Matteo led the little group into the sitting room area. Despite having been converted years ago, he'd found the old pictures of the mom and pop carpentry shop it'd once been and hung them back up on the walls. The group peered around him to get a better look at the pictures.
"This is where Padraig Walsh spent his last night," Matteo announced. "This area used to be the storage room for wood, tools, and paint. His last night alive was spent sanding wood in this very room. Although unconfirmed, there are rumors that he got into a minor altercation with a customer that night, and that it may have been his killer."
The group had turned their attention back onto him as he spoke, eyes wide as they took in his words. As they watched him now, he let my eyes dart to the left briefly before refocusing on them. Two of them had turned to follow Matteo's gaze, searching for whatever had caught his attention.
When Matteo saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, he didn't look this time. A girl let out a surprised noise.
"Mr. Russo, do you live here with anyone?" she asked nervously.
Matteo shot her a confused look. "No, it's just me. Why?"
"Oh, I, um, I just...thought I saw someone move into that room over there," she said, fidgeting.
The man behind her snorted. "I was looking and I didn't see anyone. Your mind's playing tricks on you."
"There's not even anything in there," Matteo said dismissively. "Just a junk room. Now, as I was saying, this is where Padraig Walsh spent his last night alive. He worked down here with his brother and sister, bringing whatever the carpenters needed and doing menial tasks like sanding wood or washing paint brushes. The shop closed at 8 p.m., but by the time they'd cleaned everything up, it was closer to 10. Padraig went upstairs to sleep. He shared a room with both of his siblings, but his brother had left that night to stay with their neighbor, as he was being paid to help him run errands at dawn. Padraig and his sister went to sleep together. At some point in the night, his parents stated that his sister had a nightmare and came into the room to sleep with them, which was a common occurrence. That left Padraig alone in the room."
They were all focused on him again, though he saw the girl's gaze flicking back to the junk room. He let the tension grow a little before continuing his story.
"The lock to the shop was broken when the cops arrived. Whoever did it had been quick and quiet, used to breaking and entering," Matteo said, speaking slower, letting their anxiety for the conclusion grow. "At just after 3 in the morning, the killer entered Padraig Walsh's room and brutally murdered him. With thirteen stab wounds and a slit throat, the police ruled it a personal attack on him. It was determined that his face was smothered with a pillow as he was stabbed, muffling his screams. The killer likely let him suffer from those wounds before finally slitting his throat. His bed and the floor were so soaked in his blood that they said the smell lingered for years."
Some of them glanced up, as if they expected to see Padraig's blood soaking through the ceiling. Matteo waited until their attention was back on him before continuing in that same slow, eerie voice.
"Padraig Walsh's killer was never found," he said. "But the investigation uncovered information that Padraig was involved with the Westies, and that he may have crossed the Italian mafia. Some even say it was Mad Dog Sullivan who was hired to kill him for his acts against the-"
Matteo didn't get to finish his sentence; instead, a loud crash came from the junk room. It was loud enough that even Matteo jumped in surprise. The girl who'd been watching that area squealed in surprise, a few others in the group letting out little yelps.
Matteo slapped a hand over his chest, feeling his heart slam against his palm. "Ah, as you can see, Mr. Walsh is never quite a fan of this part of the tour."
The man who'd claimed not to see anything inched closer to the room suspiciously. "Is that so?"
"You're welcome to have a look in the room," Matteo said, gesturing.
The man did just that, stomping in like he expected to catch someone in the act of frightening the group. Instead, he stood frozen in the doorway, looking at whatever had been knocked over.
Matteo knew what the man would see. He'd see an empty room with no other exit besides the doorway he was currently standing in. No place to hide. Just some broken junk from the crash and nothing there to have made it happen.
A figure flickered past the man. The girl cried out in surprise, stumbling back and pointing.
"T-There! Did you see that!" she said in alarm.
Only one other member of the group had grown pale, eyes following where the figure had flickered away. Matteo pretended to have been too slow to catch the glimpse.
"Saw him, did you?" he said, a bit ruefully. "Some tours he doesn't show. Not sure if you're lucky or the opposite."
"If this place is haunted, then why live here?" the man in the doorway demanded, though he hurried away from the spot, looking over his shoulder at it as he went.
