Epilogue
D ash stepped back from the dining room table and surveyed his handiwork. The antique silver gleamed in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows of Blackwood Manor. He’d spent the last two hours polishing every piece. They probably needed a housekeeper given the size of the house. The day before Thanksgiving, however, was not the time to try and hire one.
“ T he table looks amazing,” Slate said from the doorway. He wore an apron over his usual Victorian-inspired attire, and a smudge of flour dusted his cheek. “Though I think you missed a spot on that spoon.”
“Very funny.” Dash grabbed a napkin from the stack he’d carefully folded and threw it at his boyfriend. “I don’t see you obsessing over every detail of tomorrow’s dinner.”
Slate caught the napkin and tried to refold it. “That’s because I know both our families already approve of us. Besides, I have you to be the detailed oriented person who will keep us on task.”
Before Dash could respond, the temperature in the room dropped suddenly. A familiar tingling sensation crept up the back of his neck. They shared a look just before a translucent figure materialized near the china cabinet.
The spirit, an elderly woman in late twentieth century clothing, looked around in confusion. Her form flickered like a candle in the wind, but her voice came through clearly. “Is this... is this the way home?”
“Yes,” Slate said gently. “This is the way.”
Dash moved closer to Slate and reached for his hand. It had taken a few stops and starts, but they’d perfected a routine to help lost souls.
The barn door gateway shimmered into view. With every crossing, Dash found it easier to summon and protect the portal. A warm golden light enveloped the gateway, and the spirit’s eyes widened.
“It’s safe to go through,” Dash said. “Your family is waiting for you.”
The woman’s form became more defined as she approached the door. She turned back once, smiling at them both. “Thank you, dears. Happy Thanksgiving.”
After she passed through, Dash and Slate sealed the gateway. The room returned to its normal temperature, but the woman left behind a trail of joyful energy. It was something they hadn’t expected when they started helping lost souls.
“That’s the third one today,” Dash said, squeezing Slate’s hand one more time before letting go. He moved to one of the place settings, and adjusted the silverware. “Grandpa was right about more spirits finding their way here once word spread about a safe passage. What happens if we’re not here or we’re too busy when they arrive? Will it create issues?”
“I don’t think so,” Slate said. “The dead will wait until we’re ready to acknowledge them.”
“You hope,” Dash said. “I’ve been sifting through the box Gramps sent us and I don’t see anything about ghosts waiting patiently for the living to acknowledge them.”
“Speaking of your grandfather,” Slate said as he adjusted another place setting, “Did he respond to your email?”
His grandfather had been persistent in contacting Dash with ideas and proposals for reviving and modernizing E.R.P. Dash wasn’t opposed to the idea, but he’d had many questions. He reached for another napkin to refold. “Yes. He said the foundation has a large enough endowment to pay both of us and three or four staff members. There should be plenty of funds to create a secure database to track supernatural activity, document different types of spirits, and develop an app for other mediums to log encounters. If we want to do more, however, we’ll need to get more money.”
“We’ll need to speak to my parents and your grandparents about that before they leave,” Slate looked at the mess he’d made of a napkin he’d tried to fold, and sheepishly handed it to Dash. “I don’t think money will be an issue.”
“You might be a bit too optimistic, but we’ll see,” Dash said. He put the newly folded cloth back in place.
He surveyed the table and didn’t see anything else he wanted to fix. At least not at that moment. Happy with his work, it hit him how much he was enjoying himself. He used his thumb to wipe away the flour on Slate’s cheek and then kissed the spot.
“What’s that for?” Slate asked.
“Everything,” Dash said. “When we met two months ago, if someone told me I’d be living in a haunted house with my boyfriend, helping ghost find their eternal rest, and was seriously thinking about running a paranormal research foundation with said boyfriend, I’d have called them crazy.”
“You forgot to mention said boyfriend is devastatingly handsome and makes amazing pumpkin pie.” Slate wrapped his arms around Dash from behind, and rested his chin on Dash’s shoulder.
“I was trying to forget the pumpkin part,” Dash said, leaning back into the embrace. “You know how I feel about pumpkin spice.”
“Yet you’re letting me make both pumpkin and apple pie for tomorrow.”
