Dead Gorgeous (Gay Halloween Paranormal Short Story)

This book is entirely a work
of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are either fictitious
or have been used fictitiously, and should not be construed as real. Any
resemblance to persons living or dead, actual events, locations, or
organizations is entirely coincidental. Any characters depicted are over 18
years of age.

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I had absolutely no wish to go to the bloody Halloween party with Max.
What the fuck did he think he was doing mixing with those weirdo Goths who hung
around outside the empty church at the end of the road every night? The sooner
a developer bought the place and turned it into flats, the better as far as I
was concerned. They gave me the creeps with their white faces and black eyes,
their chains and clanking boots, not to mention the Kensington Gore they
painted around their lips to make believe they drank blood. Didn’t they have
real lives?

Parties are not my thing at the best of times. I
prefer to be alone, or with my boyfriend – when I have one. Things hadn’t been
going too well in the romance department when Max called me up out of the blue
and asked me to go along. “Hey, Rick! I’m having a party tonight. Come and join
us will you?”

My relationship with Max had ended six months
previously but we remained on good terms. If he hadn’t tried to keep me in the
dark about his fuck with the pizza delivery boy the night I got stuck in the
elevator at Tufnell Park underground station, I think we may well have made a
go of it. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a prude and I don’t place much importance
on monogamy in a relationship. If the London Transport engineers had freed me
from my suspended prison thirty minutes sooner, if I’d got home and caught Max
up to the balls in the owner of the scooter that I would have seen parked on
the path outside, I would no doubt have dropped my pants and fucked the guy’s
face at the same time. But Max chose to lie. And that I can’t accept.

“What sort of a party?” I asked, unable to think of a
suitable excuse fast enough.

“Jesus, Rick. What are you on, man? Like, what is
tonight?”

I stared out of the window. “Dark?”

Max spluttered. “You need to get out more, you know
that? It’s fucking Halloween.”

“Ah, then it would be dark at this time.” I glanced at
my watch. Almost eight.

“So, are you coming?”

I should have said no, but perhaps the darkening
nights and falling temperatures had begun to turn solitude into a feeling of
isolation. And believe me, it is possible to be very isolated in a big city.
“Okay, then. But just for an hour or so. I have things to do.”

“You don’t have anything to do tonight or you’d have
told me as soon as I asked. I’ll drop by and collect you in about half an hour.
And please, try to be ready, man.”

He sighed as he hung up before I could reply, no doubt
to stop me from dreaming up a last minute objection.

I heard Max pull up in the street below my kitchen window, the silencer
on his ageing sports car still as full of holes as ever. I grabbed my leather
jacket and skipped down the stairs. When I pulled the front door open I leaped
back in shock. Max stood on the doorstep, his face ghost-white and his eye
teeth had grown several inches.

“Trick or treat?” His fangs dislodged as he laughed,
and he caught them with a swift movement, trapping them against his black
leather coat.

“Fuck off!” I tried not appear flustered and pushed
him out of the doorway.

“Charming.”

“Yes, you look it.” I locked the door and zipped the
key safely in my breast pocket. “You’re driving, I assume?”

“No need, man. We’re only going to the end of the
street.”

“We’re only going…” My words dried up as the
implication of what he’d said dawned on me. “Oh, no! Not bloody likely.”

Max threw an arm round my shoulders and started
walking. “I couldn’t refuse, could I? My flat
is
quite small and
they’ve
got a whole fucking church to themselves.”

I tried to resist but he was stronger than me and the
force moved me forwards with him. “You mean they’ve actually broken inside now?
But that’s criminal.”

He laughed. “Don’t be such a wimp. It’ll be really
cool, partying in a church on Halloween. You need to let your hair down and
enjoy yourself. You’re too—”

“Honest? Law abiding?”

“Boring.” He laughed again and dragged me along. “How
do you fancy a fuck on the altar?”

“You’re perverse.”

“I know.”

“And anyway, how do you know there is still an altar
in there? And the place has been deconsecrated, so there.” I stuck my tongue
out at him; his childishness deserved it.

“So what? You don’t think I care about all that
religious crap do you? An altar’s an altar, a piece of furniture like a
sideboard or a sofa, consecrated or not it means the same thing to me.”

“You have no respect for other people’s beliefs. Come
to think of it, you have no respect, full stop.” I shook his arm off my
shoulders and stood firm. We’d reached the big, iron gate that led into the
grounds of the church. “You go if you want to. I’ve changed my mind.”

“Fuck, man. You’re beginning to piss me off.” He
forced an arm through mine and pulled me off balance. “Anyone would think you
were scared.”

I steadied myself on the wall as he swung the creaking
gate open. Much of the grounds had been sold off years before and now the
church stood close to its boundaries, rising up in front of me like a rock face,
the narrow windows like openings to primeval caves and bottomless crevasses.
The colours of the stained glass glowed in short, fast bursts and I realised
that the light came from the illicit partying inside. I listened carefully and
could just make out a faint throb of music coming from within. I shivered, and
jiggled my arms to hide it. Never would I admit to Max that I feared anything,
but I did feel a bit spooked by the idea of going in there – more for the type
of person I would find than anything to do with spirituality. I stepped
forward, thinking I must remember to ask Max how he’d got involved with this
bunch of whackos in the first place. “I’m here now. Might as well take a look.”

