The Shadow In The House

The house is set back from the road, screened by trees at the front and the shaded patch of woods at the back. The sunlight seems to be weaker here, the noise from the passing traffic muted.

The outside was a nondescript grey and white, cheap paint over solid but ageing wood. The inside has the vague mustiness of too many residents, too many memories, too many years. The fittings are old and the carpets thinning.

Others would dismiss it as too old-fashioned, too decrepit. I like the feeling of senescent glory and history. Some brief research turned up that it was one of the first houses in the area, a grand statement by the family who owned the surrounding farmlands, and gradually over time the farms were pushed out by the growing city, the land was subdivided for sale, subdivisions became suburbs. Now only the house remained.

It is cheap and semi-private; there are only two rooms on the top floor and as the other room wasn't occupied, I had sole use of the bathroom there. There are other tenants, but they are quiet men, who work all day and drink at the pub at night and only come home to sleep.

The landlady, Mrs Laney, looks like her house, pale and grey. She lives in the small rooms behind the kitchen, pottering in her garden and watching game shows in the afternoon. Her attitudes and manners fit her home, once the height of propriety, now a little faded and dated. I let her tut over me while we have tea, a genteel ritual that seems to reassure her that I am respectable. By the morality of Mrs Laney's youth, a single working woman with no visible male attached would be scandalous. It amuses me to go along with her questions about 'suitable gentlemen' and 'plans for a family someday'.

Modernity has slipped by her and the house, and I like it that way.

In my room, I have two windows, one facing north to the hills, the other facing west to the city. I have my desk under the northern one, for the light, and my bed placed where I can see the setting sun. I like to sit and read there, letting the day fade and the twilight shadows grow in the corners, as the lights of the city come out to match the stars.

I have all my devices set up - television, laptop, phone - but somehow I don't like to use them as often as I used to. I set the tv stream to random images and photos, letting it illuminate the room with a soft blue light so I don't have to use the harsh overheads. It's peaceful in the semi-darkness, reading or writing on my laptop in dark mode, or listening to muted music through headphones.

My friends think the house is creepy, they make jokes about horror films and ask about blood dripping down the walls, or secret cellars full of chopped up bodies. There are noises, as you would expect in an old place like this. Sometimes scratching noises in the walls, or long creaks that make me think of doors opening slowly, but mostly I hear a soft sound, like a drawn out sigh, or someone's breathing while they sleep. I guessed at it being convection currents, the warmer air moving through the walls to vents in the roof above my head. The effect is tranquilising, I listen to it as I fall asleep and dream.

I told no one about the dreams in the house. They were mine, a secret treasure I had found here. I am walking, there is a place I have to be, it is ahead of me on the path. I feel exhilarated - when I get there, it will be special, it will be amazing - but I am not hurried, there is plenty of time. The details change: a bosky forest trail, a dark road between tall buildings, a long hallway panelled in wood. I am naked, I can feel the leaves brush my skin, the soft drops of rain, the lush carpet beneath my feet. And always, the presence beside me. I can't see it, but it is there, keeping me on the path, telling me to be ready.

I never reach the place at the end of the path before I wake, but it doesn't seem to matter, I am content and at ease. I tell myself that the dream is just my brain's way of telling me that everything is finally going well. I have my job and my friends and my life, and I also have my house, where I can be sheltered and undisturbed. When I leave each morning, I feel like I'm putting on armour, ready to face the demons of the world. As I return each night, I feel the pressures of the day fall away, as I cross the threshold into the stillness of the house.

The difference is remarked upon by my friends and colleagues. They ask if I'm doing yoga or taking some new edible. I joke back at them, and continue to push into my work and engage with the office gossip, and I am always the first to say yes to drinks or girls' nights. But I'm always the first to leave too, the bright chatter and dizzy noise eventually making me desire the hushed solitude of my room.

The man worked in another company in the same building, our paths crossed a few times and he asked me to dinner. He was charming and asked to see me again. We met several times, and one night it was late and he drove me home. I made him stop on the street, not wanting the car to wake anyone, and he insists on walking me up the path between the trees. I knew it was an excuse, and when we reached the house and he pushed me against the wall, I pull him closer.

