It started two months after we moved in. I would catch him staring at me during dinner, or when I passed his bedroom. At first, I didn’t think anything of it, of course he was going to stare; we had just moved to a new town in a new state, and my personality had 180ed so fast, I’m still surprised he didn’t get whiplash.

Sometimes, I would hear him pace outside of my closed door. He meant to be silent, but the old floorboards betrayed him. And it wasn’t just the floorboards that were old, no, it was the entire house. It had stood for nearly 300 years, as old as the town itself. Although he didn’t know it when he bought it, the house was called “Suicide Manor” by the locals, as at least one tenant killed themselves when a new family moved in. People would come up to me at school and ask, “So, when are you gonna do it?” I didn’t know how to answer them, so I just walked away, ignoring the laughter that came with my retreat.

But I digress. You want to know my story, not receive a history lesson.

It happened for the first time in November. The wind had been blowing so bad that I didn’t hear him come in, so when I woke up, it was to find him kneeling at the end of my bed, pulling my pajama pants down. He saw me open my eyes, and he moved so fast that I didn’t have time to react. Within seconds, my underwear was off and he was inside of me. It hurt so bad that I screamed. I tried to fight him off. Of course, I knew it was useless, and soon he had my arms pinned above my head and his hand over my mouth. He moved his hips rhythmically, his cock sliding in and out of me quickly. After what seemed like an eternity, he buried himself inside of me completely and came, his forehead resting on my shoulder. He never cried out, or made any noise whatsoever that first time.

Afterwards, as I was sitting in my shower, letting the water cascade over my body, I felt that someone was watching me through the curtain. Fearing it was him again, I peered around the black plastic and screamed. It was a girl, wearing a dress from the 1700s. The neck was cut low enough so that her small breasts looked as if they were about to spill over, and the waist was cinched so tight that it looked as if it would hurt to breathe. Only, she didn’t have to worry about that: her throat was slit from ear to ear, spilling blood down her transparent body. She was dead.

She looked at me sympathetically. In her hand was a large, old-fashioned kitchen knife, covered in blood that I instinctively knew was hers. This was, after all, Suicide Manor. I was about to open my mouth to say something to her when the door opened and she disappeared.

He looked at me and asked what had happened. Why was I screaming, he wanted to know. Somehow, it was as if he didn’t even remember what he had done to me not even an hour before. I shook my head, mumbled something vague about a spider, and he left. I spent the rest of the night in the shower, letting the water that had long ago gone cold to rain down on me.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “What does a ghost have to do with getting raped?” or vice versa. I would just like to let you know that the two events are so completely and utterly intertwined that, for some, it will become hard to differentiate between the two.

o.0

The second time it happened, two weeks later, I was ready. I knew that trying to resist him was futile, so when the door opened, I sat up, shoved the covers off of me, and kicked off my pajama pants. My underwear I left on, just to show him that I wasn’t completely willing. He just padded across the floor and climbed in bed with me. Without saying a word, he reached over and removed my t-shirt, and I let him. His mouth quickly found my nipple and he began sucking and pulling it with his teeth. My back arched and a small moan escaped my lips. He took that as encouragement to continue and his hand traveled down my body to the waistband of my underwear. At first, he only dipped one finger beneath, trailing it lightly across my skin and sending shivers up my spine. Then, his entire hand was in and he was playing with me. His fingers stroked and caressed me, bringing forth sighs and moans that I had never been able to invoke myself.

I laid back. One finger found my opening and slowly pushed inside. In response, my hips pushed forward into his hand. He slipped a second finger in, all the while, his mouth was working my nipples, one after another, back and forth, his tongue swirling and his fingers, three now, wriggling. Cries escaped me as he worked, bringing me closer and closer to the edge. Then his mouth was moving downwards, and he pulled his fingers out. His lips moved over the cotton, kissing me where nobody had ever kissed me before. He pulled the underwear down and off of my legs, and he moved his face between my thighs. His fingers returned, more insistent now, but before I could return to the point I was at previously, he pulled away again. He wiggled out of his boxers, and suddenly, he was naked. I could see his cock, hard now, resting against his stomach. He sat there, looking at me looking at him. Then, ever so slowly, he crawled across the mattress until he was on top of me, his cock pushing at my entrance.

I bent my knees slightly, letting him know that he could, and he did. It was better this time. He moved softly and slowly, pushing into me completely, and then stopping. He looked into my eyes, which had filled with tears, and leaned forward and captured my lips in a gentle kiss. I immediately opened my mouth, my tongue grappling with his. I placed my hands on his hips, and he began to move. The rocking soon became quicker, the headboard banging into the wall, but by then, we were both so far gone that we didn’t care. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this was wrong, that I should stop, but the warmth pooling in my lower stomach pushed the thought away. It was the friction that did it, delicious friction that made me come, crying out his name as I did so, and he replied with another kiss and his own finish. He collapsed on top of me, both of us shaking and sweaty, despite the fact that it was only fifty or so degrees in the room.

