some...spiritual reason we don't know."

********

Don finally relented in his questions, and went upstairs with Tim for a shower and some first aid. His body ached in various places from what had been a pretty rough fall down wood steps to a cement floor. The warm water felt good, and Timothy's presence in the next room felt even better. He couldn't shake the fear of being alone, or the fear of the dark that had been with him since the ordeal at the house. He would have showered and patched himself up before Tim got home if it didn't mean going upstairs in their empty house alone in the dark.

He got out of the shower and toweled himself dry, wrapping the towel around his waist when he was finished. He went to the mirror, and let out a bellow of Timothy's name at what he saw there. In an instant, his partner was in the bathroom, at his side. Don was cautiously running his hand over the series of finger-sized bruises on his shoulders that were in the exact place the...thing in the Filmore Street house had grabbed him from behind. Tim seemed to go a little pale at that, touching the marks himself, as if he had to touch them to believe they were there. Then he gently turned Don toward him, and very deliberately kissed each one of the marks. Then he took Don's face in his hands.

"I don't care what it was that touched you. You belong to me, not to that...thing. I don't want you to be afraid. This is our home, and you're my husband, and nothing that hurts you is welcome here."

Don looked into Timmy's eyes, at the intensity and conviction there, and pitied any entity that might have the poor judgment to take him on. For the first time since the incident at the house, he felt safe, protected, and somehow...reclaimed. He slid his arms around Timmy's waist and held on, closing his eyes as warm arms enclosed him.

Timothy carefully cleaned and bandaged his scrapes, and he put on a clean suit of sweats and socks, and curled up on the couch while his partner puttered around the kitchen making him dinner.

"Chuck Beyers isn't answering his cell," Tim stated as he stirred something tasty-smelling on the stove.

"Fuck him. I'm not dealing with him again."

"Yes, well, I have a few things to say to him, the miserable coward."

"What's the point? I'm done with it. His ghosts, or whatever the hell they are, are his problem."

"Good." Timmy came into the room with a tray and set it on the coffee table. There were two bowls of chili, some warm rolls, and two steaming mugs of cocoa. They sat close and ate their meal, the evening news droning in the background. After he finished eating, Don took up residence snuggled against Timmy's side, relaxing and letting two nights of surveillance work and the day's ordeal catch up with him until he slipped off into sleep.

********

I'm here!

The gaunt and unsettling image of a pale, thin, elderly man in a dark suit was before him, face to face, grabbing at his shirt with bony, gnarled fingers...

Donald shot up with a start, letting out a shout, flailing in front of him, glad to have made contact with the thing this time, smacking it and sending it backwards. He blinked, finding himself sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, where he'd dozed off with Timothy.

"Damn it, ouch." A muffled protest came from the floor. He gaped at Timmy for a moment, horrified that he was touching the back of his hand to his mouth, a startling red splotch of blood on the skin from the split in his lip. He was on the floor, sitting between the couch and the coffee table.

"Timmy!" Don was on the floor next to him in an instant, hands flying up toward Timmy's face and then stopping, not sure if he was welcome to touch him, since he'd obviously just slugged him in his sleep. "Baby, I'm so sorry, I was dreaming - "

"Yeah, you better have been dreaming," Tim said, then spared him a little smile before wincing at the split in his lip.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?"

"Well, now I have matching bruises, one on each cheek," he said, referring to falling off the couch earlier in Don's office, and now there. "Do I want to know what you were dreaming about?"

"I don't want to know about it. I don't care about that now. Come on, honey, sit down. I'll get you some ice."

"You've got a hell of a left hook," Tim said, holding onto the side of his face. "Damn, that hurts," he added. He sat on the couch with Donald hovering over him worriedly.

"Is your jaw okay? Shit, I'm so sorry."

"I know you didn't do it on purpose. Yes, I can move my jaw, so it's still attached."

Don rushed to the kitchen and filled up an ice bag, returning to sit next to Timmy, holding the ice gently against his face.

"I got it," he said, smiling, holding it in place himself. With his free arm, he pulled Don into a hug. "It's okay, honey, I'm all right."

"I'd never hit you for anything, Timothy. I'm so sorry - "

"I know that. It's okay. You were dreaming, and I got in your way. That's all."

"That's enough," he said, standing up. "Whoever that son of a bitch is, I'm gonna settle this thing once and for all."

"Maybe you could tell me about the dream?" Tim asked.

"I heard that voice again, that 'I'm here' thing. Only this time I saw this...this...ugly, dead-looking old guy with bad teeth wearing a dark suit."

"You didn't see anything like that at the house, did you?"

"Nothing. All I saw was darkness."

"The apparition that's been seen is a figure of a man. I don't think anyone has really described him in detail. It could be just the visual image your subconscious put with the voice."

"Whoever that fucker is, he caused me to hit you, he caused me to fall down the steps where I could have broken my fucking neck if I'd fallen wrong, and he's in my dreams now. This ends here. I'm gonna get the bastard, and I don't care if he's dead or alive."

"Gives a whole new meaning to Wanted: Dead or Alive, doesn't it?" Tim paused. "I'm not seriously hurt, Donald, and just because I accidentally got in your way when you were dreaming doesn't mean that going after that thing is any better an idea now than it was before."

"Maybe not, but now I'm mad. I was scared of it before, but now I just want to kick its moldy old ass back to hell where it belongs. Shit, my knuckles hurt. Just how hard did I hit you, anyway?"

"Hard enough, but it's not your fault."

"No, it's that...that...thing's fault." He headed for the stairs.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going over to Beyer's house and roust his ass out of bed and find out who his ghostbusters were, and the names of everyone who's seen or heard this thing. Then I'm going to send Kenny to the courthouse and the library and wherever else he has to go to get me a history of that house. And then I'm going after this old, smelly, dead son of a bitch."

"Donald, think this through. I know you're upset that you hit me, but it was an accident."

"That wouldn't have happened if that thing wasn't trying to freak me out."

"Don, wait," Tim said, getting up, following him upstairs to the bedroom, where Don pulled off his sweats and put on jeans and a sweater, then pulled a jacket on over it. "Honey, don't go do something crazy just because you hit me. It wasn't your fault."

"Shit, your jaw is swelling up. Where's your ice bag?"

"Downstairs. Forget the ice a minute. You had a nightmare. It doesn't necessarily mean the...entity made it happen."

"Whether it did or not, if it hadn't put its hands on me, gone after me, I wouldn't have been having nightmares about it, and I would have done this," he said, touching Timmy's jaw lightly, then kissing it. "All I'm going to do tonight is go shake some answers out of Beyers."

"I'm coming with you - and don't argue with me, because I've made up my mind," Tim said, sticking his feet in shoes, grabbing his jacket.

"Timothy - "

"Donald," he countered.

"Okay, but just tonight. I don't want you involved in this thing until I get a better notion of what we're dealing with."

"We'll talk about that later," Tim said, taking a hold of Don's shoulders. "This isn't a normal case, honey, and I don't think you should be in it alone." He looked into Don's eyes. "I love you, and it might be a little harder for whatever this thing is to take on both of us."

"I love you, too, and that's why I want to keep you safe."

"Like I said, we'll talk about it later. Let's go get this trip to Beyers' place over with so we can get some rest tonight."

********

"All right, all right, I'm coming!" Beyers' irritated voice came from the other side of the front door of his brick ranch style house. He swung it open and looked at Don and Tim standing there, their presence seeming to catch him off guard.

"Since you weren't answering your cell, I thought we'd stop by and have a little chat," Don said.

"It's late - "

"I'm all right, thanks for asking."

"Look, I'm not proud of that...bolting like that. Don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing in my place?"