His hands are warm and his mouth is hot and I eagerly welcome both onto my body. It seems hours that we are there, kissing and touching. We break apart, reluctantly, and there are breathless assurances to continue later, in private. I go inside and climb the stairs, trying to be silent. My room seems colder than usual, and I go to close the windows. I can see him from there, a silhouette under the streetlights as he goes back to his car. I smile as I close the panes tight, and slip under the covers.

That night I didn't have the dream. At least, I didn't remember having the dream. I woke with a feeling of dissatisfaction. I shook it off, thinking of his warm hands on my skin. I rise and go to use the bathroom. The water in the shower is cold and I'm shivering as I cross back to get dressed. I check my phone - a sweet message there, which makes me smile. In the kitchen, Mrs Laney is fighting with the hot tap at the sink. I tell her about the shower, that maybe there's an issue with the hot water system. She murmurs something about the house having odd days.

I don't hear it, my mind filled with anticipation. Privacy will have to be at his place, I don't want to even hint to Mrs Laney about him. We text and make plans, to meet and fulfil the promises our bodies made. I drift through the next few days at work distractedly.

On the day, we go together after work to his apartment. We are both eager and awkward, and he kisses my mouth and my neck and my hands, pulling me to the bed. We couple furiously, racing to fill our desires. He reaches his first, but he holds me and touches me and completes mine too. We watch some mindless comedy and eat popcorn and kiss again.

Eventually I leave, and return to the house. It's a warm night but again my room is cold. I decide to shower before I sleep, but the hot water will not run, so I wash myself standing up and hurry back to my bed. The sigh of air in the wall is replaced by a chugging noise, almost like a sob. A bubble somewhere causing a blockage between floors and causing the pipes to bang. I'll talk to Mrs Laney about it in the morning, and fall asleep thinking of my new lover.

I am walking through dark trees. Their branches block me and scratch my bare skin. I look for the path, but I cannot see the ground and stones cut my feet. I look for the moon, the stars, but the sky is barren. Where is the one who always guides me? I call but I have no voice. I reach out but I have no hands. I'm stumbling and falling, and there is no one to help me.

I wake shivering. My blankets are twisted on the floor, I'd kicked and struggled in my dreams, until the cold woke me. I check the time, it's early but I could probably make tea without disturbing Mrs Laney. I pull on a jumper and slippers to get warm.

Of course, when you are trying to be quiet, everything makes noise. The door sticks and I have to force it, the stairs creak, the taps shudder when you turn on the water, the fridge slams shut with a bang. I sigh with relief when I have successfully made tea without dropping and breaking anything, and sip it in the dawn light, looking out over the garden.

One by one, the other tenants rise and pass into the kitchen before leaving the house for the day. We greet each other politely, and I ask about the hot water - they have noticed no change, so it must just be an issue with the top floor. I wait for Mrs Laney, meaning to check with her before going to work. She's usually awake by now, so I knock at the door to her rooms.

No answer. I try again, and hear a faint cry and a bout of coughing. I try the handle. It's unlocked so I open it and call out again. There's more coughing. I follow the noise, not wanting to enter Mrs Laney's private rooms, but when I find her, she's deathly pale and drawn. She fusses at me but I fuss right back, she's too old to be flippant with illness and the coughing is rough. I get a wet cloth from the bathroom and take a peek at her medicines - some strong prescriptions for her heart, so I pocket the newest. After getting her to sit up, I say I'm getting some tea and I go out to call the doctor on the bottle.

The surgery says the doctor will come to the house. Which seems odd, what doctor does that anymore? But I make tea and get some liquid into my patient while we wait. I can hear the wheeze in her chest and it worries me.

The doctor looks even more ancient than Mrs Laney. I give them privacy and go upstairs to get dressed. When I come back down, the doctor is grave and asks if I can stay with her while he calls for transport to hospital, he's concerned about pneumonia. I agree and say I can take her myself if it's faster. The doctor says that may be better than waiting, so we go to break the news to Mrs Laney. Her fussing previously is nothing to her stubbornness now, but the two of us wear down her objections and get her ready to go. I pack a bag for her, clothes and pills and toiletries, and when the doctor leaves the room so I can help her dress, she suddenly grabs my arm.

