The House on Beckenham Lane

Noah turned off Devonshire Street onto Landsdowne Place heading to 2822, the house that became home when he was fifteen. He lived in the house for three years before heading to college, but it never felt like home, not like the one in Windsor Place, the old neighborhood he had spent his first fifteen years, venturing further and further out from the old two-story house with its full width front porch and a screen porch on the rear. He had spent many a rainy afternoon playing and reading on the screen porch. The house on Landsdowne Place was just as old, but it was a federal style house, rigid in its symmetry, the front door dead center of the front with no porch, just a formal series of steps down to the sidewalk.

Turning into the narrow concrete drive, Noah pulled through the Porte cochere and parked to the side of the two garage doors of the detached garage. Satchel slung over one shoulder he headed to the rear door that led into the sunroom off the kitchen where he could see his mother preparing lunch. He was home for the summer, having just finished sophomore year. As he crossed the drive to the door, he looked over the rear fence at the grown-up neighbor’s yard. He could picture the house from its street, Beckenham Lane, one street to the south. An arts and craftsman house with a porch over the living room windows and front door, with lap siding to the trim board at the ceiling framing line, then cedar shake shingles from there up filling the gabled ends. Large brackets supported the roof overhang, at the wall line and ridge beam, and the porch and house had a brick foundation wall. The house needed maintenance for it had not had any in a very long time. Paint peeling, porch railings rotten and the brick steps missing a few bricks.

Noah knew the reason the house was allowed to deteriorate. The owner had been an older man who lived alone. Ethan Boatwright struggled just to walk because arthritis weakened his body. He had seen him slowly coming down the drive for one of his short walks, sliding his feet instead of picking them up. It was last fall when his mother had called him one weekend to see how classes were going and when they got to news of the neighborhood, informed him Ethan Boatwright had passed away after a nasty fall.

The house had sat empty since then. Rumor within the neighborhood said there were two children, both of which lived in the west. It seemed they were in no hurry to settle the estate and sell the house. It made the deteriorated condition much sadder. Noah wondered how long it would be before the house could be sold to someone.

“Hey, you made it,” said Ella, Noah’s mother. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and came around the island to give him a hug.

“It’s good to be home.”

“How were exams?”

“Good, except for that chemistry exam. I hope I passed it but there were two problems that were like nothing in his lectures.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine. Go on up and get unpacked then come down and keep me company.”

 

The morning was surprisingly cool, for overnight thunderstorms took a lot of heat out of the air. Noah came out in cargo shorts and a tank top, pulling his bicycle from the rack on the back of his Jeep to go for a morning ride. He needed to feel the exertion, to work up a sweat until he could relax. He straddled the bike and coasted down the drive, turning left to go deeper into the neighborhood. He could ride for five miles if he looped around street after street without having to go out on one of the main roads surrounding the neighborhood.

Noah rode nearly every street with a steady pace, looking at the familiar houses, noting who had gotten a new car or SUV and which houses were being remodeled or having new landscaping installed. It made him think of the Boatwright house, the one house that needed the most work done to it. Eventually, he circled back and found himself riding along Beckenham Lane where he stopped in front of 2823, the house Ethan Boatwright had lived in.

Noah knew the story, as most in the neighborhood did. Ethan inherited the house from his uncle back in 2005, and being recently widowed, moved in and lived quietly inside the house, never interacting with the neighbors. Ms. Kaminski, who lived directly across the street from Ethan Boatwright, had told his mother it the uncle she remembered with fondness. Outgoing, friendly, always having friends visiting and staying for periods of time. Mason Boatwright had bought the house the early 1950s, 51 she thought, and shortly after renovated the house, doing new bathrooms, a large kitchen and family room in back that opened to a full width porch and a few steps down from the porch, installed a large swimming pool with a wide pool deck and a pool house on one end. Noah remembered listening to Ms. Kaminski describe the interior of the house, having visited often for dinner parties, with its dark wood paneling and large sectional sofa and bar in the family room.

In 1957, Ethan’s parents got killed in an automobile wreck, and young Ethan, twelve years old at the time, came to live with Mason. Ethan would live in the house until he graduated from college, attending the local college in the city, then move away, leaving Mason alone in the house. Ethan visited his uncle often, spending holidays in the house until he married in 1970, and two years later started a family, Daniel in 1972 and Sarah in 1974, then his visits tapered off, until it was just a summer visit that coincided with Mason’s birthday in August.