"Run out of a house because of some flickering lights and footsteps and leave someone else trapped inside? I can tell you right now that Donald would never have done that to you or anyone else," Tim spoke up.

"What the hell happened to you? Your boyfriend mad at you for getting him into this?"

"I want a list of everyone who's ever complained about seeing anything in that place, and then I want contact information on your ghostbusters. And I'll need a key to the house," Don shot back angrily. "And in the meantime, watch your fucking mouth."

Beyers glanced pointedly at Don's bruised knuckles.

"I'll get that information together for you."

"Yeah, you will, and I want it now. I also want to know anything you've uncovered during the renovations that might relate to previous owners"

"Fine, all right, come in," he said, closing the door behind them. "I'm sorry I got you into this," he said to Tim, rather than Don.

"It was an accident. Donald's never raised a hand to me in our entire relationship and he never would."

"Whatever you say," he replied, cinching his robe a bit tighter and leading the way into his home office that occupied what would have ordinarily been the family room of the house.

"Forget it, honey. We don't owe him an explanation," Don said. "You mind if I get him some ice?"

"Be my guest. Kitchen's right there," Beyers said, gesturing at the room that adjoined the family room.

"I'm okay," Tim protested.

"Sit down and I'll get you some ice."

Tim held a sandwich bag of ice against his face while Don watched Beyers dig through a disorganized mound of papers, finally writing down names and phone numbers, then producing two business cards, one for each paranormal investigation team.

"You didn't tell me what it was that happened in the house after I left," he said, handing Don the information.

"Nope, you're right, I didn't. If you were so fucking concerned about it, you wouldn't have slunk out of there like a rat deserting a sinking ship."

"It's my property."

"Oh, and I need that key, too."

"Fine," he snapped, taking one off his key ring. "This is a spare. I want it back when you're done."

"Not a problem. I won't have any further use for it."

"What are you planning to do?"

"I'm investigating the case. Isn't that what you hired me for?"

"So you bust into my place at midnight and demand what you want, and expect me to pay you for it?"

"Unless you want me to engage the media in this fascinating case, yes, that's exactly what I expect. Given the level of personal risk involved here, a $5,000 retainer should be about right. I do take personal checks, but you're responsible for any bank fees if it bounces."

"You're insane. I'm not paying you a fucking thing."

"Oh, really? So how many more months, possibly years, are you going to pay for that property to stand vacant while you look for a contractor that your evil spirits in the basement don't chase off? I'm the only one who's encountered this thing that's willing to go near that place again to try to figure it out. I'd say that's worth five grand, plus expenses. I'm the last chance you've got to salvage this mess."

"You're an asshole, you know that, right?"

"It's a survival skill. The check can be made payable to Donald Strachey Investigations," he added.

********

"We're investigating a haunted house?" Kenny clarified, pouring more candy corn into the bowl on Don's desk, after refilling his own. "This is your idea of a Halloween joke, right?"

"That's what I said to Timothy when he got me into this. No, it's not a joke. I need you to do some research at the courthouse. Find anything you can about this place from public records. Once you have information on the past owners, try the library for genealogy stuff on the family."

"What exactly is going on there?" Kenny sat on the couch in Don's office, fascinated now. Don couldn't help but grin when he thought about his little lunchtime fling with Timmy on that very couch. He figured Kenny didn't need to know about that.

"Footsteps, apparitions, cold spots, doors slamming, lights going out, locks malfunctioning - should I go on?"

"Wow. Can we go over there later?"

"Trust me, this crap isn't as much fun to deal with as it looks on TV."

"You saw something?" he persisted, sliding to the edge of his seat, eyes wide.

"Let's just say I'm convinced something's going on there, but I'm not sure what. I can't explain it, but I know there has to be an explanation."

"Judging by what you're sending me out to do, you think it's a paranormal explanation."

"I'm keeping an open mind."

"Whatever you saw there must've been pretty amazing. Come on, I wanna see the place."

"Maybe later, Kenny. I've got a lot to follow up on myself today, and I don't want you going there without me."

"You're just making me want to see it more," he said, getting up and heading for the door.

"Well, build the anticipation then and go get that research done. Oh, and thanks," he said, taking a handful of the candy out of his bowl.

Don sat at his desk and started to sketch furiously on a notepad. He was no artist, but for some reason, this hurried sketch of the old man he'd seen in his dream took shape as if he were an experienced police sketch artist. As he left the office to seek out all the witnesses to the house's antics, he felt a growing unease that this entity was in his head somehow, that it had something to say, and that it was going to keep after him until he listened.

********

There was a tap at the office door, and Tim looked up, surprised to see the senator standing there, since they'd just finished their staff meeting.

"Tim, I just wanted to ask...is everything all right? I couldn't help noticing..." she gestured at her own face in the area where the bruising was on Tim's face.

"I'm fine," he said, smiling. "Don had a nightmare and I had a little trouble waking him up," he said honestly.

"Is he all right?"

"I'm sure he will be. He's on a difficult case," he added. "Thank you for asking."

"I knew there had to be an explanation. Don certainly doesn't seem the type to...well, as long as I've known the both of you, I knew there had to be some other reason."

"I appreciate that, and you're right. Donald would never do something like this on purpose. And I wouldn't still be with him if he were the kind of man who would."

"I didn't think so, but I'm glad to hear it. Well, I'll let you get back to making me look good," she said, smiling, referring to the speech he was editing for her luncheon presentation at an area civic club.

Tim forced himself to concentrate, wondering how Don was doing with the case, where he was, hoping he wasn't back at the Filmore Street house. He thought about telling Senator Platt about the case, and then thought better of it. It all sounded so bizarre; he hoped Don would come up with some explanation or some way to fix things so he could update the senator when it was all neatly tied up and handled. A haunted house in the middle of a major development project sparked by their neighborhood renewal effort was the last thing they needed so close to re-election time.

********

"I was measuring for flooring in the foyer. I typically have an assistant handle that, but she was out sick, and we were under a tight deadline."

Beyers' decorator, Sharon Rosenthal, was a tall, attractive woman with short dark hair and a sense of fashion suitable for a designer. Her expensive business suit probably only cost half of what her expensive pumps set her back. She didn't strike Don as the type to see ghosts if they weren't there. She'd agreed to meet with him briefly in her office.

"I felt the temperature drop, but I didn't think much of it. Old houses are drafty and it was a chilly day. I was a bit nervous in there...it's a huge place and I was alone in it. I usually don't do that, either - spend a lot of time alone in vacant buildings. It's not the smartest practice for personal safety."

"You were kind of nervous, then?"

"Yes, but not to the degree that I was seeing things. Suddenly, it felt like someone was watching me. At first, I figured I'd been mistaken about being alone, that someone else was working in the house. That's how distinct the feeling of a presence was. I turned to look behind me, at the stairs, and I expected to see a workman there, perhaps. Instead, I saw this...figure. I knew right away it wasn't a live human. It didn't have the substance."

"What did it look like?"

"It was more of a shadow, but there was a sort of face in it...horrible face. I've never been back to the house, and I refunded Mr. Beyers' deposit, because I never will go back there."

Don unfolded the piece of paper with the sketch of the old man on it and handed it to her. Judging by her bugged eyes and the way she tossed it back to him as if it were a hot potato, he didn't need to ask if that resembled the face.

"I've had nightmares about that," she said, visibly shaken.

"Me, too," he said, tucking it back in his coat pocket. "I drew this from what I saw in a dream."

"You've had dreams about it, too?"

"Only one so far, but it was...enough."

"I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse."

"I'll feel better when I get to the bottom of this situation. If you think of anything else, please give me a call." He paused. "Even if it's something that seems ridiculous, like another dream. Did your dream tell you anything, or was it just the image of this old guy?"