“Thank fuck for that. Now, just don’t be a wallflower.
Mix, make friends. I’m not gonna hold your hand.” Max immediately took hold of
my hand and pulled me along a slippery path that led around the church to a
side entrance. He banged on the door as if to break it down. “Open up! It’s
Max.”

The door opened a slit and a bleary eye looked out at
us. “Who’s that?” said a voice thick with alcohol.

“Max, I fucking told you.”

“Not you. Him with you.”

“My friend, Rick.” The door didn’t open any further
and the person holding it seemed to talk to himself – or herself. “Me and Rick
have been friends since forever.” I could hear the frustration rising in Max’s
voice. “He’s cool. Open up.”

After a moment, the door swung back and we stepped
inside.

Max knew me too well. After half an hour he’d found his place on the
dance floor – a clear area near the old baptismal font that had been turned
into a bar for the evening – and he partied with anyone and everyone. I’d picked
up a can of lager and found my way up the steps to the organ loft, trying to
escape the infernal racket of the so-called music. I leaned on the balustrade
and looked down into what was left of the church. Many of the pews had gone,
whether to a good home or at the hands of vandals I couldn’t tell, and mounds
of rubbish had been swept into shapes resembling giant molehills on the cracked
floor. My eyesight couldn’t penetrate the gloom to the far corners, and the
strobe lighting that flashed somewhere beneath me tormented my vision. No
sooner did I think I’d worked out the carvings and statues than the frantic
light would pummel my senses and something completely different would be staring
back at me.
What the fuck?
I shook my head and looked at the can of
lager. Not even Special Brew.

As the music changed track, I thought I heard a sound
behind me. I turned on my heel, my eyes automatically searching the floor in
expectation of a rat. They say that wherever you are in London you’re never
more than six feet from one of the effing creatures. Anyway, it was far too
dark down on the floor to see, even if there had been a family of vermin. When
I raised my eyes the organ caught my attention. Everything in the church had a
look of decay and dilapidation, dust had gathered everywhere - the Goths
downstairs didn’t seem at all bothered by it but I did think it must really
fuck with their black clothes. But the organ stood there untarnished, its pipes
as bright as the day they’d been fitted, the glorious carvings oozing with the
rich warmth of tropical hardwoods as if they’d been waxed and polished only that
morning. I breathed in and the smell could not have been more remote from the
staleness I’d expected, all beeswax and honey and vinegar.

By now my eyes had become better accustomed to the dim
light, my back to the nave and the incessant strobing. Yet, as the swatch of light
flashed on behind me, the face of an angel appeared and disappeared, appeared
and disappeared. I stepped closer and put out my hand to feel it, like a blind
man acquainting himself with a stranger. The angel stood too high for me to
reach and I was glad to find the organist’s stool nearby. I dragged it across
the floor and climbed up, grabbing hold of the angel’s arm with my free hand to
steady myself. My own body cast an intermittent shadow now, and I traced the
intricate carving that gave life to this creature of Heaven. I never could tell
the gender of angels and often joked that when you’d seen one, you’d seen them
all, yet something about this androgynous face attracted me. I felt the square
jaw, the full lips, cheeks so gently formed they felt soft despite being made
of wood. High cheek bones and a subtly prominent brow reminded me of the
chiselled features so often seen on male models and I smiled to myself. Dare I?
My hand made its way downwards, running through the folds of the robe.

“Do you like angels?” The voice seemed to come from
the wooden lips and I flinched, grabbing the rich folds of the rigid garment to
prevent myself falling from the stool. I peered at the face, trying to make it
out. “Do you like angels, Rick?” The lips didn’t move.
What the fuck?
Of
course they didn’t move, it was a fucking statue!

The sound I’d heard before, the rustling that made me
think of rats, came louder now from behind. I turned, still clinging to the
angel’s robe with one hand, can of lager in the other.

“Hello, Rick.” Even in the gloom I could see the
source of the voice. The strobe had no effect on the face, its luminescence
cold and constant, as if not really there.

My senses told me this was the same face as the carved
angel, but how? I held up the can of lager, turned my eyes on it even though I
could barely see it, and threw it to the floor. “Jesus.”

“Not quite.” The voice had an ethereal quality that
rose above the clatter and fizz of the discarded can, light but smothering the
rhythmic sounds below. It sounded male and female all at the same time.

A tremble ran through my body and when I opened my
mouth to speak my teeth chattered. The apparition moved toward me and I heard
the rustle again. Fear pinned me to the spot, even as I felt hands on my crotch
and heard the zip of my flies being pulled down. My entire body stiffened instantly.

Cold fingers encircled my cock and, as they freed it
from its denim prison a shiver alerted my senses and I found the courage to
look down. At once I wanted to flee but the exquisite, unearthly pleasure
sapped all my strength. Even if I could have turned and run, I knew I would
not.

Stooped to take my cock in its mouth, the back of the
creature’s head the only thing visible outside a white cloak that seemed
possessed of a life of its own, it reached round with one hand and gripped my
buttock. I gave in to the pressure and let myself be thrust forward. My cock
had never found such a perfect sheath – soft and gentle as gossamer wings,
moist as the most woeful tears, and cool like the soothing embrace of an
exquisite lotion lovingly massaged into sunburned skin. Fuck!