Noah climbed off his bike and pushed it up the drive then along the sidewalk that curved to the front steps. He laid his bike to the side in the tall grass and weeds, and gingerly climbed the brick steps as if they could be rotten like the porch railing and some the floorboards. He eased to the front door and wiped the dirt from the glass then peered into the dark interior. The entry hall had a side table with a lamp and along the floor, a long runner faded and worn from years of use. Moving to the windows, Noah peered into the living room seeing the dusty furniture, the art on the walls, and the stack of novels on the coffee table. He wanted to know the titles, curious at what Ethan Boatwright would have read while relaxing in the formal living room.

“Sad, isn’t it?”

It startled Noah to hear someone’s voice and he spun around to see Ms. Kaminski standing on the walk at the base of the steps.

“Oh, yes. Yes, it is.”

“Has your mother heard any news?”

“She hasn’t mentioned anything of late, but I just got home yesterday morning so I’m not sure.”

“So, you’re home for the summer. How was spring semester?”

“Good but I’m glad it’s over.”

“You’ll be a sophomore this fall, right?”

“No mam, I’ll be a junior.”

“A junior,” said Ms. Kaminski as if she couldn’t believe it.

“I guess I should stop snooping and get home,” said Noah, crossing the porch. As he descended the steps, Ms. Kaminski stepped to the side to let him pass and when he came abreast of her, she grabbed him by the arm.

“Noah, I have to ask. Have you ever heard anything coming from here?”

“From this house? Occasionally I heard Mr. Boatwright in the backyard stirring around or playing music inside the house.”

“What about since his passing?”

“But the house is empty.”

Ms. Kaminski looked down, biting her lower lip, then she looked up, smiling in a way that had no humor in it.

“I guess I’m just getting to be an old woman and starting to hear things.”

“What did you think you heard?”

“Music, like the kind Mason would play when he had one of his pool parties, and sometimes laughter.”

“Really?”

“Forget I said anything. It could have been coming from the Wagner’s next door. They have dinner parties whenever they are in town, but lately they spend more time down at their beach house than here.”

 

Noah lay in bed listening to the ceiling fan over his bed as he thought about what Ms. Kaminski had said four days prior. Could there have been someone on the property playing a radio while snooping around. Since getting home, he had gone out at night and stood near the brick wall that divided his parent’s rear yard from the Boatwright rear yard, listening intently for any unusual sounds from the other yard.

The brick wall was overkill for the neighborhood, something Mason must have spent a fortune to have built and something no one had copied anywhere in the neighborhood. It was a big selling point to his parents, how the rear yard backed up to it. But no sound came over it, nothing, not even a bark by a dog.

What had Ms. Kaminski heard?

Noah climbed out of bed, slipped on jogging shorts and T-shirt, and eased down the stairs, making his way to the mudroom. A glance at his watch, he saw it was one thirty in the morning. It was crazy he was slipping on his shoes to go, not to some late-night bar, but to stroll around the block to the Boatwright house. He felt foolish, a bit silly, for he had no idea what he expected to find at the house in the middle of the night. Closing the door and locking it, he made his way down to the sidewalk and headed toward Devonshire Street where he would turn right and go down to Beckenham Lane.

It was quiet, just a siren somewhere far off in the distance, then a dog barking, probably at the siren. He moved quickly with a fast walk until coming upon 2823 Beckenham Lane. The lot stood out in the dim light of the moon and the streetlight across the street and one house down. Trees grown tall and understory trees and bushes grown wide and thick underneath them made the front yard completely dark. Down the side of the drive, he could see the rear yard partially illuminated by moonlight, a light so dim, everything appeared to be shades of grey, not enough light to show color.

Noah stood at the end of the drive, looking both ways along the street to make sure no one was out, then eased up the drive using the flashlight in his cellphone to illuminate his path. The broken up concrete drive with weeds and grass growing up in the cracks was uneven, heaved up by tree roots. He walked carefully, stepping on solid sections until coming along the side of the house. Eyes stared at him from under the house, and he froze. Before he could react, a black cat darted across the drive and into the neighbor’s yard.