Matteo shrugged. "I'm rightfully scared of ghosts, sure. But the ghost of Mr. Walsh has never done more than knock a few things around and creak some floorboards. At least, not to me. Some of the previous owners of the home have much more frightening tales of his activity. But I think he understands I keep his memory alive. And since I've started the tours of the house, there have been some calls for his case to be reopened." He let that settle over them before continuing on. "Shall we go see the room the murder happened in? The room was closed off for quite some time. When this building was renovated into a full house, there were attempted changes to the room. I'm sure you can imagine how that went."
He led them upstairs. There were two stairways in the home. One led up to the murder scene bedroom, with access to only a storage closet. Matteo had put in a door to block off the rest of the hallway, locking it to keep people out of the part of the home he occupied. The other stairway led up to the section he lived in.
Matteo let his hand linger on the door handle for a moment, taking a deep breath. It had the desired effect as the tension settled back over the now jumpy group.
He slowly pushed the door open, the familiar creak of hinges making some of the group members wince. Matteo had always been proud of his work to make that particular effect happen.
Inside, the room was changed from the time the Walsh family had lived here. The bloodstained flooring had been torn up and replaced, the walls painted over. None of these people had to know all the changes, though.
"The floorboards were torn up when they couldn't get the bloodstains out," he announced. "The most the renovation crew managed was that and painting the walls before they were frightened away from the job by what they called a 'vengeful ghost'." He gestured grandly to the bed, a cheap thing he'd picked up at a garage sale to toss in the room for dramatic effect. "That was the very bed Padraig Walsh was murdered in. The mattress and blankets are gone, naturally."
There was a picture over the bed of a young man sitting on a stoop. If one looked closely enough, they could see it was this building when it still acted as a carpentry shop. The young man was smoking a cigarette, a gleam in his eyes that promised trouble and a grin on his face that reaffirmed it. A pretty little girl with her hair pulled back leaned against him, her smile sweet.
Matteo stepped up to the picture. "This is the only picture of Padraig Walsh I managed to get my hands on. It was taken two months before his murder. That was his younger sister. Sometimes, people still wonder what would've been the fate of his siblings if they'd been in the room with him."
The room itself wasn't big at all, so the group had to crowd together to see the picture. It was also the only reason Padraig's whole family hadn't slept in the same room. His parents had slept in the other room in the hall, the one Matteo used as a storage closet now.
He informed them of as much as they observed the picture, taking in the sight of Padraig. They kept looking from the picture to the bed, slowly moving away from it as reality settled in.
It was one thing to hear the story of a violent murder. Quite another to put a face to it and realize you were standing in the very room in which it had happened.
The door behind them banged shut, earning more surprised cries. Matteo carefully made his way over, pushing the door open and peeking out into the hallway.
The girl followed him, pointing, her eyes wide in fear. "There! Someone just went down the stairs!"
She ran to the stairs, stopping as she realized there was no one there anymore. She backed up to Matteo again.
"It's alright," he assured them. "We're not disrespecting Mr. Walsh. Perhaps this would be a good time to leave his room and conclude the tour, though."
The group followed him back downstairs, Matteo throwing in some extra details to wrap up the whole story. He talked about the police investigation right up until they declared it a cold case, and about how the Westies had never commented on whether or not Padraig was involved.
When he was done, he sent the group on their way, watching the way the girl kept looking back. Her eyes widened as they locked on a window, horror washing over her. No doubt she was seeing a very familiar face. The shock that followed the horror told Matteo when the familiar face vanished from sight.
He made sure all the doors and windows were locked and all the security systems were armed before retreating upstairs. He stopped in the hallway, a figure standing in his bedroom doorway.
"For fuck's sake, Padraig, move. I hate walking through you to get to my room. It's weird and it's cold," he said irritably.
Padraig Walsh didn't move out of the doorway. He glowered, looking as alive as anyone who had been in the house today. The only thing that shattered the illusion of being solid and alive was the faint blur to his outline.
Matteo had always had a strong sixth sense, as had his grandfather. He just never thought he'd actually end up living with the world's most irritating ghost.
"You told them I was part of the Westies," he said, shifting to take up more of the doorway.
"And next time I'll tell them the Italians put a hit out on you for fucking a mob boss's daughter. Move," Matteo commanded.
"The mouth on ya," Padraig said, but reluctantly stepped aside.
