Page 15 of The Haunting of William Thorn

Dearest reader, I must first apologise for my absence, but you will understand I have been rather occupied as of late.

Much has occurred since I last wrote to you, but the shame has stayed the same.

I live with it now. A part of me has learned to thrive alongside it.

The shame I harbour is nothing but a bad neighbour, whom I live in peace beside.

It is worse during the times I am alone with my mind, so I do my best to keep those times limited.

There was a brief time when I could not bring myself out of bed. Now I leap out of it, knowing that he is waiting for me. Every night, that is our promise. Teddy fears he cannot sleep without me, and I feel the same, but for an entirely differing reason.

Teddy is the route of my sins, and the angel willingly forgives me for them. He is both my concealment and my revelation.

Since that fateful night towards the end of May, I have not slept a night without him.

Until tonight that is. Which is why I have the time to write to you.

Father has returned from London after being hindered in the city.

His presence has brought an end to our late-night escapades.

I should be thankful, but I cannot help but despise him.

Reader, I know it is dramatic to admit, but being kept from Teddy makes me feel like I am leashed.

I wish Father slept as soundly as Mother.

She has always been a heavy sleeper, which has only been a benefit to me sneaking out during the dead of night to meet Teddy.

Would you think poorly of me if I admit to slipping a healthier helping of brandy into Mother’s evening tea?

It has only been a little, but as we know, a little goes a long way.

Father returned from the city earlier than expected, and the mood he brought with him was dark. I am worried. All this talk of war has sent him into a place in his mind, somewhere deep and dark – a trench of terrible memories he collected during the first war.

We, as a family, lost so much in the last war. I do not think we would survive losing any more to another.

At supper tonight, Father spoke of conscription.

It spoiled my appetite entirely, making each mouthful of potato and leek pie hard to swallow.

I wanted to speak his name, my dearest brother Archibald, for no one ever muttered it since his passing.

But I dared not ruin the little peace. Upsetting Mother now would not end well, especially not with a storm brewing beneath Father’s skin.

Teddy sensed my worry from across the table. I know he did because his gaze never left me. If I ever believed in the fanciful concepts of magic, he would be the reason why. He has a way of knowing what concerns I harbour in my busy mind. One look at me, he says that is all it takes.

We sat opposite one another while Mother and Father sat at the table’s heads.

Teddy engaged in conversation and did everything in his power to settle the tension my father had brought home with him.

I admired that about him. Even in moments when silence is required, he finds a way to make noise and change the atmosphere.

It was not his words that brought me comfort during supper. It is his foot, which he brushed slowly and tentatively up and down my leg.

He did it in front of them both. All it would have taken was one of them to drop a spoon on the floor, and they would have seen what he was doing beneath the table.

I should have felt terrible for it. But what they do not know cannot harm them. How could I feel guilt for him touching my leg when he had spent the last two months touching far more than something so mundane?

You must think of me a terrible son, reader.

I blush now as I write this, thinking about how we spend our nights. I wish to tell you, but I fear putting it down in words. Writing such things makes them real, and I already struggle to deal with the concept myself, let alone share the burden with you.

Can I ask you a question? I understand you are incapable of replying, but perhaps putting this down in words will help me.

Will I go to hell for loving a man? For loving my Teddy.

All my life, I have grown up knowing such thoughts and actions are impure under God’s scrutinising gaze – but how can loving someone the way I love Teddy be evil or ugly when it fills me with more breath than I could ever describe?

Teddy thinks my worries are silly. He said as much, telling me we should not refuse one another’s affections just because some unseen figure from an old book tells us so.

I wish I saw the world the way he does. It would make life so much easier to deal with.

I asked him the same question once as I laid my head on his bare chest. And do you know what he told me?

If loving you is worthy of hell, I go there gladly, knowing it accepts us together.

I hold on to not his words but the sentiment.

I cannot bear the thought of not seeing him tonight. Even as I write this, I can see the glow of light from the gatehouse he stays in. It is a beacon, calling me to him. He knows tonight will be different because Father is home. Whereas Mother sleeps soundlessly, Father hardly rests at all.

He shuffles from room to room downstairs, finishing off a bottle of spirits and mumbling. I am frightened of him, the broken man he became after Archibald died. His moods, his darkness. I only hope that one day he sees the light.

No good comes from dwelling comfortably in the dark, reader.

I want to go to Teddy, I do. I wish to feel the press of his naked warmth against me.

It is one of life’s wonders to fall asleep to the tracing of rough fingers running across my back.

It is another to wake to the press of cold lips above every inch of my spine.

He cares for me as tenderly as he does his roses.

My body yearns for him. My mind cries out for him.

But how can I go without sparking suspicion?

Mother and Father must not know. They must not find out.

The thought alone makes me want to climb out of my window and throw myself beyond it.

The pain from the fall would be nothing compared to the pain of seeing hate in their eyes.

The disappointment. I would not survive it.

Their only remaining son, not moulded in the way they so desired.

Teddy tells me not to dwell. He promises he will let no harm come to me.

And I believe him – I do. But life is delicate; it would not take a harsh touch to ruin it.

I constantly feel as though I am standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the knowledge of what would become of me if my family found out I had fallen in love with a man.

Expectation would do that to a person, I know that.

Would they cast me out? Maybe. Would it be so terrible? I do not know.

These are the thoughts I am plagued with, which is why I must go to Teddy tonight. He will take them away. He will bury them deep for me, until the next time I am left alone.

If they find me, my parents, I will tell them I was sleepwalking. Although the affliction has not occurred in many years, I have often been known to walk the grounds at night before. But the risk is worth the reward.

Which is why I will wait – wait for my father to settle himself. I will move from my room only when his snores shake the very foundations of the manor. Some nights, my father hosts his meetings from his study, so at least I know he will be occupied with his visitors if they come tonight.

In truth, I prefer to escape to the gatehouse when my father is holding those meetings. I hate how his voice travels as if they fill the walls. Once, I was sure I heard him inside the wall just off the landing, which is silly because even the mice do not bother with Hanbury.

Either way, I will go to my Teddy.

I can barely admit this to you, but I hunger for him. For his touch, his mouth. After he had spent the evening’s meal fondling me from beneath the table, I burned to finish what we started.

When we are finished, I wish to rest my head on his chest, feel the tickle of his hair, and inhale the scent of soil and rose that the summer has stained him with. All those hours working in the gardens have adapted his hands to a careful touch.

And I want it.

I cross my legs as I write this if only to try and still the swell of myself.

Maybe one day I will tell you what happens during our nights together.

There is magic in our shared company. It stretches time out until it is a new concept.

Hours become days when I am with him, and we fill the time perfectly.

He tells me he wishes to run away with me. Out of everything he says, that is the one thing that hurts the most. But I do not tell him otherwise. Not when he comes alive inside himself, whenever he conjures up stories of our future.

Teddy loves the coast, often fantasising about moving to Dorset or Devon, where we could live near the ocean. So close we could feel the spray of water on our faces whenever we stepped outside.

I admit, it sounds blissful.

But I must play along, feeding into the concept of a future even though I know it will never happen. I do it for Teddy, to see him smile. I let him dream.

Teddy tells me stories of how he grew up by the sea. His earliest memory is of barrelling through a sandcastle his mother had made. The sand scratched his feet, and his mother found sand in his hair for days afterwards.

I love it when he talks about her. His joy is bright and all-consuming, and his eyes always fill with a sheen of tears. How could someone be so heartbreakingly beautiful, no matter the emotion he displays?

I let him create these stories because it makes him happy. Seeing him smile is enough to make me forget the truth – that I can never leave Hanbury Manor.