"Mostly just an image. Like he was coming at me," she said, shuddering.

"Yeah, that's about all mine was, too." He stood, and so did she. "Thank you for your time."

"You're welcome. I hope you find out what's going on there."

"So do I," he responded, not quite smiling.

It was a sunny, beautiful October day, the colors of the leaves nearly set on fire by the sunshine. A crisp breeze sent showers of them down, and there were still enough of them on the trees to rustle. Don smiled, thinking about finding a day like this to take Timothy out to that apple orchard he liked to visit in the fall, where they bought freshly picked apples, cider, and sometimes went for a hay ride. They also didn't have their pumpkins yet, and he knew his partner would be itching to do that soon. As if bidden by his thoughts, his cell phone rang, and it was Timmy.

"Hey, honey," he said, smiling.

"How's the case going?"

"Lots of people with lots of ghost stories," he said. "I'm almost through the list Beyers gave me. I just talked to his decorator. She saw the same old man I did - at the house, and in a dream."

"How do you know it's the same man?"

"I drew him."

"You what?"

"I drew him. I know, I don't usually draw all that well, but I did this time, and when I showed her, she recognized him."

"I don't know if that's good or bad," Tim said.

"I've been trying to figure that out myself. Hey, you want to go out to the apple place this weekend?"

"I'd love to," Tim replied, sounding pleased. "And we should get our pumpkins, too."

"Yeah, I figured as much," Don said, smiling, remembering as he often did just how much he loved his partner. "Kenny's doing the research on the house, so I probably better touch base with him and see what he's got. How's your jaw?"

"A little sore, but I'll live. It'll be much better if you're available to kiss it and make it better over dinner."

"Probably a late dinner."

"That goes without saying," he replied, chuckling. "Be careful today. I love you."

"I love you, too. See you tonight."

********

It was almost nine when Don did finally get home, having waited until the final person on his list was able to meet with him. The contractor who was doing some of the major carpentry work on the house had walked off the job, taking his crew with him, after a number of them had reported bizarre sightings, sounds, cold spots, and even an occasional apparition in an antique mirror on the second floor. Those who had seen something had all described it as an "old man who looked dead" or some variation on that theme. More than one person had dreamed about the ghost after having some encounter with it, and Don's hastily-drawn sketch was striking a note with all of them.

"Ready for a martini?" Tim asked, and Don just smiled, going to him and wrapping him up in a big hug. No words of reproach for it being such a late dinner, just those warm arms going around him, martinis chilled, and a fire in the fireplace.

"Martini sounds great," he said, backing away to look at Timmy's face. "Shit, you're really getting colorful. Sweetheart, I am so sorry."

"You didn't mean it, I know that. Now shut up and drink your martini," he said gently, handing the drink to Don.

"Yes, sir," he replied, grinning, taking a sip.

"Why don't you sit down and catch your breath? I'll heat up some Thai food for us."

"It was probably hot once," Don said, throwing his jacket and his holster aside, sitting on the couch, loosening his tie.

"A couple hours ago," Tim replied, his voice light, no real anger there.

"I should have called."

"Yes, you should have." Tim was used to his freakish schedule and was more likely to tease him about it than really chew him out.

"I was talking to Beyers' contractor and three or four of his guys."

"Figures. I'm here at home holding dinner for you while you're hanging around with a bunch of men in tool belts and hard hats."

"Trust me, none of these guys are going to be doing centerfold layouts anytime soon. Besides, it's hot guys in glasses turn me on."

"As fate would have it, I can help you out with that," Tim said, smiling as he joined Don in the living room, handing him a plate of food, sitting down on the couch next to him with his own meal.

"Yeah, you sure can, beautiful," Don said, balancing the plate with one hand while he touched Timmy's face lightly and kissed him. "How's your jaw, honey?"

"I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt, and you'd know I was lying, so I won't. I just wish you'd stop worrying about it and blaming yourself."

"I'm working on it."

"Did Kenny find out anything interesting about the house?"

"Well, it's got a few lurid things in its past. There was a double murder there in the 30's, not long after the house was built. Apparently, the wife had been having an affair, and she ended it, and her lover came back and shot both of them in their bed."

"My God, that sounds like enough to cause a haunting."

"I s'pose, but it doesn't fit with the old man. These people were middle-aged. The guy who did it went to prison for life and died there about thirty years later. As far as we know, subsequent owners lived there without incident, and there aren't any other juicy tidbits in house's past, until John and Cecile Grier bought it in 1960 and turned it into a family-run funeral home. They lived on the second and third floors and ran the business on the first floor and in the basement, where they did the embalming."

"The basement?"

"Yes, I especially enjoyed knowing those details. They were there until 1980, when they retired and passed it on to their son and his family. In 2000, they suddenly closed the business and moved out. They left a lot behind. When you think about it, it has to take a lot to spook undertakers. They're usually not prone to superstition about dead people."

"You know," Timmy began through a mouthful of pad Thai noodles, "I've been thinking about something. About what the ghost says. I'm here."

Don shivered a little at the words, angry at himself that such an innocuous little phrase raised all the hair on the back of his neck.

"What about it?"

"Kind of obvious, isn't it? When he can do something so...significant as cross the barrier between life and death and make himself heard, why is he saying something so pointlessly obvious?"

"You'd have to ask him," Don said, trying not to think too much about embalming, basements, and ugly dead old men as he ate.

"Very funny. What if he's actually...there. In the house?"

"You mean his remains?"

"Yes. Maybe he's telling people what he wants them to know, but no one's taking it at face value."

"So you think he's walled up in there somewhere?"

"Are there any missing persons in the house's history? Someone who's not accounted for?"

"Kenny's got more work to do on sorting out all the historical information. I've got a meeting tomorrow with a guy who used to work in special effects. He's agreed to bring a couple techs out to the house and go over the whole place from attic to basement, looking for any way someone could have simulated any of the experiences that have gone on there. He was pretty baffled by what I described from the basement," Don said, taking another bite of his food. "He said the only thing he could envision accomplishing that would be something suspended from the ceiling, since your inclination in that situation would be to do what I did - try to elbow it or push it away, not reach up. Still, I can't really figure how that would work."

"You're still trying to find an Earthly explanation for that?"

"I don't really expect to find one, but I'd sure like to. Besides, I don't want to chase my tail looking for ghosts if there's some kind of...apparatus rigged up that's making it happen."

"When Chuck bought that place, there were a lot of old records left behind in file cabinets. I wonder if he's still storing those?"

"These people just took off and left the client records there?"

"I guess. I know he had a lot of junk to wade through. If he's got any of those left, maybe they'd tell you something."

"Honey, do you have any idea how many people that place probably processed through there in forty years? It was a pretty successful business, if I recall correctly, so we're talking about thousands. Unless I hire a team of investigators, Kenny and I can't go through all those files. We need something to point us in the right direction."

"Did Kenny search for any news stories on the funeral home? For references in articles about murder victims, for example? An elderly man who was murdered might fit this haunting."

"That's a possibility. I don't know if there's a database set up to search exactly that way, but I can see how it could be a murder victim. That would account for the spirit seeming angry or aggressive."

"What did the paranormal guy have to say?"

"Haven't met with him yet. I'm going to talk to him tomorrow. They're not based locally, so if we have them up here again, we either have to fly them here or wait for them to travel here from New York City. I'd like them to do an investigation of the place without all the TV cameras and other hype. They managed to get the voice, but they might get more if they didn't blow in there with spotlights and TV cameras and a bunch of production people milling around."

"That would be pretty costly, wouldn't it? What about the NYU folks?"