"Take the key. Keep it safe," she says hoarsely.

I smile and say of course, thinking she meant the large ring of master keys for the house, which I had seen her use many times. But Mrs Laney points to a drawer, and in it is a long chain, bearing a silver key. I held it up and she nods, placing a finger over her lips for silence. I carefully put it around my own throat and slipped it under my clothes. If it made her feel better, I could hold on to it for a while.

The doctor helps me get Mrs Laney to my car, and I sit with her while we wait for admission and tests. I ask about family, but there is none left, just Mrs Laney alone in the house, so I put my name as a contact. It's a long day, and when she is settled and the nurses say I can go, I say goodbye and rush home to my own rest.

The hot water is working again, and I blissfully run it as hot as I can stand. After, I lie in bed reading, and listening to the sighs and creaks of the house, and worry about Mrs Laney. I would hate to leave here if she became too ill to manage, and she would be devastated to be put in a care home. I remember the key, and slip it inside a book on my shelf, for a less obvious hiding place than just a drawer.

I'm in the hallway again. I can hear sobbing. I turn towards it, rushing around corners and finding only blind ends, turning back and finding another endless passage leading to darkness. The sobbing is louder now, full of sadness and regret and I am desperate to find it, to hold it and stop its sorrow. I search endlessly but I only find emptiness.

The daylight is bright and hot. I've slept too long. My phone has messages waiting, my lover asking if I want to go out tonight. I sent back a text trying to explain about the hospital, how I'd need a raincheck. When I return from visiting Mrs Laney, he's waiting with takeaway food. I give him a grateful hug, and we spend the afternoon upstairs in my room, eating pizza and talking.

After he leaves, I take my time cleaning in my room and then in the kitchen. There's some expiring milk that needs throwing out, which reminds me to check Mrs Laney's rooms. We'd forgotten to turn the lights off, and the bedclothes needed changing. I have a quick look for anything else that needed immediate attention, and check the writing desk for any papers that might be useful - the name of a property agent, or a solicitor, perhaps, someone who might know what to do about the house, or about Mrs Laney's health insurance, or arrangements if her condition worsened.

Over the desk are framed photos, some black and white, some colour but faded from age and light. I look closer at families in formal poses gathered in front of the house, a candid shot of two young girls playing in what looks like the back garden, a portrait of a handsome couple who must be newlyweds in their best suits standing in front of a mantelpiece that looks familiar, the same couple now older but still smiling and holding hands. Mrs Laney, growing up with her family, finding her 'suitable gentleman', and spending her life with him, all in this house.

A small life to some, perhaps, but one where she was loved and happy. I felt suddenly jealous, and then ashamed. I shake it off and resume looking through the desk. There was a folder of legal papers, tax documents and some bills. I would have to make some calls during business hours.

It's getting late now, and I recline on my bed, watching the sunlight fade and the changing colour of the sky. The darkness creeps in from the corners and surrounds me, and I think about my reaction to the photos. I had come to be so content here, so secure in my place in the house. I was scared about my sanctuary ending abruptly, and overwhelmed with the responsibility of caring for someone who was ill and had no one else. And the turmoil of opening myself to a new relationship, even as my stomach fluttered for thinking of what we had done together. No wonder I had dreamed of being lost, of sobbing and sadness.

I hear the sobbing now, and under the sobs a hushed cry.

I need you.

I turn in the dark, looking for a light or a gap in the trees to show me the stars. I hear the cry again,

I need you, please

, softer, fading in the black forest.

It's a dream, I realise. If I am dreaming, then I can find the path again and banish the sadness and the fear. I find my voice and call, "where are you?"

Help me. Find me. I lost you, I'm alone!

I push through the trees towards the cry.

"I'll find you." I hurry now, willing the forest to open ahead of me. There, where the shadows are slightly deeper, a huddled shape on the ground.

"I'm here." I reach for it, my arms grasping nothing.

You left me, you left the path.

I feel the presence that had walked with me in my dreams before.

I try to soothe it, to regain the peace we had before. "I'm here now. I found you."