Then he heard it. Music. It sounded far away, barely audible. He didn’t the know the specific song, but he recognized the rhythm of it. It was the Beach Boys, he was sure, then the song stopped, and he thought he heard laughing. Another song started and he immediately knew it was The Beatles for this song he recognized. Then he saw the backyard shimmering, glowing brighter with a bluish light over the fence and gate that separated the side yard from the rear. He came up to the gate and looking over it, saw the shimmering blue glow had stopped and the yard looked different, trees that towered over the yard were now less than ten feet tall lining the perimeter and the edge the pool deck was visible, bright clean concrete with small heavily mulched shrubs along its edge. It looked almost new, not the overgrown stained and leaf littered area he expected.

“Hey, Mason, make me one of those martinis, will ya?”

A man’s voice from the backyard where Noah knew no one would be at this time of night, and he started backing up, moving away from the house, stumbling over the rough concrete drive. Once he was halfway to the street, he turned and ran. Ran as hard as his legs would carry him.

 

“Noah, I’m going into town. Would you like to go,” said Ella.

Noah sat up in bed and looked at his mother standing in the door to his room. She was fully dressed, her makeup applied, ready to leave. He was tempted to go with her, then he remembered what had happened during the night. He saw an opportunity to survey the backyard during the day without his mother knowing about it.

“I’ll pass this time.”

As his mother backed out of the drive, Noah stood in the sunroom watching, waiting for her to be on the street and away. As soon as she was gone, he went out across the drive and entered the garage. He wanted a ladder, one that would let him look over the wall. It was only eight feet tall, and the small six-foot ladder would be perfect. Easy to carry and set up among the shrubs along the base of the wall.

He carried the ladder along the rear yard to about the halfway point and moved around the shrubs until at the base of the wall. He set the ladder down and climbed up until he could rest his arms on the top of it and survey the Boatwright rear yard.

The trees and shrubs were so overgrown there were only gaps in which to see through. He saw the rear porch, furniture scattered and stacked up underneath it. Then he looked down over the overgrown shrubs that separated the porch from the pool deck. It was littered with leaves and debris, the concrete stained dark, then he saw the pool, or what had been the pool. It was filled in and low shrubs growing in it.

Ethan Boatwright had only been dead for nine months, yet the house looked as if it had been abandoned for years.

Then Noah saw the layout, how the pool house anchored one end of the pool and a gazebo the other, and along the long side, the porch overlooked all of it. Why he thought of it, he didn’t know, but he remembered seeing pictures of celebrities from the 1960s and 1970s having pool parties. Actors who were secretly gay to the public who had parties with men in the pool, laying out in lounge chairs around it, wearing swimming trunks that were tight, square cut or bikinis that were high waisted. Did Mason have such parties. He hoped so. He wanted it to be true. The idea of a gay man having lavish pool parties in the neighborhood back in the 1950s and 1960s, a time more intolerant, when gays were called communists and deviants, would have been such a middle finger to everyone.

With arms resting on top of the wall, he looked at the overgrown rear yard with its deterioration and pictured a party, one of just men having fun in the pool, socializing around the deck and under the porch, martinis, and cocktails in hand. But he considered what he had heard last night, or what he imagined he heard and saw. It was like he hallucinated the past, a time long ago.

 

Noah was walking around the block, looking around for anyone who might be out at the late hour. The houses were dark and there was no traffic on the streets. He moved with a slow pace, hesitant, unsure why he was going back to the house on Beckenham Lane. It had been two days since he had used the ladder to survey the rear yard. Despite telling himself he would not go back, he found himself doing just that.

Once at the end of the drive looking up at the house, he felt foolish. What did he think he heard two nights ago? Surely not what he imagined. Maybe it was what Ms. Kaminski had said that tripped his imagination. He looked around to make sure no one was around, then eased up the drive, pushing back the low hanging limbs hanging over it. He came alongside the house where it was the darkest and he pulled out his phone, turning on the flashlight.

He was halfway along the side of the house when the rear yard began to glow with the bluish hue like two nights before. Then he heard music and voices. It was muted, like it was coming from a long distance, but as he drew closer, it became clearer, the song one from the sixties he recognized, then the voices became clear. At the rear corner of the house, heart pounding in his chest, Noah took a deep breath, reached for the old gate, and swung it open.

 

The sky was brilliant blue, not a cloud in the sky. “These Boots Are Made For Walking” was playing from the porch and there were men in the pool, lounging on the deck around it and sitting under the porch.

“Noah, come, join us,” said Mason, coming out from under the porch. “I saw you the other day. You should have come on back.”

“You know me?”

Mason came up close. “Yeah, I know you. I have for some time now. Come on, meet the guys.”