"Don't know about the price yet, but even if it's steep, it'll be cheaper for Beyers than letting that place sit empty. This way, I will have investigated it both ways - with paranormal experts and technical experts. The NYU team declined. I talk to the lead guy, and he said they'd concluded their investigation there, and that the felt they'd provided the owner with the evidence they gathered. Academicspeak for 'fuck off'."

"I still think the best way to clear this up is to listen to the ghost. He's telling you what it is he wants you to know. It's just deciphering it."

"I thought the Church prohibited communicating with spirits."

"They also prohibit sex between two men."

"Unless one's a priest and the other's underage."

"That's not a teaching of the Church. Those are some sick individuals using the Church to hunt their prey." Tim paused. "I don't mean we should have a seance or spend Halloween there with a Ouija board. But that message, 'I'm here,' is what he wants everyone to know. It's the only thing he's been heard saying. So either he means his spirit is there, or that he, physically, somehow, is there."

"Can we talk about something else?" Don set his empty plate on the coffee table. "I'm sick of thinking about that thing." He leaned back on the couch and rubbed his eyes.

"Oh, I think I can come up with something," Tim replied, setting his plate next to Don's. Then he stood. "Come on," he prompted.

"What?"

"I've fallen off a couch twice in the last couple of days. Both my ass and my jaw are bruised. I want to have sex with you but I'm not doing it on the couch again until at least one of my bruises is healed."

"Can't argue with that logic," Don said, springing from his seat on the couch and following his partner to the stairs.

Once they were in the bedroom, neither lost any time shedding his clothes and leaving them in piles next to the bed. Naked and wrapped around each other, they enjoyed the closeness and let themselves get lost in kissing and petting each other, unhurried, enjoying the chance to take their time.

"I have something I think you might like," Timmy said, pulling back, flopping on his belly and reaching for the night stand.

"That's the fucking understatement of the year," Don teased, homing in on Timmy's now exposed ass, drawing a little yelp out of him when he latched onto one cheek, working on a lovely big passion mark.

"Behave yourself a second, will you?"

"No. I'm not made of stone," he said against the soft and tasty skin of Timmy's right cheek.

"I got us something."

Interested now, Don relented, letting Timmy sit up holding his prize. It was a tube.

"Pumpkin pie flavored lube," he said, handing it to Don, who simply stared at the black tube with the big orange jack-o-lantern on it.

"Is this some kind of gag? Am I going to put this on my dick and it'll turn orange or something?"

"No, but that sounds like an interesting concept."

Don put a little of the stuff on his finger and sniffed it. "Shit, it smells just like pumpkin pie. You realize now I'm gonna have a hard-on every Thanksgiving?"

Timmy just grinned a bit wickedly and took a hold of his wrist, licking the lube off his finger.

"Tastes like it, too. Now we have something to go with the left over whipped topping this Thanksgiving."

"We did okay with just the whipped topping last year," Don replied, thinking back on the intimate fun they'd had with that squirt can late into the night. "There's nothing weird in this stuff that's going to irritate you, is there?" He looked at the tube, squinting at the fine print. Tim smiled, and kissed the little furrow in Don's brow as he was reading.

"I love you."

Don looked at him, a little puzzled at first, then he smiled. "You know I don't need this stuff, right? You're my favorite flavor, sweetheart," he added, kissing Timmy's mouth, letting the kiss deepen until their tongues were dancing with one another. "Trick-or-treat," he joked between kisses.

"If you're a good boy, I might let you reach in my treat bag before Halloween."

"Mm, I love digging around in your treat bag, baby," Don teased, pouncing on him until they were lying flat again, Don on top, eagerly kissing and licking at as much of Timmy's chest as he could cover in a short period of time. He felt those strong arms coming up around him, fingers in his hair, a warm, hairy thigh rubbing against his hip as their bodies moved together.

He slid down lower and grabbed the little tube, putting some of it in his hand and using it to stroke Timmy's cock. Groaning softly, Timmy put his arm up behind his head and looked down at Don.

"Would you like whipped cream with that?"

"Oh, give me a minute and we'll have plenty of cream," Don replied, smiling back at him before he took Timmy in his mouth. The flavor of pumpkin and cinnamon, mixed with the flavor of Timothy himself, was more exotic than he expected. As Timmy was getting harder, Don eased a finger inside him, lubricating him and teasing his prostate.

"Oh, God, Donald..." he sighed, running his fingers into Don's hair.

Don moved back up and touched Timmy's cheek. "I love you so much," he whispered, and they shared a kiss. Don lingered there, looking into Timmy's eyes.

"What is it, honey?" Timmy asked, a little breathless.

"Have I told you lately how happy you make me?"

"You make me happy, too," he said, kissing the end of Don's nose, smiling at him. "Oh, and I love you, too," he added, pulling Donald down onto his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around him.

As much as he wanted to make love to Timothy, he felt like he needed the warmth and closeness of that embrace. Since he'd taken on the case, and been forced to confront the terrifying possibilities it raised, he'd felt frazzled, nervous, fearful... In Timmy's arms, all of it was held at bay. Whether he exactly knew why he needed it, Timmy knew what he needed, like he always did, and he held Donald close for long seconds, rubbing his back, kissing his hair.

Finally, Don moved and kissed Timmy again, then urged his legs up, stroking his cock, nuzzling and licking his balls, licking at the tender skin just behind them, stimulating the area just where he knew Timmy liked it best. When he'd recaptured the excitement he'd created in his partner before, he eased inside him, loving the feeling of strong legs wrapping around his hips, the feeling of Timmy's chest hair against his cheek as he held him, the sound of his heartbeat quickening.

They took their time, prolonging their union, keeping their movements slow and gentle, sharing kisses and little love words, caressing each other and staying close in each other's arms. When they came, it was sweet and satisfying for the waiting, and they lay quietly in a sweaty embrace.

"No one would think less of you if you dropped this case." Even Timmy's whisper seemed loud in the silence of the bedroom.

"I can't."

"Of course you can, honey."

"No, I can't. It's in my head. Timothy, you know I can't draw for shit, and I drew that face like a police sketch artist. All the people I talked to who actually saw something, identified that drawing as the face they saw. Whatever it is, it's not just in that basement anymore."

"I don't want you going there alone. I can take a little time off here and there, and go with you when you have to go to that house."

"I don't want you anywhere near that place."

"This isn't a normal case, and I don't need experience with a gun or detective work, or anything else. When it comes to fighting something like this, having someone who loves you, with you, will make you safer." He took Don's hand that rested on his chest and laced their fingers, holding on tightly. "There's nothing in this world that's stronger than our love. I believe it can transcend death and survive any test. Do you believe that?"

"You know I do."

"I want to know you're safe. I might not be able to protect you from criminals or disgruntled clients who decide to slug you, but I can help you face a spiritual threat."

"I don't want you to be in danger."

"Maybe the reason you feel safe in my arms even with all this going on is because you are safe there. You have good instincts, and that's what they're telling you. Whatever this is, it isn't normal, and it's going to take a different line of defense than a gun or some slick self-defense moves."

"You always make me feel safe, honey. That's not my instincts, that's our relationship. I don't want this situation to touch you."

"I won't let you do this alone. Look me in the eyes and tell me you feel prepared to take this on alone."

"I'd be lying if I said that."

"We can handle this together. I believe we can handle anything together."

"Okay," Don conceded, smiling, leaning up on his elbow. "But I don't want you near that place without me."

"As long as you make the same promise," Timmy countered, kissing his hand.

"Deal," he agreed, leaning down for a kiss.

