Cucked By The Dead: Part 5 (Patreon)

Here's the latest section of Cucked By The Dead. I made the decision that I'm going to try and finish this and get it out by Halloween week, which is ambitious but I think I can do it!

💀 ☠️ 💀 ☠️ 💀 ☠️ 💀

I can hear him as soon as I come in the front door. I’ve been out for a walk — a long walk. Things have been tense these last few days, and he still hasn’t talked to me about what’s going on. So I’ve made myself scarce. Partly to give him space, I guess, at least that’s what I tell myself. If I’m honest though it’s probably more about the fact that I can’t handle the vibe at home right now. 

He’s upstairs. He’s moaning like a slut. Beyond what’s normal for someone who’s jacking off, it’s like he’s actually getting fucked up there.

Maybe he is. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t he home this soon, or maybe he’s given up the pretence and decided he doesn’t care if he gets caught, and whoever this Jimmy guy is, he’s up there right now fucking Keith. 

I almost don’t go up there. I feel like he must only be making that much noise because he wants to get a rise out of me, whether he’s alone or not. Maybe I’m better off just ignoring it.

Of course that’s not going to happen though. I can’t help myself.

I climb the stairs. I don’t announce myself but I don’t bother keeping quiet about it. When I get to the top I can see in the bedroom door, which is wide open. Keith’s on the bed. He’s lying on his back, dick fully erect. He seems to be alone, which I’m relieved but also strangely disappointed about. He’s not touching his dick, and at first I assume that he’s been jerking off but stopped when I interrupted. Or maybe there is someone in there with him, someone who hid down the side of the bed or in the wardrobe when he heard me coming.

But he looks in my direction, and his eyes lock on mine, and he doesn’t seem surprised or embarrassed or as though he’s stopped in the middle of anything. He stares at me for a second, and then he looks up at something, and then he starts to thrust his hips the way he usually does when I’m sitting on his dick and riding him. It’s like he’s fucking thin air.

I can’t imagine it’s easy to get off that way. But maybe he’s learnt some new technique, bringing himself to climax just from tensing his muscles somehow. He’s staring at me again now, this weird intensity in his eyes that I can’t translate, and I’m not sure if it’s an invitation or an attempt to tell me to leave. Either way, I’m drawn to him. I step towards the open door without thinking, whether he wants me to or not. Whether I want to or not. But as I reach the threshhold of the bedroom the door swings shut and slams in my face.

It takes me a second or two to process what just happened. The logical part of my brain is telling me that there was someone in there with him after all, hiding behind the door, and whoever it was just shut me out. But something is telling me that’s not right, and I can’t place why. Not until I replay the moment in my head, and I realise that the placement of the mirror in the bedroom meant I could see what was behind that door. And in the second it took to swing closed I was certain there was no one there to push it. I’m sure of it. Almost sure.

It couldn’t have slammed like that on its own though. Not with that force. Not at that very moment. 

I grab the door handle and twist it. I push on the door. But it doesn’t budge. Not this again. It’s not locked, it can’t be. The door doesn’t have a lock. I rattle the handle, kick the bottom of the door in case it’s just stuck shut. But nothing. Now fear has taken over. “Keith!” I yell, banging on the door. “Keith, let me in.” No response. I rattle the door handle some more, but I give up. Whatever’s going on, I’m not getting into that room. 

Then the noises start up. The sound of Keith thrusting up and down on the bed, panting, grunting, fucking. It’s no ordinary jack-off session, it’s like he’s really fucking in there. This is all so fucking confusing. I know what I saw. At least, I think I know what I saw. But if I really did see the door slam shut and lock on its own then something is going on that I can’t explain. I tell myself that there has to be a rational, real explanation for this. And the only one I can think of is that there must be someone else in there with him, someone who’s managed to barricade the door or something, who’s now riding Keith’s dick and milking his cock. 

Why the hell am I getting hard from thinking about that? I’m freaking out, my mind is in chaos. I don’t know how my dick can even function when I’m in this state. But it is, and the more I hear Keith moan, and the more I think about some guy riding him in my bed, the harder my dick gets. 

I shouldn’t be accepting this. I should be busting down the door, or running away, or pretty much anything except this. But in the moment the only thing that really feels right is to get my dick out and start jerking it to the sound of whatever the fuck Keith is doing in there. It makes me feel almost sick, but my mind’s shut down and my body’s taking over. I sink to the floor, leaning against the bedroom door, and I proceed to sit there jerking off frantically to the sex noises coming from my bedroom.

Finally I hear Keith climax. I know that telltale grunt, I’ve heard it so many times I’d recognise it anywhere. But then I hear the words, in a menacing whisper, and I know they’re not coming from Keith. “You’re mine.”