He followed close to Matteo as he entered the room. Matteo shivered as Padraig sucked away any heat that he'd been blissfully harboring.
"Will you ever just tell them the truth, or are you going to slag me off forever?" Padraig asked as Matteo sat on his bed.
"The truth is no fun, you said so yourself," Matteo said, folding his hands behind his head and leaning against the wall.
The truth was that Padraig had never been involved with any mobs. He'd just been the son of an apprentice carpenter, the family immigrating to New York when Padraig was in his teens.
And the murder itself was anticlimactic. Padraig hadn't even been the target.
They'd shared the apartment above the shop with the Italian family that owned the shop. Their son had run drugs for a small street gang, but must've been pocketing more than his share. The man who had killed Padraig had simply entered the wrong bedroom, and therefore killed the wrong man.
Padraig had told Matteo this with the detached nature one had to have to relive that kind of trauma. He'd calmly and factually stated that the killer kept calling him Vincenzo during the murder, and telling him that he was getting what he deserved for crossing Joseph.
Padraig had no clue who Joseph was. He said he just wished the idiot hitman had pulled the pillow away from his face long enough to realize he was stabbing the wrong man.
Still, rumors soared. And the rumors were always more popular than the truth.
"You're still drawin' in a fine crowd," Padraig said, sitting on the bed and throwing his legs over Matteo's. Or, trying to. They sort of just floated above Matteo's and made him shiver as his leg hair rose at the sudden cold.
"Word spreads. Two in this one had a sixth sense. Nothing strong enough to really follow you as you terrorized them, but enough for them to testify it wasn't a partner helping me scare everyone," Matteo said with a shrug.
It's how things went. Matteo gave the tours, Padraig flickered around the house causing various amounts of havoc to frighten the group members. He liked to punish Matteo for using the mob rumor to sensatianlize the murder, so sudden, loud noises were his favorite, as they often gave Matteo as much of a shock as the group.
"So, financially...?" Padraig pressed.
"Paddy, calm down. I'm doing fine financially. I've got my job, and I've got the tour," Matteo said dismissively. "Besides, you being a constant asshole to everyone who ever has the misfortune of living here means I got this place for dirt cheap instead of having to sell my organs on the black market."
"Well, you're quite good at wagging your tongue on these tours. Smell the blood for years! They just left the windows open a few days and tossed a rug over the stain," Padraig said, trying to punch Matteo's shoulder and only succeeding in making it cold.
"I'm quite good with my tongue in general," Matteo said.
"I was too, when it wasn't incorporeal," Padraig said. He gave the grin from the picture in his old room, the one that promised trouble. "Can't quite show you these days, but there are always other options."
Matteo wasn't usually one to blush at sexual suggestions, but he turned his head away from Padraig as he felt the color come to his cheeks. "Not tonight, Paddy. Long day."
His mind slipped to the letter he'd found in his mailbox as he left for work this morning. As always, he hid it in his desk at work so Padraig couldn't snoop around and find it.
Because it was another offer from Franklin Weiss for the house. And the sum he was offering kept growing larger.
Matteo could claim he was financially well off all he wanted, and maybe it had been true for a bit. But then he'd been diagnosed with cancer, and along came the treatments and the medical bills.
He'd beaten the cancer. He hadn't beaten the cost of being a sick man in America.
Insurance only covered so much. His family could only afford to help him pay off so much. He was struggling.
But if he sold the house to Weiss...
He turned his face back to Padraig, a stern reminder of why he wasn't leaving. Maybe he hadn't been overly thrilled to find out his house really was haunted by the ghost of a man murdered in the 70s, restless from the years alone. But things had changed.
The banging and crashing and creaking had led to glimpses. The glimpses had led to tentative attempts to talk to the ghost. The tentative attempts led to a fascinated Padraig pouncing on the opportunity to talk with someone who could see him so well and who wasn't terrified of ghosts.
And now they were here.
Matteo laid his hand by Padraig's hip. Padraig covered it with his own.
"Matteo?" he said, his voice soft, inviting. He would listen. He would always listen.
But he'd been listening to people complain about their lives for 50 years as he floated around, torn from life all because a hitman got confused. Matteo had beaten cancer; so what if he was drowning in medical bills? At least he was alive and well again.