"Get some sleep." Timmy hugged him close and yawned, and Donald let his body relax, let his guard down, let his vigilance gear down a few notches, allowing the sense of well being he always felt with Timothy sweep over him. Before long, he fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

********

"Call me unreasonable, but I generally like to know why I'm looking for cold cases involving missing old men," Bailey grumbled.

"It's a case I'm working on...it's kind of hard to explain," Don replied, rubbing his forehead. He was definitely not a morning person, and being up at the crack of dawn to catch Bailey at his desk with his inquiry wasn't exactly his idea of the best way to start the day.

"Try."

"I think there may be a body unaccounted for buried somewhere it shouldn't be."

"Okay, I'm going to hang up now and you can call me back after you've had your morning coffee."

"You're familiar with the former Grier Funeral Home?" Don asked.

"I remember the place."

"The new owner has some, uh, complaints...about disturbances..." Don shook his head. "Oh, shit. I'm investigating a haunted house and we think some dead old man is behind all the apparitions and noises. There isn't a contractor around who'll stay there and finish their work. I've got a team of special effects technicians investigating the place later this morning, but I'll tell you right now, I can't think of a logical explanation for what I experienced there myself." He stopped, and waited for a response.

"I suppose you think this is funny? A little Halloween humor for the cops? What's the punch

line if I fell for this?"

"There's no punch line. Believe me, Bub, nobody feels more ridiculous than I do about this, but I can't argue with what I've seen and heard myself. You know me - you know I'm not the type to chase ghosts. There's something in that place I can't explain. I don't know how else to approach this than to go after it logically."

"There can't be that many missing and unaccounted for elderly men during the time span you gave me. I'll have somebody run it through the computer."

"Thank you."

"I'm not buying your ghost story, just for the record. I'm not sure what you're up to, Strachey, but this better not get me in some kind of hot water."

"I swear, I'm telling the truth."

"You honestly think that place is haunted? I've heard a few stories over the years, but...come on."

"What kind of stories?"

"The neighbors used to call in reports of unexplained lights, prowlers in the place... The calls never turned up anything. Right after the funeral home closed up, it was a nuisance for a while. Then the calls tapered off. I'm not sure if people started to ignore what they saw, or thought they saw, or if there weren't any more incidents that caused them to call in. My best guess is it was a healthy dose of imaginations running wild, with an empty funeral home in the middle of the neighborhood."

"Maybe it'll come up empty, but anything you can find out would be a big help. If we can dispel all this, hopefully the neighborhood renewal will do some good for the area."

"So that's what this is about? All the building and renovating going on in that area?"

"That's how I got involved, with the new owner of the place - he's turning it into high-end office suites. There's real progress going on in that neighborhood, and this thing could drag the whole project down."

"Why do I have the feeling your boyfriend is behind your involvement in this?"

"Timothy spear-headed the project as part of the senator's commitment to neighborhood renewal, and it's on the verge of being something really positive. That can only have a good effect on your crime rates."

"I'll call you if we find anything."

********

Kenny rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn, then took a gulp of his coffee. "There's nothing else juicy in the history of that house - well, you know, except for the double murder and forty years as a funeral home."

"Any luck getting a hold of the Griers?" Don asked, sitting on the edge of Kenny's desk.

"No luck on the owners, but I did find a Melanie Grier working at the Albany Times, writing for the Lifestyles section. The Griers' daughter's name was Melanie, and she's about the right age, so..." He shrugged. "You want me to talk to her?"

"No, that's okay. I can talk to her."

"So when do I get to see the house of horrors?" Kenny asked hopefully.

"This isn't a game, Kenny."

"Come on, you keep putting me off. This is a chance of a lifetime!"

"Okay. I'm meeting a team of special effects techs over there in an hour, so if you want to see it, you can come with me then. Timothy's planning to meet me there, too."

"Curiosity's getting to him, too, huh?"

"Something like that," Don replied, taking the contact information for Melanie Grier. "I'll give her a call while we're waiting."

Don dialed the number Kenny had given him, and was greeted with a cheerful voice on the other end.

"Lifestyles, this is Melanie," she replied.

"Melanie Grier?" he asked.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"My name is Donald Strachey, I'm a private investigator. I'm looking for the Melanie Grier who is related to the Grier Funeral Home family."

"How did you get my number?"

"You're not exactly in a low profile position, Ms. Grier. I'd just like to ask you a few questions."

"About what?"

"The new owner has reported some disturbances on the property. I'm having it investigated by a team of experts - "

"If this is your idea of a Halloween joke, I heard them all when I was growing up. Living over a funeral home either scared off all my friends, or fascinated the sick ones."

"I'm not trying to harass you or make fun of your family's home or business. This is a legitimate investigation, and I'd appreciate any feedback you can give me on your experiences in the house. Particularly, why your family left so abruptly."

"That was my parents' decision. I was only a teenager when we moved."

"I would appreciate talking with your parents, but I haven't been able to locate their present address."

"They moved out of state a couple years ago, and if they wanted to be in touch with people regarding the business, I daresay they would have left a forwarding address."

"Have I said something to offend you, Ms. Grier? I'd be happy to meet with you in person, and show you my credentials if you're uncomfortable with talking to me by phone. I called first to be sure I wasn't bothering someone who just happened to have the same name."

"I'm sorry if I seem rude. That wasn't the happiest time of my life," she admitted. "I'd rather not be interviewed."

"I've seen the old man," he said, going out on a limb. "He's gaunt, pale, looks dead, and his teeth aren't the best. Once you've seen him, you see him in your nightmares."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "I still see him, sometimes," she muttered.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"To him? I have no idea, but one day, we just started seeing him. My parents wouldn't admit it at first. They'd tell my brother and me that it was a nightmare, that we were imagining things, that maybe one of the old people we buried looked kind of creepy to us and that's why we started imagining the ghost."

"Did he ever say anything?"

"Only once that I heard. He said, I'm here. I can still hear that voice."

"Honestly, Ms. Grier, do you think that's what drove your parents' decision to close the business?"

"Yes. We were still making a good living at it, and all of a sudden one day, my dad announced he was going back into real estate, and we were moving to back to Rochester. We took over the business here from my grandparents when they retired, and my dad gave up his real estate business in Rochester. We were out of there within the week, and the drain of owning that property just about wiped them out, until it was finally foreclosed a few years ago."

"Do you think they'd talk to me about this?"

"I seriously doubt it."

"Would they talk to you? This situation can't keep going on year after year. I'm having technical experts go over it top to bottom today, but I don't really believe there's anything normal and Earthly behind this, and I don't think you do either. If you could get some idea from them what could have caused this..."

"I don't know. My parents didn't know. I used to overhear them talking. I know they saw that thing, and finally they decided it wasn't safe for us to stay here anymore. They didn't know what it was, or where it came from. Mr. Strachey, is it?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Strachey, my parents are good, ethical people. If they'd known how to...fix this somehow, they would have. They had two children to think about, and finally, they just felt it wasn't safe for us, and they wanted us out of that environment. So we left. My parents didn't even make this sale of the house - the bank did."

"What about your grandparents?"

"My grandfather is dead, and my grandmother is in a home. She has Alzheimer's."

"I'm sorry. Is there any possibility something might trigger her memory?"

"If it did, I wouldn't allow it. I don't want to risk traumatizing her."

"I understand. From what you're saying, this...entity didn't show up until after you and your parents moved in there, when you kids started to see him, which would put it somewhere between 1995 and 2000, roughly?"

"I guess so, yes."

"Even that's helpful."

"I really do hope you figure this out, but I hope you'll understand if I don't want any part of it. I almost didn't move back here because of it, but then this job came up, and I have a lot of friends in Albany... I just don't want to revisit that part of my past."

"I understand. Can I give you my number in case you change your mind?"