After a while, he got up and left, placing a chaste kiss on my cheek before he did so. I blinked once and rolled over, coming face-to-face with a boy about my age with a noose around his neck. He stared at me with large, white eyes for nearly twenty minutes. Then, as I was about to ask him his name, he yanked at the rope and vanished.

o.0

The next day, I avoided him. I couldn’t be anywhere in his vicinity without feeling dirty. So, around eleven thirty, I left him a note and headed to the library.

I wanted to know the actual history of my house, I told the elderly librarian. She obliged, leading me to the back room, gazing at me with pity the entire time. The back room, more of a closet, really, was half-filled with books. She went to a shelf and pulled two hardbacks off of it. Setting them on the desk, she looked at me once more, then left, shutting the door behind her.

The first book was actually a journal, dated 1783. The name scrawled on the first page was Lucy Parker. Curious, I turned to the first entry.

November 17, 1783

Papa has finished the house. He and Tom arrived to Auntie’s to tell Mother and me the news. We are to move in as soon as the storm subsides.

For the first twenty or thirty pages, that’s how it went. There were brief synopses of Lucy Parker’s day, what the weather was like, who came to visit, that sort of thing. Then, on January 13, 1784, the entire mood of the journal changed.

January 13, 1784

Papa came to see me last night, to check on me, he said, to see if the fever had gone down. At first, that’s what he did, but then his hands slipped beneath my quilt. I was too tired and too weak to protest when his fingers touched me in my secret, holy place. They were only there for a brief moment, but still I can feel them there, as if they had scorched me.

I was entranced. I kept reading up until the last entry, dated July 1, 1785.

I can’t take it any longer. I have stolen a kitchen knife from under Mama’s nose. I plan to do it tonight.

Shocked, I set the journal aside, and picked up the other book. This one was a biography of all of the suicide victims that had lived in my house over the years. The first chapter was about Lucy, of course. She had been eighteen when she died, the book said. She had become moody and had stopped eating. Her parents feared for her mental health. I didn’t need to read on about Lucy, as I knew why she had been like that, so I turned to the second chapter.

It described a boy named Paul Turner. His father had been a doctor and his mother had died. He’d lived in the house in the 1820s, when his father bought the house from Tom Parker after his parents’ deaths. Paul and his father were devout Catholics, and had invited a Father Francis over twice a week for dinner. One night, Paul’s father was summoned by the mayor, whose wife had fallen off of her horse that day. Father Francis had been invited for dinner that night, and Paul let him in. When Dr. Turner returned home, he found Father Francis with his hands down Paul’s breeches. Father Francis was dealt with soundly, and the next day, Paul hung himself.

The book continued like this for seventeen more chapters. Each described a teen that was sexually abused by someone whom they had loved and trusted, and how they had killed themselves.

See? I told you this would all make sense.

o.0

One night, about a week later, I was cleaning up the kitchen after dinner when something moving near the fridge caught my eye. It was Lucy. Calmly, I turned to face her head on. She just stared at me, her knife dripping ghostly blood. I was holding a knife in my hand, as well. Slowly, still staring at her as though hypnotized, I brought the knife to my wrist and pressed down. It had just been sharpened and went through my skin like butter. Lucy smiled, and then raised her own knife to her throat. She faded as she slid it across her pale skin.

As soon as she vanished, the pain set in. Looking down, I saw that the knife had dug deep into my wrist, severing the veins. Blood ran down my hand and landed on the white tile of the floor. I screamed loudly, dropping the knife into the sink. Grabbing the towel off of the counter, I pressed it to the cut and went to find him.

o.0

He drove me to the clinic, where I got sixteen stitches and was put on suicide watch. As the history of my home was well known, I was repeatedly asked questions concerning him. Still bearing some loyalty to him, despite all of the disgusting, private, beautiful things we had done, I told the doctors and police men that I’d thought that if I tried it, he would see how depressed I was and would move us back to the city, but I had accidentally gone to deep.

Three days later, he drove me home. He didn’t say a word to me, not that I had expected him to, as he was obviously upset. He never talked to me when he was like this.

o.0

Over the next several weeks, he left me alone. He never made eye contact, and, if he could, he avoided being in the same room. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I would open my door to find the light in his room on, his own door opened. He would stare down the hall at my room until he saw me. Then he would close his eyes and turn off the light.

I know you might find this slightly horrifying, but I desperately wanted him to come to me again. I missed it.

o.0

I soon got my wish. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, and I had just returned from school. I walked into my room to find him sitting on my bed. Immediately, I dropped my bag and shut the door.

He crossed the room quickly and captured my lips with his. His hips pressed into my lower stomach, and I could feel his cock through his pants. I began grinding against him. He groaned and moved his hips in time with mine. A giggle escaped my lips and my hands traveled down his body until they found the hem of his t-shirt. I tugged it up and over his head.

Throwing the shirt on the floor, my hands soon found the fly of his pants, and soon they were pushing the jeans and boxer down. He kicked them away, and he began stripping me down. When I was as naked as he was, I turned us around so that it was him who was pressed against the door. I gave him one last kiss, then dropped to my knees.