"It's nothing, Padraig. Just a long day." Then, because Padraig was no fool, he diverted the concern. "You ever think about just following the group one day? Seeing if any of the sixth sense lot notice you."
Padraig snorted. "I've never met a sixer as strong as you before. Most minds slip before being able to fully focus on me, especially when I'm moving. Did give that lass a nice view in the window when I caught her lookin', though."
"That's because you can't resist being an asshole," Matteo reminded.
"Ah! Slandered again. You're breakin' my heart here, Matt," Padraig said.
"Mmm, I bet," Matteo said, shifting so he was lying down, head nestled against the pillow.
Padraig shifted with him. They faced each other, Matteo burrowing under his blankets to compensate for the temperature drop Padraig caused.
He knew he shouldn't, but he said, "There were flowers on it again."
"Told ya to stop goin' to me grave when you have the real deal haunting your house," Padraig said.
"I think she goes every week," Matteo said. "I've never seen her there, though."
"Aye, Molly always was an early riser. Used to drive our parents crazy when she'd climb into their bed in the dead of night only to wake 'em at the crack of dawn," he said, but there was the hint of a fond smile on his face. "Tried to drag my arse out of bed every now and then, but I was a bigger fan of sleeping than watching sunrises." He shook his head. "Enough about my sister. What about yours?"
"She's getting by," Matteo said. "Haven't seen her in a while, but she's busy."
Padraig nodded, but Matteo could tell he wanted to say something. Padraig wasn't usually one to bite his tongue, but Matto didn't push him on it, too tired to bother tonight.
Instead, he closed his eyes. He shivered as something cold brushed his cheek, leaning into the sensation. He tugged his blankets up higher, drifting off to sleep as Padraig caressed his cheek.
Padraig watched Matteo sleep. He never had quite recovered all the weight he'd lost from the cancer. His face was still gaunt, his shirt too loose on him.
A strand of hair had fallen over Matteo's forehead. Padraig felt wretched that he couldn't brush it away.
He'd expected to chase the little bastard off when he first came to the house. Padraig had made a game of it. He slowly increased his haunting activities, watching the doubt unfurl as the residents realized they couldn't keep explaining away all the strange happenings.
And then he'd walked into the living room to blow papers off the desk, and Matteo's eyes had locked right on him.
Padraig had spent years trapped in this building. He'd watched his family mourn him. He'd watched them all but starve themselves to save enough money to move away from the home their son had been murdered in. He'd watched his sister sit outside his room and cry, watched his father clutch a picture of him and drink himself into a blackout, watched his brother come home less and less, watched his mother cry herself to sleep night after night.
He watched that bloody Vincenzo avoid the Walsh family to hide the fear and guilt on his face. He watched Vincenzo's family struggle to keep their business going in a building deemed cursed.
In and out came different families. Every once in a while, he'd get a mild sixer who caught a glimpse of him. But they always left, in the end. None of them could bear to share their living space with the dead.
Not Matteo, though. He didn't leave.
Padraig brushed at that strand of hair on his head. Matteo mumbled something in his sleep, turning his head into the pillow to get away from the cold tickle on his forehead.
Padraig would never understand it. Molly went to the grave of her brother every week to leave flowers, no matter how busy she was. Matteo's own family couldn't bother to call him once a week even after nearly losing him to cancer.
Matteo deserved better.
And Padraig knew he couldn't give it to him.
***
Matteo stepped out of the shower, drying himself off and leaving the bathroom. Padraig lounged on the bed as he entered his room, glancing up before returning his attention to the window.
"What on God's green earth could possibly be more enticing than me sauntering into the room naked?" Matteo said, pulling open his drawer to dig around for clothes.
"You didn't saunter," Padraig scoffed. "Might want to at least get underwear on, Matt. Got company comin' up the walkway."
"What?"
Matteo pulled on boxers and a T-shirt before joining Padraig at the window. His stomach clenched at the sight of the man coming towards the front door.
He grabbed a pair of jeans, hastily yanking them on. "Probably some dude coming to ask about the tours. I'll handle it."
Padraig snorted. "He can't see me. I'm sure as hell not handling it."
Matteo didn't even grace that with an eyeroll. Instead, he went downstairs and pulled the front door open before Franklin Weiss could knock.
"Mr. Weiss," Matteo said, stepping outside and closing the door.