"I won't, but I'll take the number." She wrote down his cell phone number, and after he hung up, he sat back in his desk chair and ran a hand tiredly over his face. He felt reassured to know Timmy would be there at the house, too. All of this seemed so insane...having Timmy there would anchor him like it always did. He had a faint smile on his face as he started for the door, with Kenny hurrying to follow him, locking the office door behind them.

********

The technical team that were investigating the house were right on time, and Don walked the lead technician through the building from top to bottom, with Tim and Kenny joining them for the tour. Once the team had the basic layout of the house, they began their search for any sign of electronic equipment or items that could be used in a special effects type hoax.

"It does feel...drafty in here," Tim said, shuddering a little. Usually, it was Don who complained about the cold, and he'd accepted the big building was just under-heated because it wasn't occupied yet, or that it was his usual aversion to the cold.

"Thermostat says 60," Kenny said, looking at the new digital thermostat in the main lobby of the building, near the winding staircase. "That's chilly for inside."

"It's probably my imagination," Tim said, smiling uneasily. "I'm expecting it to be cold and waiting for God know's what to pop out at us. I wonder if that's why I feel like something's watching us?"

"Something probably is," Kenny replied, looking around. "So do we get to go exploring, or was that guided tour it?"

"The guided tour was it," Don said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "You wanted to see the place, and you saw it."

They heard the sound of a door hinge creaking, as if a door had opened.

"Probably the techs." Tim didn't sound convinced.

"Wait here," Don said, walking toward the basement door, feeling not unlike he was walking the last mile, because he knew what he was going to see.

"Like hell," Tim muttered, following him. Not to be outdone, Kenny followed Tim, getting his cell phone camera ready in case he saw something supernatural he wanted to catch in a picture. "The basement door," Tim said, his voice sounding artificially upbeat.

"Is someone down there?" Don shouted from the top of the stairs. There was no response. Before he could make a move to go downstairs, there was a commotion on the main staircase that drew their attention away from the basement. When they returned to the lobby, two of the four technicians that were investigating the house were vehemently proclaiming they were finished with the task.

"You can't fucking walk off this job!" Joe, their boss, hollered after them, following them out the front door. A burly guy with tattoos and a walkie-talkie, he wasn't the sort employees would ordinarily rebel against.

"Yeah, watch me!" one of them shouted back at him before they got into one of the two vans they'd come in and left the property.

"What happened?" Don asked.

"We were setting up some audio testing equipment, going through some routine tests to make sure it was ready, and they just bolted, man. I don't know what the hell happened."

"Was the equipment recording?"

"Not sure. They were setting it up. I was doing a sweep in the attic for any kind of electronic signals or equipment. The attic isn't used for anything but storage now, and a lot of the ghost crap is centered in the basement, so we figured the attic would be a good spot for any kind of equipment to be stashed."

"And this is on the second floor, where they were setting up?"

"Yeah, I'll show you where it is. My other two techs are checking it out right now." He led the way upstairs.  

"You aren't gonna believe this, Joe," the young man said, taking off his headphones. "Put on the headphones and just listen for a few seconds." The other man followed the instructions.

"What the fuck - ? What is that?" He yanked off the headphones.

"The equipment isn't plugged in," the other man said. "There's no way to fake that."

"Could it be running on a battery?" Don asked.

"There aren't any batteries in it. It's only runs on a power source. And it's not plugged in."

Don picked up the headphones and put them on. All he heard was static. And then, Donald Strachey. In that horrible, gravely voice. He removed the headphones and looked at Timmy.

"It said my name."

The sound of the basement door slamming startled them all.

"What did it say before?" he asked the technicians.

"Your name," Joe said.

"That was it? No I'm here or anything else?"

"Nope. How about when you were listening to it, or while the others were testing the set-up?" Joe asked the other technician.

"That's it, just Mr. Strachey's name."

********

"I still don't understand why you shut down the whole investigation," Tim said as they ate dinner at the counter in their kitchen. "Joe and his assistant seemed more than capable, and willing, to stick it out and check the whole house."

"Because whoever that ghost is, isn't going to say anything to a team of investigators. He wants to talk to me. He made it personal. And I'm gonna give him what he wants."

"What? Donald, tell me you're not saying what I think you're saying."

"Depends on what you think I'm saying," he replied, and at the annoyed cock of Timmy's head, he added, "I'm going there alone and let him have his say."

"He attacked you!"

"You were the one that asked me if I didn't think it was possible that he was just that anxious to talk to me, that he was trying to reach out, that I fell - that he didn't push or pull me down the stairs. And you know what, I think you're right. This thing is going nuts, trying to get someone to listen to it, and for some reason, he's set his sights on me."

"It's not worth risking your life. Absolutely not. You're not going there."

"Timothy, this isn't ever going to be settled until somebody takes the bull by the horns and ends it once and for all. I'm gonna go talk to him."

"You act like you're going to question a perp," Tim shot back.

"Did you just say 'perp'?"

"That's not the point."

"I love it when you talk tough," Don said, chuckling, kissing Timmy's cheek. "Come on, honey, you know I'm right."

Tim laid down his fork and sat back in his chair. "It's too dangerous for you to go there alone."

"He wants to talk to me." Don sighed. "And as much as it creeps me out, the curiosity is killing me. I wanna know what he has to say."

"Then I'm coming with you."

"How is that any different?"

"Because I'm only there to be with you. I'm not toting a camera or hoping to catch something on video to further my career. The point is, I don't want you there alone. It's not safe."

"Why would this entity have anything against me? If an informant in a case wanted to talk to me alone, I'd go there."

"Now you think of the ghost like a normal human informant?"

"Not by a longshot, but honestly? I've talked to shadier characters alone in a dark alley."

"Thank you for that, Donald. I feel much better now."

"Sorry, honey," he said, smiling. "I was just making a point."

"Mm, yeah," Timmy mumbled, taking his plate to the sink.

"Are you sure you want to go into that house with me? You could stay outside and we could talk by phone."

"Whatever this entity is, it managed to run a piece of electronic equipment without a power source. How hard would it be for it to jam a cell phone signal?"

"Old guy's probably never even seen a cell phone."

"As if that would make a difference. I don't want to risk losing contact with you and having something happen to you in that house. I'm going with you, and that's final."

********

"Are you sure we couldn't do this in the morning?" Tim asked as Don unlocked the front door of the old funeral home. "The ghost seemed pretty active this afternoon."

"What difference does it make? It's a little creepier at night, but that's just years of watching horror movies getting under our skin." He walked into the lobby and turned on the light. "You're right, he's just as happy scaring the shit out of you in broad daylight as he is in the dark."

"How do you want to do this?"

"I'd say the direct approach. We know the source is the basement."

"Maybe we should wait to find out if Bailey uncovers anything."

"He wasn't too thrilled to be bothered with this, so I don't think it's a top priority on his desk." He led the way to the basement door and opened it. Everything in the house was deceptively quiet, making their quest to talk to the ghost seem almost ridiculous. "Are you sure you want to do this? You could still wait outside, or you can wait upstairs for me."

"I'm coming with you, Donald. That's final." He slid his hand into Don's, and despite the chilling task ahead of them, Don couldn't help but smile. Any excuse to hold hands with Timmy in the dark couldn't be all bad.

"Okay, let's go."

They made their way downstairs, turning on basement lights as they went.

"This is a huge area down here. Did the techs go all through all of those storage areas?"

"They weren't here long enough, and even when I was here with Beyers, I didn't get much chance to really go through the place with a fine-tooth comb. The paranormal investigators had more footage of the basement, but even then, they didn't go through the whole thing inch-by-inch."

The light on the stairs went out.

"I don't suppose that would be a bulb burning out," Tim said.