“Because I love you,” Dash said. The words came easily now, something else that would have terrified him two months ago. “Also, Liv threatened to spill a pumpkin spice latte on my laptop if I tried to ban pumpkin pie from Thanksgiving.”
They stood quietly for a moment, comfortable in their shared space. The manor creaked and settled around them, its sounds now familiar and almost comforting to Dash. A grandfather clock somewhere in the house chimed four times.
“Speaking of Liv,” Dash said, reluctantly pulling away from Slate to continue preparing for Thanksgiving. “Did she say if she’s coming tomorrow?”
Liv’s parents ran the only Chinese restaurant for miles, and according to Mr. and Mrs. Chen, Thanksgiving was a big day for take-out.
“Yes, though she said she needs to finish grading some papers first. Apparently, her thesis advisor thinks helping her teach freshman history will help Liv complete her PhD faster.”
“More like help the teacher get work done faster,” Dash said. “Which reminds me, have you noticed anything unusual about my old apartment since she moved in?”
“You mean besides Liv’s ability to create chaos in any space she occupies?” Slate ran his hands up Dash’s torso. “No. Why do you ask?”
The effect was immediate, and Dash pulled away to adjust his now hard cock. “Later. You’ve got pies in the oven, and I will not be accused of sabotaging the pumpkin pie because I think it’s one of the nastiest things ever created.
“Wow, Dash. Don’t hold back.” Slate put his hand under his apron and smiled at Dash. “I know, I did it to myself.”
“Did Liv tell you who built that house?” Dash asked. “Obviously not given your nonanswer to my question. Ezra’s great grandfather built it. That’s too much of a coincidence. Plus, when I lived there, I’d heard weird noises or felt like someone was watching me. I always blamed it on the house was old.”
“And now?”
“Now I know better.” Dash pulled out his phone and opened a notes app. “Add that to the list of things E.R.P. needs to investigate. I really need to create a data base.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve already accepted the position,” Slate said. “Though I hope you’re not planning to work through Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow.”
“Grandma already told me, no shop talk at dinner,” Dash agreed. “Though I’m not sure how we’ll keep Liv quiet about it. She’s already created three different filing systems for documenting supernatural encounters.”
A knock at the front door interrupted their conversation. Moments later, they heard the distinct sound of Liv letting herself in. “If you two are being disgustingly cute, please make yourselves decent. I don’t need my eyes burned out again.”
“We’re in the dining room,” Slate called back. “And we’re always decent.”
“That’s debatable,” Liv said, appearing in the doorway with a large shopping bag. Her cheeks were pink from the cold November air, and her eyes sparkled with excitement. “But I’ll forgive you because I found the perfect ledger for recording spirit crossings. It’s very Victorian. You’ll love it, Slate.”
“Given how well you have my boyfriend’s aesthetic preferences memorized, I know who to go to for Christmas gift advice,” Dash said.
“You’d better or I’ll find a way to torture you,” she said.
“Why would you be mad if he doesn’t talk to you?” Slate asked. “I’ll be the one with the less than perfect Christmas gift.”
“He’s such a romantic,” Liv said with a frown. “Because helping Dash buy you a gift is almost like buying you one with his money. It’s shopping without the guilt.”
Dash made a note not to bring too much cash when they went shopping. “Didn’t you say you brought him something?”
“Don’t worry, Dash, I’ll bring you gifts too.” She pulled out a leather-bound book and handed it proudly to Slate. “I also realized if we’re really modernizing E.R.P., we need both digital and analog records. Some of these old houses don’t play nice with electronics.”
Dash raised an eyebrow at the persistent use of the word ‘we.’ Before he could comment, the lights flickered and a cold breeze swept through the room. They followed the source of the cold into the parlor off the dining room.
“Make that four,” Slate said softly.
Liv quickly pulled a notebook from some pocket and followed them into the sitting room.
The spirit materialized and looked around. “Sorry. Am I in the right place?”
“Are you looking to cross over?” Slate asked.
The ghost’s attire looked fairly modern, the style looked about a decade old, but Dash couldn’t tell for sure. Her expression turned somber at Slate’s question.
“Yes. I was looking for my sister, she said she’d wait for me, but I couldn’t find her.”
Dash had quickly learned waiting for a loved one was the most common reasons souls chose not to cross over immediately.