"Ah, Mr. Russo!" he said cheerfully. "I'm sorry for showing up like this. I tried to call you. I was in the area for some business and was hoping we could speak."
"I'm not selling the house," Matteo said, but his voice wasn't as firm as it used to be on the matter.
Weiss held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm aware your tours have grown larger, especially since You Won't Boo-lieve it featured you on their website. It's why I upped my offer. I'm not trying to cheat you out of money, Mr. Russo. I'm willing to go even higher, if you'd like."
That made Matteo falter. Weiss was a wealthy man with a keen interest in anything supernatural. He owned two supposedly haunted hotels and a haunted warehouse, all three common sites for ghost hunting teams to visit.
Matteo didn't get the man's fascination. He'd come on Matteo's tour before and never once caught a glimpse of Padraig. He didn't seem to have a sixth sense.
But his expression now was honest and hopeful. He was really willing to offer more money for the house.
God, that would give Matteo enough to pay off his lingering debt and afford rent until he found a new place to settle down. And without needing to dedicate time to the tours, Matteo could pour more time into his actual job to aim for a promotion.
He could get his life back on track. No more financial debt tearing him to pieces. He could work on his credit score. Maybe buy his uncle's house since the man was thinking of moving in the next year or two.
And all it would cost him was Padraig Walsh.
"I'm not selling," Matteo repeated.
Weiss didn't look deterred. "The offer stands, Mr. Russo. Do you know, you're the longest person to live in that home since Mr. Walsh's murder? I've spoken to previous homeowners. They all said the haunting started mildly enough that they could make excuses for the strange noises and happenings. But then those noises and happenings grew more frequent. And then they grew more frightening." He leaned forward, a little eager. "Only a few of them ever caught a glimpse of someone else in the house. But you? You seem to live in harmony with the ghost of Padraig Walsh."
"Then it's best I don't leave the house, isn't it?" Matteo said, turning his back on Weiss. And then, because the weight of the medical debt made it hard to breathe at times, he looked over his shoulder. "Have a pleasant day, Mr. Weiss."
"I'll be in touch again, Mr. Russo! You have my number if you'd like to change your mind!" Weiss said, giving a cheerful wave before heading back down the walkway.
Matteo stepped into the house and shut the door, leaning against it. He raked a hand through his hair, mind crunching the numbers. At the rate he was going, he'd be buried in medical debt until the day he finally died. The interest was killing him, milking him for every cent whenever he thought he was making a dent in what he owed.
"Matty."
Matteo looked up at Padraig. Padraig stepped up to him, putting his hands on either side of Matteo's head, keeping him in place. Or, trying to. Matteo could step through him. They both knew he wouldn't.
"Sorry, just didn't sleep well last night," Matteo said.
"Slept like a baby, ya did," Padraig said.
"Alright, well, still. Nothing to worry about, Paddy. He wanted to talk to me about the tours, that's all," he said.
Padraig met his eyes. "Don't lie to me. Not you."
Matteo closed his eyes, unable to look into Padraig's. "I didn't. He did talk about the tours."
"And the sum he'll pay you for the house."
"You knew all along, didn't you?"
"Persistent lad. He's been comin' around fifteen or so years. You only snagged the house out from under him because it was sold to you before it went on the market. Perks of family friends, I suppose."
"I'm staying," Matteo said, opening his eyes. "This is my house."
"Actually, thinkin' it's mine. Been here a tad longer," Padraig said.
"I'm not leaving you, Paddy," Matteo said, and the firmness he'd longed for was finally back in his voice.
"You should," Padraig said, so simply and honestly that Matteo faltered in his confidence. Padraig's lips quirked into a small smile. "Ah, there's nothing here for you, Matt. I'm dead. Ain't changing. No future for me. That prick stole it from me when he stabbed the wrong man."
"You-" Matteo clenched his fists. "No. No, Padraig. I'm not leaving you."
"That man's got a lot of money. Can't even imagine what he's offering you for this place," Padraig said, shaking his head.
"Not enough. It'll never be enough. Not when this is where you are," Matteo said.
"I'm dead, Matteo," he said sharply. "It's not going to work. It never was."
Matteo tried to push him back, but his hands plunged through Padraig's chest. Padraig gave him an "I told you so" look.
"Then why start, Padraig?" Matteo demanded.