"Anything's possible," Don replied, squeezing Tim's hand a little. "Okay, we're here, and we want to help you. There are no cameras, no recorders, no little fancy gadgets with blinking lights or dials," Don said, holding his hands up as if he were showing a suspect he was unarmed. "I have a gun because I'm a private investigator, but obviously, that's not going to concern you. I'm trying to treat you like any other witness in a case, respect what you have to say, but I'd appreciate it if you'd quit playing parlor tricks on us. We know you're here, and we're here to listen to you."

"Donald, it's very, very cold in here," Tim said, hugging himself. "I can see my breath."

The light went out in the main room of the basement, where they were standing, leaving them in darkness. The sound of footsteps was loud on the cement floor. Tim's hand slipped back into Don's, and their fingers laced almost painfully tightly.

"The footsteps are coming from my left," Don said. "You know, this would be a hell of a lot easier if you'd leave the fucking lights on," he snapped at the ghost, irritated as he turned on his flashlight. "What is it you want me to see down here? Every time I come down here, you turn out the lights." He cast the beam of the flashlight around. Tim's sharp intake of breath startled him, and he swivelled the beam toward his partner.

"It touched me," he gasped, shaking visibly. "It tugged on my sleeve," he added.

"Which way?"

"That way," he said, swallowing hard, pointing toward a shadowy hallway.

"Are you okay, honey?"

"Yeah, yeah, just a little...startled, that's all."

"Let's see what's down the hall."

"What if your flashlight goes out? Donald, we won't be able to find our way out if we get into some kind of...of...labyrinth back there. Look at all the cobwebs and dust...it doesn't look like anyone's even been back in there since the renovations started."

"We'll remember the way we came."

He watched Tim in the light of the flashlight as he pulled a rosary out of his pocket with a shaky hand. He made the Sign of the Cross with it and kept it tightly wrapped around his hand.

"Okay, let's go."

Our Father...who art in heaven...hallowed be thy name. It was the same voice they'd heard before.

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done," Tim continued, incredulous.

On Earth as it is in heaven, the ghost replied.

"Give us this day our daily bread," Tim prompted.

And forgive us our trespasses.

"As we forgive those who trespass against us," he answered. There was silence. "Lead us not into temptation," Tim prompted. There was a long silence.

But deliver us from evil.

"Amen," Tim said, and they waited, barely breathing, for the response.

Amen.

"Let's go," Tim said, surprising Don a bit by moving forward first, leading the way down the dark hall, seeming not to be all that worried now about the beam of the flashlight. To Don's relief, it remained lit, and they followed the hall into another large room. There were a few pieces of equipment left behind that made it clear this was the embalming room. At Tim's little start, Don flashed the light toward him.

"We can go back," Don offered. Tim shook his head.

"When he prayed with me, he was trying to let me know he wasn't evil, that he didn't mean us any harm. And he just touched my sleeve again," he said, and then walked across the shadowy, cold room to a door on the opposite wall. He turned the knob, but it was locked. "Oh, wonderful."

"We can fix that," Don said. "Here, hold this," he told Tim, handing him the flashlight. He dug in his pocket for his lock pick tools and crouched by the door. After a few well-placed movements of the tools, the lock opened, and the somewhat grimy, dusty knob gave way. A blast of cold, fetid air hit them, as if the room were exhaling years of pent up foulness.

Tim scanned the room with the flashlight. "What is this place?" he queried, as the beam of the light caught shelf after shelf, ceiling to floor, of plain brown cardboard boxes. Some of them looked recent, but as he moved the beam of the light slowly over them, it became obvious that many of them had been there for some time.

Never one to suffer curiosity any longer than necessary, Don went to one of the shelves and took down one of the boxes. He pulled out a pocket knife and slit the tape that sealed the top, and froze when he saw what was inside.

"Dear God, Donald, tell me it's not a head."

"Honey, you've been watching too many horror movies," he replied, laughing, Timmy's horrific fear making the contents seem less sinister, even though they still chilled him to the bone. "It's an urn."

"An urn? Well, that's logical. Maybe these were their supply of cremation urns - "

"Timothy, this isn't an inventory of empty urns." He carefully unscrewed the top. It was full of ashes. "These are human remains."

"All of these...?" Tim scanned the dozens of boxes on the shelves. "How could they just leave these here when they left? And wouldn't Beyers have known these were down here?"

"The room was locked. As dank and stale as it smells in here, and with all the cobwebs, it's possible it's been locked up since the funeral home closed. This one is Gertrude Marie Spencer, July 1986," he read from the flap of the box.

"How could they leave these people here, unclaimed, like...like the garbage you set out to the street when you move? These are human beings, or what's left of them. This is ghastly." Tim looked around them. "Tell us which one you are, please. We want to help. We'll give you a proper burial. All of these people deserve some kind of burial. Please, show us your urn," he repeated. There was nothing but silence.

"Maybe he's had his say," Don suggested. "This is obviously what he wanted us to find."

"No, he wants to be laid to rest in hallowed ground," Tim said. "Isn't that right? You want a priest to say words over your remains and bury you properly, in hallowed ground."

One of the boxes shifted slightly on the shelf. Tim reached up and took it off the shelf, looking at the name on the top flap.

"Robert Orson Ferguson," Tim read. "Mr. Ferguson, we're going to take you out of here, and we'll be sure your ashes are laid to rest with the respect they deserve."

"I'll give Bailey a call," he took out his cell phone. "No signal. That figures. What do you think we should do with him?"

"We should take him with us."

"Home? Are you nuts? I'm not - "

"I told him we would take him out of here, and I'm keeping my word. Maybe if we stop by a church, or contact another funeral home, they would let us leave the remains in their care until we can make arrangements, or find his family."

"All right, bring him, and we'll figure out what to do when we get outside."

As they made their way along the shadowy hall, they could see light coming from the front portion of the basement.

"I hope this is what he wanted, that this will lay him to rest," Tim said.

********

"A total of 250 containers of cremated remains were removed from the former Grier Funeral Home this morning by the Albany Medical Examiner's Office, under the supervision of the Albany Police Department. The district attorney has not yet confirmed if any charges will be brought against the former owners of the funeral home for abandoning the remains when they closed the business in 2000." The female news reporter, hunkered down in a trench coat and holding an umbrella, was making her pre-recorded report from in front of the former funeral home earlier that day. The sound of the news broadcast carried from the TV to the foyer, where Tim was setting the big bowl of candy on the table in anticipation of the onslaught of trick-or-treaters.

"What will happen to all those containers now?" Tim asked.

"They can legally dispose of them, since they're all years old. But the media are going to work with the medical examiner's office to match up all the names on the boxes with death certificates and run a master list of them online and in the newspaper. If no one claims any of them, they'll scatter the ashes in an appropriate manner - exact words of the cop's PR guy. Except, of course, for Mr. Ferguson, whom you've adopted. He's getting the star treatment with his own graveside service and burial at St. Michael's churchyard in his wife's plot."

"None of the others were suffering the kind of anguish he was over their fate. At least, none that ever made themselves known. I can understand the rage and the misery you would feel over spending eternity on a basement shelf, if you were able to feel anything bout the status of your remains. I think he'll find peace this way, and hopefully, so will anyone else who wants to occupy that building. All those years, not to be laid to rest with his wife, not to have a proper burial..." Tim shivered a bit. "Awful to think of ending up that way."

"It sucks to live a lifetime, get old, and have no one left to care what happens to you. According to the ME, it's not that uncommon for remains of old people who die in care facilities or others who don't have family to go into storage," Don said through a handful of Skittles he'd snitched from the candy supply.