The presence surrounds me, inky blackness filling my vision, even against the dark forest.

I need you. You have to be ready.

I still cannot grasp it, but I feel it twining around me, the sorrow chilling my heart.

"You are safe. I have you. You have me." In the dream, we are one thing, twisting and moving inside each other. Slowly the sadness fades and is replaced by a quiet calm. Our motion becomes a caress, then an embrace. I feel it around my thighs, my waist, my shoulders. I melt into the touches along my neck and drown in the dark kisses that cover my eyes and flow into my mouth. We cry out together in mutual need and mutual bliss, a flood of joy and heat that banishes the sorrow, as I had wanted.

I wake shaking, a hand between my legs. The sheets under me are soaked with sweat. Had I come in my sleep? I touch myself, finding my pussy lips slippery and my clit sensitive to the slightest pressure. If not, then I was close. I bit my lip in excitement, and began rubbing my nipples and rolling my clit under my wet fingers.

I whisper the words I had said, "I have you, please, I'm here, you have me..."

Over and over, gritting my teeth as my orgasm swelled, "please, I need it, I need you, please, please," I begged and whimpered, trying to recapture the need and the bliss from the dream.

Come for me.

I sense the words, rather than hear them, low and intense. It was enough, my climax triggering at that moment. My eyes squeeze shut, seeing the forest and the presence surrounding me, and I plunge into the bliss I had been chasing there.

It's not light outside yet. I doze, letting my mind slip in and out of consciousness. I feel the caress on the back of my neck, the kiss on my forehead, and smile. I snuggle deeper into my pillow, hoping to find you again in the forest, so we can walk the path together.

The night's dreams and their results left me skittish for the rest of the day. I tried to concentrate on what I needed to accomplish: calling and emailing the names I'd found; letting the other tenants know what had happened; my own housekeeping; a quick visit to Mrs Laney. But I felt edgy, even my own clothes against my skin making me react with desire. After dinner, I give in, and I text my lover to meet me at the house.

I let him inside and hurry him upstairs, whispering for him to be silent. It was reckless to have him here rather than go to him, but I wanted release. In my room, I begin tugging at his clothes, pushing him to the bed. He is excited by my urgency, running his hands over my hips. He kneels between my legs and holds my thighs open, his tongue lapping at my wetness.

I push his face deeper, craving more. The heat of his breath makes me tremble, but it's not enough. I pull him away, wrenching him onto his back and straddling his hips. I grind my wet pussy along his cock, moaning, "please, I need it, I need you..."

His cock hardens and I let it enter me, rolling my hips to ride my lover. Under me, he moans and watches as I buck and sway on his hardness.

In the corners of the room, I sense furtive movement. I turn my head, but see nothing. Is that a weight on the bed behind me, or is it just our mutual thrusting? Soft flicking touches to my calves, along my spine make me shiver, but I look down, and his hands are on my hips.

I am here. I found you.

I hear the voice behind me, like silken knots tightening, a cold breath on the back of my neck as it whispers.

You need me.

The touches become more insistent, curling around my body, the chill making me gasp.

He's not good enough for you. This is what you need.

I can see coils of shadow twisting around my arms. My hands are jerked upwards, pulled behind my head. I try to pull away, but something stronger holds them there. I look down at my lover - did he hear the voice, does he see the shadows holding me? I don't think he does. He is smiling, he thinks I'm showing off my body for him.

I whimper as the slithering touches set my skin on fire. Tendrils of burning ice twist around my nipples, down my belly and against my clit. More stroking along my arse cheeks, delicately playing with my bud. Pressure against my shoulders, and I am pushed down to lay my head against my lover's chest. My hands are released suddenly, but all I can do is grab at his shoulders.

Take what you need.

Behind me, something enters, insinuates inside me, curling and spreading. The pleasure is profound, the vigorous thrusts of my lover being matched by the swelling mass as it writhes deeper into my core.

I'm riding my lover, and something is riding me.

Come for me.

The voice is not a whisper now, it is all I hear. I clench instinctively at its command. My lover under me comes, my lover over me continues, pulsing inside my arse and against my clit.