"Because I got so excited that I got careless. Never was one for thinking things through," Padraig said, taking a step back. "Matt, my life is gone. You got a second chance on yours. Take the money. Move into a house without a damn ghost banging around the halls in the middle of the night."
"No," he said quietly, reaching out for Padraig. "Not...I can't...Padraig, it's you. It's you."
His voice broke a little on the words. Padraig wished he'd just hidden himself away that night in the living room and spared them all of this. He should've known better. But it'd been years of loneliness and frustration and grief. Years of watching others grow up and live their lives while he remained trapped in this house and this incorporeal body.
"Matt, when I was alive, it was a sin," Padraig said. "I woulda married myself a nice Catholic lass, knocked a few kids with her, and either convinced myself I was happy or drunk enough to forget I wasn't. Nowadays, you've got these pride parades and legal marriage and whatnot. You have a future, and it can be with someone you love. Your future isn't with a ghost what'd be your grandfather's age if he hadn't met the Lord too soon."
Matteo slumped against the door. His legs felt weak.
"You never met the Lord," he said. "You just met me."
"Not a complaint on these lips about it," Padraig said. "I never got to love a man in life. You gave me that when I thought I'd never be seen again. I can't thank you enough, Matteo. But you've got no future with me and we both know it. You deserve someone who can hold you, not a flickering spirit whispering dirty words in your ear and making you cold while you try to get yourself off."
Matteo laughed weakly. "You have such a way with words. I think that's what drew me in."
"Da used to say my tongue was sharp enough to cut the wood with," Padraig said, grinning a little. His expression grew uncharacteristically somber. "Take the deal, Matteo. Maybe staying with me seems good now, but what about in five years when you realize you're aging and I'm not? What happens when your friends start gettin' married and you're crawling into bed with a man who can't even hold you?"
Matteo took a shuddering breath. "Give me another year."
"The interest on your medical bills won't stop," Padraig said.
"Padraig, I don't want to leave you," Matteo said quietly. "Maybe you're irritating as hell. But you're also the best man I've ever known."
And he was. When Matteo curled up in bed, crying in pain as cancer destroyed his body, Padraig sat with him. Told him stories and jokes to get his mind off things. When Matteo fainted one day and hit his head, Padraig flickered the lights until a neighbor came and found him. When Matteo suffered the side effects of his chemo, Padraig sat by his side and talked to him in a soothing voice.
It's how it all started, really. They came to care for each other through those moments. And when Matteo was declared cancer-free and began to regain his strength, he and Padraig decided to start the tours for extra income. Matteo found himself having the time of his life devising new ways to spice up the story and scare the tour groups with Padraig. They were both conniving, and they worked well together.
Matteo didn't know when exactly it shifted from a friendly relationship to something so much more. He just got so used to Padraig lying beside him in bed each night. To coming home and flopping down on the couch with Padraig to talk about his day at work. Got used to smirking at his friends and saying maybe someday they could meet the man who brought the life back to his eyes.
How could he ever leave Padraig?
"You're going to ruin your life for a man who died fifty years ago," Padraig said. "Matteo, I love you. And I don't want to see you do this."
He reached out, swiping a cold hand across Matteo's cheek, unable to wipe away the tears there. Matteo bent his head forward towards Padraig's shoulder.
"Take the offer," Padraig said. "You gave me more than I ever could've hoped for."
Matteo reached out for the hand he couldn't feel. "Tomorrow. Tonight, I want to pretend it can last."
"Aye," Padraig said, looking down at their hands. "Illusions always shatter at dawn, I've learned."
Dawn was when he stared down at his own body as his father screamed and held him, the first to discover the horror. Now dawn would be when they accepted the truth and time marched along, carrying Matteo forward and leaving Padraig behind.
But it would be okay. Lonely as he was, Padraig had long ago learned to take a small joy in the lives his loved ones got to carry on with. Thanks to Matteo, he now knew his sister had married and had three children of her own. Her oldest was a boy named Patrick, nicknamed Paddy.
She still loved him. But he was gone, and she had to live.
Matteo could love him and still live. Padraig would find comfort in it when the pain faded.
So they spent a final night wrapped in the illusion that this could work, and both men savored every second of it until the dawn came.
***
"-some say Mad Dog Sullivan himself committed the murder," Matteo said.
