Love, Like Ghosts: A Bay City Paranormal Investigations Story

have pegged Greg as a stickler for the rules.
On the other hand, keeping the rest of the cast and crew out of here meant keeping Lyndon to himself.
You’re not supposed to be coming up here either, remember? You promised yourself you wouldn’t. And now you have a date with Greg to look forward to.
The reminder made Adrian’s stomach lurch with equal parts dread and excitement.
He forced himself to meet Greg’s uncharacteristically hard gaze with a smile. “You’re right. We really shouldn’t be in here. We’re going to get in trouble. Let’s head back downstairs.”
Greg tried to hide his relief, Adrian could tell. But his eyes lit up anyway, and Adrian wondered why he was so anxious to get out of the tower.
The whole crowd filed toward the exit, all talking at once. Adrian trailed behind Greg at the rear of the group. Just as he reached the door, he felt an electric surge behind him.
Heart pounding, Adrian spun around. Lyndon hovered in midair, wide eyes fixed on Adrian’s face. The warm pulse of his presence slammed into Adrian’s mind before he could shield against it. Images hit Adrian’s cerebral cortex in a rapid-fire barrage that lasted only a second and stopped before he could make sense of it.
“Adrian?”
Greg. I’m here with Greg. Gotta say something.
Adrian blinked. In the time it took for his eyelids to sweep down and back up again, Lyndon had vanished. Shaking, Adrian turned to face Greg. “Yeah?”
Greg regarded him with mingled amusement and concern. “You totally zoned out just now.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, you did.” Moving forward, Greg laid his hands on either side of Adrian’s waist. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be okay. I just, uh…” Adrian laughed. “Lyndon showed up after all. Just for a second. He seems to like me.”
Greg’s expression went blank, and Adrian cursed for the millionth time his inability to lie. Why couldn’t he have just said he was all right and leave it at that? Greg hadn’t asked about the ghost. Why the hell had Adrian felt compelled to mention it?
“Let’s get going. I need to get this damn makeup off.” A smile softened Greg’s face. “Then it’s time to leave, and you did promise to walk me home.”
Adrian’s tension eased with the familiar curve of Greg’s lips. “I did, yes. Let’s go.”
Still smiling, Greg started down the stairs. Adrian followed a few paces behind. He ogled the flex of Greg’s muscles beneath his snug jeans without shame. After all, there was no one else to see, and he didn’t think Greg would mind anyway.
~ * ~
    After a sexually charged walk with Greg followed by another fast and furious masturbation and a quick shower, Adrian sat hunched over his laptop attempting to study. It wasn’t going well. Instead of concentrating on his Electricity & Magnetism homework, his mind insisted on replaying the images Lyndon had sent him. The few solid impressions Adrian could glean from the disjointed flashes—a man’s face, a bolt of lightning, someone’s embroidered collar—didn’t make any more sense now than they had then, and Adrian wished his brain would let it go already and get back to work.
    Frustrated, Adrian leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. Maybe if he spent a few minutes focusing on what he’d seen, he’d be better able to pay attention to his studies.
He drew a long slow breath through his nose. As he blew it out, he imagined the solid world around him falling away, his mind shrinking inward toward a stack of photographs representing the mental images Lyndon had projected toward him. He took another breath, then another, until he’d reached a half-trance in which his conscious reasoning relaxed enough for his subconscious to take over.
Adrian’s psychic projection of himself rifled through the snapshots in his head. He saw Groome Castle, new and resplendent with crystal, tapestries and expensive furniture. The corner of an old-fashioned classroom desk appeared in one photo, the leafy branches of an oak tree against a deep blue sky in another. One looked out across the old cemetery from the gazebo at night, the view tilted and partially obscured as if the observer had his head on someone’s shoulder and that someone in turn rested a hand on his forehead. Most were faded and distorted, as if Lyndon couldn’t quite remember how things had really looked so very long ago.
Only two of the images stood out stark and clear—the collar, and the man’s face. A sense of finality and anger