Noah felt a hand touch his back leading him toward the porch. He took it in, the pool area, the porch, and the men. All the men.

He glanced over at Mason taking the measure of him. Slightly shorter than his own six-foot height, maybe five foot ten. The lean muscular build of a man in his forties with a hairy chest and legs and a disarming smile. Under the porch, sat another man, younger, closer to his own age, with dark skin, black hair, and dark brown eyes.

“This is Dominic. He came to stay with me for a few days,” said Mason, and over here is my nephew and his girlfriend, Ethan and Hannah.”

The nephew, the man who would eventually take possession of the house until his death. He looked at Ethan in shock, a man in his early twenties with a lean build and about the same height as his uncle. It was the hair that was different, light brown instead of dark like Mason’s. Ethan was working at the bar and Hannah was sitting on one of four bar stools, drink in front of her.

“In the pool we have Leo and Kyle, and over there is Jean-Claude. He came to party with us for a few days.”

Leo and Kyle looked in their early thirties and so similar in hair style and body shape and general features they could have been related. The way Leo sat next to Kyle and through the surface of the clear water, Noah could see a hand on Kyle’s thigh, and knew they were not related. The two men waved then turned back to each other resuming their conversation.

Noah turned to Jean-Claude who was climbing out of the pool. He looked slightly below average in height but had a muscular body and dark hair and a neatly close-cut beard and wet tight swim trunks that reveal a nice bulge that Noah had to force himself to stop staring at as Jean-Claude came toward them on the porch.

“At the table is Oliver and Joseph, and in the chaise lounge chairs is Mike and Andrew,” said Mason, pointing first at the two men sitting at a small table with cocktails sitting on it, then over to two chaise lounges where Mike and Andrew were laying out getting a tan.

Noah sized them up wondering how many of them Mason had played around with. Oliver looked young, early twenties with thick long brown hair, which stood out sitting next to Joseph who not only looked older, about Mason’s age, but had a military style haircut. Then he looked at Mike and Andrew. The age difference was more pronounced, Andrew appearing to be the oldest man there, early fifties or maybe a bit older, whereas Mike looked young, really young, still in his teens, eighteen or nineteen with a build that reflected such an age.

“Ethan, make me another Manhattan, will you?” said Jean-Claude as he came up the steps and under the porch.

Noah smiled at him, feeling his attraction toward the man with an accent, one from English not being his first language. Jean-Claude smiled back.

“You are a cute one. Can I get Ethan to make you something to drink?”

“I…huh…sure, why not.”

“Ethan, make this cute man a drink.”

“What will you have?” said Ethan.

“Paper Plane.”

“What? I don’t know that one.”

“Ethan, make Noah an Old Fashioned,” said Mason.

 

“Paint it Black” was playing over the stereo and Noah found himself sitting under the gazebo with Jean-Claude. He had been listening to how Jean-Claude lived in France outside of Paris and was visiting for a week.

“How did you meet Mason?”

Jean-Claude laughed.

“At a little café in Rue Saint Anne. I was sitting at a little table on the sidewalk when Mason came up and asked if he could sit with me, despite the fact tables were available.”

“Seriously, that boldly?”

“You have to be bold in this world that does not want us.”

A hand came down on Noah’s leg, the fingers squeezing slightly.

“You have to be bold and daring and go for what you want. Do you know what I mean,” said Jean-Claude.

Noah felt his cock stir, the confinement of his jeans suddenly too much. He felt that hand slide up his thigh, closer and closer until he felt his heart racing.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to go inside?”

Noah’s mouth was dry, and the words stuck in his throat, so he smiled while nodding his head. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Only Mason was looking his way, and he raised his glass as a toast, a gesture of approval, then turned back to Dominic.

“Come with me, Noah.”

Noah looked back at Jean-Claude and saw he was standing next to him, with a hand extended out.

 

The bedroom was on the second floor, a room that overlooked the pool. Noah stood at the window looking down. He could see Kyle and Leo fondling each other and Oliver laughing at something Joseph said. Mason and Dominic came out from under the porch and eased down into the pool, each holding a cocktail. Then he felt Jean-Claude against his back, and he knew the man was naked for he felt the cock press against his ass in a manner one could not if confined in those tight trunks he had been wearing.

“I really do find myself attractive to you,” whispered Jean-Claude.

