Page 9 of The Haunting of Lockton

Before the ache in my chest could spread, I ridded myself of the thought and sat up, shivering at the cold air on my skin. The draft in the old house made the chilly November morning even colder. After tugging on a sweater, I left my room and padded down the stairs.

A young man in a WWI uniform stood at the kitchen counter, his gaze on the window above the sink. The khaki-colored wool of his high-collared tunic was pressed and orderly, and his russet brown boots were polished. Nothing out of place. His dark blond hair had been combed back, but a strand fell forward, kissing the skin of his left temple.

“Morning,” I said.

“Good morning.” Alan turned to me, the distant gleam in his blue eyes fading as a smile took its place. “Sleep well?”

“I did.”

“I made coffee.”

“Thanks. It smells great.” I grabbed the mug he’d set beside the coffee machine and filled it, my heart warming as I took that first sip. It always tasted better when he made it. Even though he couldn’t drink it.

“The leaves are so vibrant now.” Alan’s gaze returned to the window. “Perhaps we can take a stroll after breakfast.”

“I can’t today. I need to be at work by nine.”

“Oh, that’s right.” His body flickered, solid one moment, then slightly transparent the next. “Another day, then.”

A sad pang hit my chest.

In the twenty years I’d known him, Alan hadn’t aged a day. He was frozen in time. Unchanging. Forever that bright-eyed Doughboy shipped off to the trenches of the Western Front where he’d fallen in no man’s land five months later, one week shy of his twentieth birthday.

Ghosts often haunted the locations where they’d died. But sometimes, if they had a strong connection to a place, their spirit could be drawn there instead. That was my theory anyway. The house was Alan’s childhood home. The one place he’d felt safe. So maybe that was why he’d ended up there after his death instead of wandering the Front.

“I have tomorrow off,” I said. “We can go on a walk in the morning. But only after I’ve had coffee.”

He beamed at me. “I’ll make sure it’s waiting for you.”

Just as he did every morning.

“Remember when we used to rake the leaves and jump in them, Pax?” Alan asked in a wistful tone. “You were small back then. Shorter than me.” He softly smiled. “Now look at you. You’re not a boy anymore.”

My heart squeezed. No, I wasn’t a boy anymore… but Alan always would be. He would never experience what it was like to grow up. To fall in love. Or do any of the things I took forgranted. His life had ended tragically before he’d even gotten the chance to truly live.

I used to call him Peter Pan—it was how my mind had processed him never aging as my body changed over the years and his never did.

“Those were good times.” I joined him near the window.

“They were.” Alan pointed to the large oak tree in the backyard. “That’s where we first spoke.”

“I remember.” I smiled at the flood of memories. “I was five.”

He nodded. “You were trying to climb that tree and fell. Scraped your knee. I didn’t like hearing you cry. So I showed myself to you for the first time.”

“And you’ve stayed beside me ever since.”

Alan had been like a big brother back then, talking to me when I felt lonely and playing hide-and-seek with me while my mom rested from working at the diner all night. He had been my first best friend. The one person other than my mom I could rely on. He was still that way. My best friend.

Though, I supposed I looked more like the big brother now.

“I’ll always be beside you,” Alan said before pulling me in for an unexpected hug. He didn’t touch me often. Usually only when he was really happy. Or upset.

I jumped at the sudden sensation of cold that I felt even through my sweatshirt.

He chuckled and pulled away. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, you sound sorry.”