"But I thought-" a woman started, then paled and stumbled back, pointing a shaking finger. "B-Behind you, Mr. Russo!"
He turned, slowly enough that he only caught a glimpse of movement. "Hm? Is there something there?"
"I saw someone!" the woman blurted.
"I didn't see anyone," her companion said uneasily. "Stop it, Sarah. It's not funny."
"I swear, I just saw someone there!" Sarah insisted. "He had on this flat cap and a white shirt with suspenders!"
Matteo widened his eyes for dramatic effect. "That's what Padraig Walsh wore when he died. He'd fallen asleep in his clothes after a long day at work."
A loud crashing sound had them all jumping. From the back of the group, Franklin Weiss laughed in delight.
"He's quite upset this time!" he said. "Some tours he doesn't make a sound."
"I wouldn't say upset. He was a mischievous young man when he was murdered. Now that he's been seen, I think he's probably just having some fun with the tour," Matteo said.
Sure enough, he saw a familiar figure flicker behind the nearby desk a moment before the papers blew out at the tour members. They let out surprised squeals, laughing nervously as they swatted the papers away.
"Did you get that on video?" the latest ghost hunter asked his partner.
"Part of it," the partner said, filming the area behind the desk and then panning over the papers now spread around the floor. "He's active this time. The last two times we've been on this tour, he's hardly done a thing."
"Well, let's carry on," Matteo said.
He led them through the rest of the tour, Padraig being a little shit in the background the whole time. He was clearly getting his kicks out of frightening Sarah, who had an average enough sixth sense to make him out in surprising detail if he lingered in one spot too long.
He seemed even more determined to play up the haunting once Sarah saw the picture of him in his bedroom and her face paled as she made the connection. To spare the poor lady, Matteo hurried the tour along until it had concluded.
Weiss was talking with the excited ghost hunters, so Matteo slipped away into Padraig's bedroom. He approached the picture of Padraig and Molly above the bed.
"Take it."
Matteo didn't turn at Padraig's voice. Instead, he did as told, and reached out. He grasped the picture, pulling it from the wall and looking down at it.
"Ma left that one in the attic," Padraig said, coming to stand alongside Matteo. "She hadn't realized it fell out of the box when they were packing."
"Are you sure, Paddy?" Matteo asked.
"Aye," he said with a nod. "About time it returns to its rightful owner."
"I'll come back," Matteo said, grip tightening on the picture.
"What for?" Padraig asked. "You've got yourself a husband and a nice job. Don't come around bothering me anymore."
Matteo looked over at him. Padraig was unchanging as ever. Same age, same clothes, same glint in his eyes. Forever a young man who had life stolen away from him.
Matteo had beaten his life-stealer, and it showed in the lines on his face and the gray in his hair. But he'd been able to afford an apartment until he found a nice little house once he took Weiss's offer.
He convinced Weiss to let him run the tours, though it hadn't taken much work. Weiss loved the way Matteo ran the tours, and he loved the way Padraig reacted to it. He still couldn't see the ghost in the house, but he was fascinated by Padraig's activity.
It was time to move on, though. It had been years since Matteo took the deal and left.
Years in which he switched jobs, met a man, fell in love, and got married. Years in which he kept coming back to the house to keep Padraig company, and watched the pain in Padraig's eyes every time he saw a new change in Matteo.
"Paddy-" Matteo started.
Padraig gave him a smile. "Matt, don't. You're gettin' old, now. Grays! Glad I avoided that part of the aging process. Nah, it's time for you to move on. Maybe it's time for me to move on, too. I met you. Lord's next on my list."
Matteo held his hand out. Padraig held his to it, watching the hair on Matteo's arm rise at the contact.
"Thank you," Matteo said quietly. "Without your annoying ass, this house never would've been worth enough to pay off my medical bills. You were there for me when I was dying, and you gave me a second chance when I lived."
"Keep the praise coming," Padraig said, and laughed when Matteo's elbow went through his ribs. "Nothin' to it, Matt. You gave me a second chance, too. Got myself a best friend and then a lover and then a graying tour guide, all rolled into one. I've got quite the list of regrets, but you're not on it."
They tipped their heads together, standing there in silence. They both knew the dawn was coming again.
Finally, Matteo stepped away. "I've got to get home before Danny wonders where I am."