"His wife died when they were only in their thirties, and he never remarried. I keep thinking about that. Maybe that's why he reached out to you, and ultimately, to us. Because we're in love like they were, and because it would matter so much to us to be together at the end."

"There but for the grace of God go I," Don mumbled, and Tim didn't quite catch it at first, as he said it so low, and so fast. It took him a moment to figure out the words.

"You would never be in that situation, honey. Even if something happened to me and everyone we know was gone, we have everything planned so we'll be buried together."

"Yeah, well, if something had happened to me between when I got back from the Army and when I met you, I could have easily ended up on somebody's basement shelf, too. Sad to think we don't take any better care of our dead than that."

Tim pulled Don into a hug, running his fingers into that soft blond hair, kissing the side of his head. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Don replied, and Tim could hear the smile in his voice as he felt Don's arms tighten around his middle. "And I love that you went to all the trouble to look up Ferguson's obituary, find his wife's grave, and arrange to put him there with her. You're one of a kind, Timothy."

The doorbell rang.

"And so it begins," Tim said, cheerfully. Tim knew Don had viewed all the doorbell ringing and candy begging as a nuisance when they'd first gotten together, but over the years, he'd come to share at least a little of Tim's enjoyment of it. Tim viewed it like hosting one giant party, worthy of hand-carved candle lit jack-o-lanterns, a few fake tombstones lining the sidewalk to the front door, and an enormous bowl of good candy. There was too little chance for kids to be kids anymore, and even if the teenagers didn't wear costumes and showed up with old pillowcases for treat bags, it was still a pretty harmless way to spend the evening with friends.

So they spent a few hours handing out candy, then moved to the living room to curl up on the couch together for a marathon of horror movies with an assortment of snacks spread out on the coffee table. In between fooling around and feeding each other treats, Tim occasionally thought about reuniting the old man with the love of his life, and was glad he'd braved it and gone into that basement with Don. Who was he kidding? He'd follow that sweet, wonderful troublemaker he'd married through the gates of hell with a smile on his face.

Grinning, he kissed Don's cheek and happily accepted the nice kiss on the mouth, with tongue, that earned him.

"Thank you for taking that case," he said. "Even though this publicity isn't the best for Beyers' cause getting tenants, it'll die down, and the project will survive, even if the rents aren't quite as high as they would have been."

"I couldn't have done it without you, honey."

"Yes, well, if I hadn't gotten you into it, you wouldn't have been doing it at all."

"I'm kind of glad we got involved in this case," Don said, shifting positions so his head was on Tim's shoulder, and he had a better reach into the popcorn bowl. "It's kind of nice to know there really is something that comes after. That people still can want to be together, still...be in love." He took a little more popcorn.

"What we share...it couldn't just end."

"I know. But for those of us who don't quite take things on faith, maybe believing in ghosts is more reassuring than frightening."

"If I go first, are you saying you want me to haunt you?"

"Just every breathing moment of my miserable life until I join you."

"If I can, I will."

"Me, too," Don said, but his voice was very serious.

"No matter what happens, any separation we have to get through will only be temporary."

"Yeah, you're right. You can't get rid of me that easily," he replied, grinning.

"Never want to," Tim said, squeezing Don's shoulders, setting the bowl of popcorn aside so they could concentrate on each other.

********

The sun was shining brightly, illuminating the last of the colorful leaves that clung to the trees in patches like thinning hair. Don, Tim, and Kenny showed up for the little service to place the urn in the cemetery plot. They'd bought a flower arrangement that sat by the headstone, a new one that bore the names of both spouses, Robert and Jeannine Ferguson. Together Forever.

Before the priest began his prayers, a taxi pulled up and a frail, elderly woman made her way across the grass toward the group. Dressed in a dark coat over a dress, and low-heeled shoes to navigate the uneven ground, she held a small framed photograph in gloved hands.

"I'm Marianne Silvers. Jeannine was my older sister," she said. "I've been living in Florida for the past twenty years, and I lost touch with Robert. I had no idea..."

"I'm Tim Callahan, and this is my partner, Don Strachey," Tim said, and they all shook hands. "This is Kenny Kwon, Don's assistant at his private investigation business."

"I'm so happy to meet you all. I can't believe you've taken this on, to do this for Robert and Jeannine."

"I couldn't bear the thought of not being with Don forever. I can only imagine how Robert felt to be separated from Jeannine when it came to their final resting place."

"There have been a lot of rumors about a haunting at that funeral home."

"Robert's story really moved us, and we wanted to do something," Don said, and the elderly woman stared at him a moment, as if she didn't quite believe him, but accepted that he was declining to confirm that Robert had been at the heart of the haunting.

"I wanted you to have this. I don't have many photos of them, but I had a copy made. If you feel unsettled having it, I understand. I thought you might like to see them when they were together," she said, handing Tim the picture.

A happy couple in 50's style clothing sat together on a couch, holding hands, both beaming. At the moment the picture was taken, the man had turned his head to look at his wife, and Tim could see in that look the kind of love that was in Don's and his eyes when they looked at each other. She was a pretty brunette with a lovely smile, and he was a tall, good-looking man with brown hair and a mustache - so different from the gaunt old man he'd become without her. Tim could feel the ache for him of the life that might have been, that was taken away from them.

"Jeannine was born with a heart defect, and back in those days, they didn't have the medicines and surgeries the way they have now. It was one of the reasons they didn't have children, because the doctor thought the strain might be a bit too much for her. One day, she was fine, and the next day, she was gone. She was the kindest, sweetest person you'd ever want to meet."

"What kind of guy was Robert?" Don asked.

"He could be a little gruff at times, a man of few words. Until Jeannine came into the room. It was wonderful to see him with my sister. He would have served her the world on a platter if he could. I thought he would die with her when she went."

Tim felt Don's hand on his back.

"I'm so glad we were able to reunite them," Tim said. "We're very pleased to have this, and thank you so much for coming here today. You traveled all the way from Florida?"

"Yes. One of my nieces called and told me what was happening, and I flew up here right away. She's in California, but she's on the internet, so she picks up on these things."

They had the brief service for Robert, and took Marianne to lunch at a nice restaurant nearby. After dropping the elderly woman at her hotel, they headed home, since Tim had taken the day off work and Don had no plans to let him spend his free afternoon alone. They parked the car in the driveway, and when they got out, Don stood on the sidewalk out front and held out his hand toward Tim.

"What are we doing?" Tim asked.

"Almost the whole fall has gone by, and we haven't taken enough walks through the leaves. You know, so you can kick through all the leaves on the sidewalk?" he said, taking Tim's hand in his.

"Probably our last chance before they're all raked up for this year," he replied, smiling, squeezing Don's hand as they started walking down the sidewalk. As Tim started kicking through the leaves, Don did, too. It was an activity best enjoyed together. "Before long, the snow will be falling."

"Turkey time," Don said, grinning at Timmy, who laughed. "Those garlic mashed potatoes you make with the little chives and bacon bits in them. God, I love those. Why don't we have those the rest of the year?"

"I don't know. I suppose we should, if you like them so much." Tim swung their joined hands a little.

"And the stuffing. I love the stuffing, too."

"That's my mother's recipe."

"I like it better when you make it."

"Because I put more rosemary in it, because I know you like that."

The breeze picked up leaves and swirled them and more spiraled down from the trees. Don took Tim in his arms and kissed him, right there among the falling leaves, in the middle of the sidewalk.

"What was that for?" Tim asked, smiling.

"Forever, for being mine, because I wanted to, because it's Monday and we're not working, and because I never want to miss a single kiss I can have from you."

"I love you, too," Tim said, kissing Don again, then taking his hand and continuing their walk, not really caring how long they walked, or where they went, as long as they took the journey together.