Noah closed his eyes focusing on the way Jean-Claude touched him. Body against body, the press of cock against his ass, and the hands that move around his waist, one moving upward over his chest and one downward, until manipulating his cock.

Noah tried to tell himself it was a hallucination, not real, but then lips touched the back of his neck as fingers dug into the crotch of his jeans making him rock hard. He moaned, tilted his head back letting the lips move around his neck until below his jaw. His shirt loosened then hung open. A tug and his jeans loosened, then he felt hands pushing them and his boxers down until his cock flopped out free. A hand stroked his cock while one moved over his bare chest. He pushed through the hand when fingers pinched down on the right nipple.

“Jesus,” Noah uttered breathlessly.

The hands left his chest and cock, and the shirt was slipped off his shoulders. Then hands turned him until facing Jean-Claude, then led him across the room, stepping out of his jeans clumsily making them laugh.

Noah looked at Jean-Claude’s cock. The rock-hard shaft curved out and up and he wanted it. He watched it flop around as Jean-Claude moved back to the bed, then down on it.

“Come, Noah, let’s have pleasure.”

Noah moved down next to him, laid a hand on the flat stomach as he leaned over and kissed him. While they kissed, he moved his hand down, over the hard cock, the tightening sac, down until rubbing the tight opening. He moved his finger over it, a circular motion feeling its resistance. Then he penetrated it making Jean-Claude moan.

One finger, two, then three, Noah worked Jean-Claude’s ass until it loosened around his fingers.

“Fuck, stop teasing me,” said Jean-Claude.

Noah moved between the spread legs. He took each ankle and brought the feet together and against his chest. He moved closer and leaned over him until his cock touched the spread ass. He pushed against it, thrust forward until his cock pushed over the sac and along Jean-Claude’s cock where he pumped his against it until so aroused he had to stop.

“Put it in me,” said Jean-Claude.

And Noah did. He pushed his cock down until it aligned with the loosened opening and penetrated him. He pushed inward, slowly, gently, inch after inch, until over halfway inside him, then he stopped, savoring the feel of tight ass around his cock.

Hands moved over his back, down until cupping each ass cheek.

“Fuck me; please…fuck me,” exclaimed Jean-Claude.

Noah began to fuck, to pull outward then push inward, going deeper and deeper until his hips pressed against the upturned ass. Increasing his pace until the bed rocked beneath them in rhythm to their pace. It spurned Noah to fuck with a steady rhythm, one that let him feel the bed rock and squeak harder, and to hear Jean-Claude’s grunts and moans and breathless mutterings.

Noah rose up, grabbed each leg behind the knee and pushed them down until tight to Jean-Claude’s chest. He held himself over the pinned down man and resumed their fuck. Only this time he fucked harder, faster, rocking the bed until it banged into the wall and Jean-Claude’s cries echoed in the room. He fucked until burning up, sweat trickling down his face, chest, and back. He fucked until muscles burned and Jean-Claude pleaded with him to come.

He felt it, the increase in his arousal until release was close. His body tightened and his rhythm became ragged, slamming into Jean-Claude’s ass until the sound of flesh smacking flesh was louder than their moans and grunts. He tightened his grip on the legs and shoved into Jean-Claude’s depths, over and over, until he could hold back no longer. He erupted with a hard breathless release, then he shoved his spurting cock into Jean-Claude’s depths until spent and exhausted.

 

Noah rolled to Jean-Claude’s side and saw the rock-hard cock drooling its slick. When Jean-Claude reached for it, he pushed the man’s hand away and leaned over him, taking the cock into his mouth. He pushed down until it filled his mouth capturing the unique taste of the man. Hands came to his head; fingers combed through his hair as he moved on the cock. Lips tight around it, he moved up and down on it until he felt it swell thicker, flex against the roof of his mouth, then fill it with cum.

 

 

Noah followed Jean-Claude into the hall and toward the den. They were still naked, Jean-Claude telling him not to bother with clothes. At one open door he heard voices and stopped to see Mason over Dominic. He moved in the familiar way, of one man fucking another. Dominic’s legs were wrapped around the flexing ass as cock bore into him. Their fuck was slow, gentle, Mason unhurried in his push inward, and Noah knew it allowed them to truly feel the penetration of Dominic’s ass.

“Hey, come on,” said Jean-Claude, grabbing Noah by the hand and pulling him away.