After helping the spirit, they returned to their preparations. Liv insisted on staying to help, though her version of helping mostly involved peppering them with questions about the crossing while organizing her notes.
Working next to Slate, Dash marveled at how right everything felt. His fear of commitment seemed like a distant memory. Not only had he found Slate, but he’d also found his purpose. Hosting their family for Thanksgiving dinner was a first for him. A lot of firsts. It was also a glimpse of what the future held.
In addition to two pumpkin pies, Slate made an apple and a pecan pie. The last was for Dash. It was also Dash’s grandmother’s favorite and that seemed to convince Slate to make it.
“I should probably head home and finish grading those papers,” Liv said, as she pushed papers back in her bag. “What time should I come over tomorrow?”
“We’ll be up early, so any time really,” Slate said. He handed her a pumpkin pie. “Remember to share this with your parents.”
Once Liv left, the manor felt peaceful. Dash wondered when the last time Blackwood Manor had been someone’s home or hosted a holiday. Hopefully, he and Slate would have many more together.
They cleaned up from Slate’s bake-a-thon, and put everything away. Dash made a last sweep of the dining room to be sure he’d done as much as he could in advance of tomorrow.
“I think that’s as much as we can do today,” Dash said, joining Slate in the kitchen. The scent of baking pies filled the air, and despite his aversion to pumpkin spice, even Dash had to admit the kitchen smelled amazing.
“Having second thoughts about any of this?” Slate put the dish towel over a bar to dry. “The families meeting, taking over E.R.P., making Blackwood Manor our home.”
“Nope, not really, and not even a little.” Dash hopped onto a clear spot on the counter, his legs dangling. “I kept waiting for the panic to set in, but it didn’t. I guess that’s the universe telling me everything’s perfect.”
“Perfect?” Slate moved to stand between Dash’s legs. “Even running a supernatural transit station?”
“Even that part,” Dash said. “Although I do have one condition about tomorrow.”
Slate raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“When your parents and my grandparents start planning our wedding, we pretend not to hear them.”
“Deal,” Slate laughed, leaning in to kiss him. “Though I think it’s too late. Mom’s already asked about our preferences for flowers.”
They were interrupted by another temperature drop, though this presence felt different from spirits seeking crossing. A familiar figure materialized near the doorway. It was Thomas, a twenty-one year old spirit from the 1950s who’d taken to visiting them regularly since Halloween night.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Thomas said with a knowing smile. “Just checking to make sure you’re both ready for tomorrow’s family invasion.”
“As ready as we can be at this stage,” Slate replied. “Are you going to stick around for dinner?”
“No,” Thomas’s expression faded a bit. “Family gatherings…. I don’t have good memories of those. But I’ll be around to make sure wandering spirits come back after the holiday.”
He faded away as quietly as he’d appeared, but it left Dash a little melancholy. He’d grown fond of Thomas, but they didn’t know a lot about him. Given Thomas’s reaction to the dinner invitation, Dash suspected he’d had a tough, though short, life.
“Come on,” Slate said, offering Dash his hand. “As much as you want to, you can’t fix his past.”
Dash accepted Slate’s words as the truth, but it didn’t stop him from wishing he could’ve helped.
“I know.” Dash took the offered hand and slid off the counter. “I hope he can keep the spirits away, at least during dinner.”
“With our families, they’re likely to bring along souls so they can watch us help them cross over,” Slate said.
Dash snorted, because that’s exactly what his grandfather would do. “I’ll call Grandma in the morning to have her keep Gramps in line.”
“Hopefully you’ll have better luck than me,” Slate said. “My mother’s like Liv. She’ll want to watch.”
As they walked upstairs together, Dash reflected on how much his life had changed since arriving in Oriskany Falls. He’d come looking for a fresh start, expecting to hide away in a small town with a weird Halloween obsession. Instead, he’d found a home, a purpose, and most importantly, love.
At the top of the stairs, Dash paused and turned to Slate. “Thank you again. I know I say it a lot, but you’ve made me so happy. I love you, Slate Ezekial Blackwood.”
Slate struggled not to smile, but in the end failed. “I love you, Morten Dashiell Reeves.”
Around them, the manor settled in for the night, its ancient walls holding countless secrets and stories. Those were things to explore another day. Tomorrow would be for family, both living and spectral. Tonight, however, was just for them.
T he End