Padraig nodded. Those words used to hurt, but now, they soothed him. Matteo was loved and cared for. What more could Padraig ask for?
"Until next time, Matt. I'll save ya a pint in the Lord's garden," Padraig said.
"I'll hold you to that, you irritating bastard," Matteo said, but he was smiling. "Until next time, Paddy."
Matteo said his final goodbye to Weiss, who was saddened his tour guide was moving away, but wished Matteo a genuine bout of good luck nonetheless. Matteo returned home, to his husband and his life. They had a few last things to pack before their flight tomorrow.
And in the morning, Matteo woke early, kissed Danny, and got dressed. He left their home and drove himself to the cemetery, fingers tracing over the photograph on the seat next to him.
Like he'd guessed, she was there. Dawn was just coming as she laid flowers on the grave.
"Molly Walsh?" he asked, approaching her.
She looked over at him, an old woman now. A man was next to her, holding her arm to keep her steady.
"My name is Matteo Russo," Matteo introduced. "I...used to live in your old home."
"Oh," she said, looking wary.
Matteo held out the photograph. "I found this in the attic. I thought I should bring it back to the rightful owner."
"Oh," she said, and this time it was an awed whisper. She reached out a shaking, wrinkled hand to take the photo. "Oh, my. Ma cried for hours when she couldn't find this. Patrick, look, look. This was me and your Uncle Paddy!"
Patrick squeezed her arm. "It's a great picture, mom."
"Thank you, Mr. Russo. Thank you for returning this to me," Molly said, clutching the picture to her chest. "I've so little of Padraig left. My older brother lost the picture of him and Paddy together in a fire ten years after Paddy's death, and he wept for days. These memories of him are so dear to us. Thank you."
"Of course," Matteo said. "He'd want you to have it."
"Let me buy you breakfast, please," she insisted.
"I'm so sorry, ma'am, but I can't. I'm actually moving, and my flight is in a few hours. It's why I came today to give you the picture. I know you come here once a week to leave him flowers," Matteo said. "I started visiting the grave when I moved to the house."
She reached out, lightly running her fingers over Padraig's name on the grave. "Every single week since we lost him. It's all I could do to show him I never stopped loving and missing him. I know he's watching over us from heaven. He always was a good brother like that."
She turned and held her hand out. Matteo took it, shaking it in his own. He shook Patrick's hand, realizing how similar the man was to his uncle. Padraig would've been proud of him. Or, proud to make smug comments about good looks running in the family, at least. Matteo hid a smile at the thought.
In the end, he left.
In the end, he came back.
***
It was just for a visit with his sister, a year later. But he stopped by the old house on his way there, getting out of the car.
He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. No sign of Weiss or a tour for the day.
Matteo found the key in its usual hiding spot and let himself into the house. Weiss hadn't changed much on the inside. He didn't actually live in the house, just used it for his tours.
"Padraig?" he called. "It's me. It's Matteo."
No answer.
Matteo knew then, but still, he walked through the entire house. He sat in Padraig's room for nearly an hour, just in case.
And then he left the house, locking it behind him. He got in his car and drove to his sister's house and had lunch with her, his brother-in-law, and his two nieces. He returned to the hotel he was staying in for the weekend visit and called his husband, telling him all about the trip.
He set an alarm before bed. It was so hot that he kicked the covers off in the night. It was so lonely that he hugged an extra pillow to himself.
And when his alarm went off, he rose and dressed, getting back into his car. He made a quick stop before driving himself to the cemetery and walking through the familiar rows until he reached his destination.
He didn't even have to read the writing on the grave. He knew it by heart. Padraig Sean Walsh. Feb. 12, 1947- Nov. 23, 1972. Beloved son, brother, and friend.
There were flowers on the grave already. Matteo knelt before it and set his own bouquet on the grave, resting his hand on the top of it.
"Better keep your promise, you bastard," he said. "I expect you to greet me with a pint in hand when I finally fail to cheat death." He stood slowly, eyes taking in the sight of all that was left of Padraig Walsh. "Until next time, Paddy."
It hurt to lose him. But he loved Padraig enough to endure the pain if it meant he was finally at peace.
As the dawn came, Matteo Russo left the graveyard with nothing but love and memories in his heart.
In The Dawn by @skenekidz