They came into the den with its bar along one wall, and stereo and television console on the opposite wall and in between a large sectional sofa. And on the sofa, Oliver and Joseph were making out. Oliver’s swim trunks lay on the floor and Joseph’s hung from the right foot. They were kissing while stroking the other’s cock. Noah looked at the fully exposed men, Joseph’s muscular body and Oliver’s lean body, and each with nice cocks. Joseph’s cock was ramrod straight with an arrow shaped head and Oliver’s was thick, curved, and had an even thicker flared head. Noah knew Joseph could really bore into a man’s ass, but Oliver could stretch a man open like few others could. He felt his own cock flex with the idea of taking both men.

“You like?” asked Jean-Claude.

“Yes,” Noah whispered in reply, brutally honest about his desire for sex with the men.

“Come.”

Jean-Claude took his hand again and led him to the sofa.

“Hey guys, can we join you?” asked Jean-Claude.

By way of an answer, Joseph rose to his knees on the sofa and reached out to Jean-Claude, while Oliver slipped to the floor and grabbed Noah by the legs, pulling him forward until able to capture the dripping cock in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Noah exclaimed as Oliver moved on his cock. He grew rock-hard as he watched Oliver’s head move back and forth and heard the slurpy suction of his suck.

Movement on the sofa and Noah looked to see Joseph guide Jean-Claude onto it on his knees facing the arm along the nearest end. Joseph moved up behind him, kicking the legs apart, then slapping the ass with his cock. Then Joseph lined his cock with Jean-Claude’s hole and shoved forward, all the way, every inch buried inside him. Jean-Claude rocked forward, dropped his chest to the arm, and begged Joseph to fuck him.

“Noah,” said Oliver, and Noah looked down to see him looking up.

“You want to fuck me?” asked Noah.

“Yes.”

Noah moved to the sofa on the section away from the others and lay on his back with his head resting on the arm. He raised his legs and held them behind the knees, spread apart revealing himself to Oliver. Oliver moved to his ass, and he felt a tongue touch him, felt it drag seductively up and down his ass, over his tightening sac, along his cock, then back down to his ass. Oliver rimmed him until he felt wet and ready.

“Jesus…fuck me.”

Oliver moved up and over him, and he felt the blunt round head of Oliver’s cock against his wet ass. He closed his eyes and pushed against it. There was a push back, then his stretching to take it. He shivered with the penetration, how thick inch after thick inch stretched him open and bore into his body.

Jean-Claude’s obscene utterings, Joseph banging against his ass, and Noah wondered if his own cries and moans were as loud to them. He couldn’t hold back, for Oliver’s fuck consumed him. He struggled to sense anything other than Oliver’s fuck. The way it had stretched him open and now bore into his depths, over and over, until his own cock drooled precum onto his stomach. Oliver shifted position and resumed fucking and Noah saw stars. Explosions within his vision as cock banged his insides. Oliver’s pace increased until they were both grunting and uttering obscenities. Then Noah came again, spurting wad after wad across his chest and stomach. Then Oliver slammed into his ass and jerked and shuddered with release.

 

Noah lounged in the pool next to Mason and Dominic while Mike and Andrew horsed around on the other end. Ethan and Hannah had long since retired inside and Oliver and Joseph were lounging in the sun. Jean-Claude was at the bar making cocktails while “Wild Thing” began to play.

“Noah, you have to go back,” said Mason.

“What do you mean?” But Noah knew what he meant.

“It’s time.”

Noah nodded showing his understanding.

“Can I ask-“

“No. Don’t try to understand it,” said Mason, cutting Noah off.

Noah climbed out of the pool, dried off, then went under the porch to dress. He looked back at the men in the pool, Jean-Claude leaning over handing Mason a drink, none of them looking his way. He knew in some way; he was already gone to them. The light changed, and he felt the air grow charged until the hair on his arms stood up. He moved to the end of the porch and to the gate. He went through the gate as the light behind him turned to a bluish glow, then everything went dark. He was in the old drive, overgrown and broken up. He looked back at the overgrown rear yard, barely lit by moonlight. He looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed since he first entered the rear yard.

 

Two days later a crew showed up at the house on Beckenham Lane and began to clean up the grounds around the house. Noah rode his bicycle by the house regularly watching the progress as the house was prepared for selling. He looked at the physical structure with workers scrapping old paint or replacing a section of siding as he thought of that night. It seemed like a dream, something not real, but then he thought of the intimacy of their sex, then relaxing with everyone at the pool. His skin tingled with the memory. His cock stirred.