I took his cock in my mouth, only half-way, though, because I would’ve gagged otherwise. His fingers wound themselves in my hair. I ran my tongue along the underside of his cock, making him moan. The pre-come was salty in my mouth, but I lapped it up greedily.

He pulled me back up and kissed me, at the same time, maneuvering me so that I was leaning against my desk. Lying back on my elbows, I spread my legs to grant him access to do whatever he wished. Grinning slightly, he pushed two fingers inside me. Biting my lip at the slight pain, I closed my eyes and enjoying the feel of his fingers.

After a few minutes, I pushed his hand away. He took the not-so-subtle hint and positioned himself between my thighs. We both moaned as he pushed his cock in me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, and he lifted me up, thrusting as he did so. He attempted to walk us to my bed, but the friction—that beautiful friction again—made me come. He smiled at me, laid me down on the bed, and continued thrusting. After a few minutes, he came, shuddering and whispering my name. Pulling out, he crawled up the mattress and rested his head on the pillow next to me. One of his hands reached between my legs and lazily stroked me, making me twitch.

It was then, in my post-orgasmic euphoria, that I noticed Paul, swinging from the ceiling. His white eyes stared down at me questioningly, possibly wondering what the bloody fuck I was doing. I stared back for a moment, then turned and buried my face in his shoulder.

o.0

That’s how the rest of the month went. I would come home from school, or he from work, and whenever we saw each other, we would drop whatever it was that we were doing. All the while, I would see Lucy or Paul out of the corner of my eye.

o.0

Near the end of January, during a terrible snowstorm, I snuck into his room and climbed into his bed, the way I used to do when I was a child. He pulled me close, burying his nose in my hair, and breathed deeply. I think it was at that moment that I decided to do it. I was in love with him, no matter how close we were, no matter how it all started. I knew it would hurt him, and that he would be lonely, but I could never tell him how I felt.

o.0

The next day, I came home to find him sitting on the couch. I went over to the windows and closed the blinds. Turning around, I walked towards him, stripping as I went. When I reached him, I was naked from the waist down. Leaning over him, I undid his pants and pulled them down around his knees.

This time, we didn’t bother with foreplay. I crawled onto his lap and mounted him. We were kissing fiercely, me moving my hips back and forth and up and down, desperate for my climax, for our climax.

It was over within minutes, and then I was gone, upstairs to my bathroom. I didn’t kiss him goodbye, as it would have made it only that much harder.

There was a knife hidden between the towels in my cupboard. I pulled it out and stared at it. Paul and Lucy appeared on either side of me. I wasn’t sure if they were there to calm me, or to gloat about the fact that they had won. I put the knife to my wrist, over the pink scar that already decorated it, and slid it across, hard. The pain came instantly this time, and I almost cried out. Biting back tears, I turned the knife to my other wrist.

He found me about an hour later. Somehow, I had managed to crawl into the tub. His face collapsed, and tears spilled out of his eyes. He held my lifeless hand in his, covering himself in blood. My blood.

o.0

The next few days were a blur. Arrangements were made, visitors stopped by and paid their respects. He never said a word during these visits. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He hardly left my room.

On the day of my funeral, I stood next to him in the snow, my hand in his, even though he couldn’t feel it, dripping blood onto the ground. Lucy and Paul were opposite us. As my casket was being lowered into the ground, he dropped a single red rose into the hole, then turned away. I stayed where I was, staring at the epitaph he had left for me:

Little Boy Blue has gone away.

Here lies my baby brother.

I choked at the message…he had used my nickname…the one he had given me…for the color of my eyes…

Paul and Lucy came over to me and grasped my hands. Turning away from the grave, I let them lead me home.

o.0

A week later, my brother made friends with the same knife I had, in the same room I had.

While he was doing the deed, I went downstairs and found a notebook and pencil. After a few tried, I managed to grasp the writing utensil in my ghostly hand. The blood dripping down from my wrist made it hard to write, but I managed. When it was done, I stared down at the paper. He had taken the responsibility of writing mine, so I had returned the favor.

A loving brother, tender and kind, what a beautiful memory you left behind.

We were together in life, and now, we are together again.

o.0

That’s my story. Now you know what to do when your daddy’s staring becomes more than staring. Because it will become more. That’s the nature of Suicide Manor. We’ve decided to stay behind with Paul and Lucy to show you what to do, my brother and I.

I know you haven’t been here in the house for very long, and you might think this is a dream. If you don’t trust your mind when you wake up, go to the cemetery. Look for our graves.

Uh-oh. I hear someone outside the door. If you think it’ll help, you can scream. It won’t bother us. We’ll be right here, the four of us. Waiting for you to make your decision.

Paul says it’ll help if you do it sooner.

He’s coming in now.

I would take Paul’s advice, if I were you…

o.0

A/N: Well…yes. This was something that popped into my head one night that wouldn’t go away. I know it’s very dark, and incestuous, and angsty…blah, blah, blah…don’t flame me. But I did want you all to actually read it. That’s why I didn’t put any warnings in the summary…or at the beginning. Deal with it.

--Phaith.