Suddenly the door I’ve been leaning against opens, and I lose my balance and tip onto the floor. I scramble frantically to my feet, and when I do I find Keith alone, lying on the bed, covered in cum. I look around, but there’s no sign of anyone else.

“What the fuck just happened?” I ask.

Keith looks guilty. “Sorry if that was kind of weird,” he says.

“Kind of weird? Are you fucking kidding?” I look around again, conscious that I probably seem crazy right now. But I have to ask. “Was there someone in here with you just now?”

“No,” Keith replies. “I was just jacking off. I thought you realised that.”

“That didn’t seem like a regular jack-off sesh,” I say. “And it sounded like you were talking to someone. And the door…”

“What does the door have to do with it?”

“You saw it, right?” I say. “It just closed of its own accord. And locked me out. And then unlocked as soon as you were done. That’s not possible. That’s like…” I can’t bring myself to say it. 

“It did seem strange, yeah,” he admits. “Old houses though. All kinds of quirks.”

“You were talking to someone just now though. I heard you. Is this something to do with Jimmy?”

Keith has nothing to say in response to that. Bingo. I knew it, I fucking knew it.

“Who is he?” I demand.

“Okay,” Keith says. “Okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have denied it when you asked about it. It just all felt a little awkward and I’m not sure how to explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“Jimmy’s like a fantasy guy I kind of… made up. He was like, a recurring character in my dreams so I just decided to go with it, so sometimes when I’m jacking off I’ll picture him and pretend like he’s real.”

He sat up. “And I guess I tell myself it’s fine, but I know I probably shouldn’t. He’s not a real person. He’s not based on a real person. So I’m not doing something with anyone. But I get it’s probably kind of fucked up to be fantasising about this made-up character instead of just focusing on being with you.”

“Oh.” Now I’m questioning everything that just happened. Here I was thinking there was an actual person in the room. Or what, like a ghost or something? When it was actually just Keith trying to apply a bit of realism to his jack-off fantasy.

“I’m sorry. It was shit of me.”

“You’re allowed to fantasise about other guys,” I say. “We all do it.”

“And you can see why I might feel kind of embarrassed to talk about it?”

I nod. I do get it. I get up off the bed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted. I think I totally overreacted. I’ll give you a minute to uh… clean up and stuff.” 

I get out of that bedroom as fast as I can, feeling incredibly stupid. For about five minutes, that is. Because I keep replaying it in my head, and I know it’s not as simple as that. Something fucked up happened in there. Something I can’t make sense of. Something that’s not natural.

☠️ ☠️ ☠️

I’m in the front garden, drinking my coffee. Having a cigarette with it, because the stress of the last few days has been enough to make me start up again after about four years stopped. It’s a nice spot, this garden, but I’m not out here because of the ambience. I’m not even really out here for the cigarette. I’m out here because there’s someone I need to talk to.

I see him coming, just like his routine dictates. Him and that dog. When he gets near I give him what I intend to be a neighbourly smile but I guess it probably looks more manic than friendly.

“Hey,” I say, as cheerfully as I can, hoping that it’s enough to start a conversation.

He gives me a cursory smile and a “hi” but doesn’t look like he wants to stop and chat. I’d been hoping he’d stop and chat. I guess I’m going to have to be a bit more direct.

“Hey can I ask you something?” I say to him.

“Yeah,” he replies. He’s polite, but he looks a little uncomfortable.

“This house,” I say. “You mentioned you’ve seen it change hands a few times.”

“Yep.” Now he definitely looks uncomfortable.

“Do you know what happened? With any of the previous owners?” I can hear the anxious, desperate edge in my own voice.

He nodded grimly. “Some of them. Why is it you want to know?”

I don’t even know what to say to that. But my silence obviously says it all. “Strange things are happening, right?” he asks. “Stuff you can’t explain?”

I just nod, not saying a word. 

“And things with your partner have taken a turn too.” That’s not even a question, he already knows it’s true. 

“Always seems to be gay couples that buy this place,” he says. “I guess that’s not that weird, this is a pretty gay neighbourhood. But it always ends badly for them.”

“Badly how?”

“The couple before you broke up,” he says. “And the couple before them. The ones before them though, that was something else. One of them cracked, really went off the deep end. Tried to kill his boyfriend. I didn’t see it but I heard it took four cops to restrain him, and he was babbling the whole time. They put him in an institution. And the funny thing was, his boyfriend seemed like he’d forgotten all about it as soon as it happened. Completely chill. For a few weeks at least, then he seemed to start losing it too, and then a few weeks later he just up and moved in a day.”

“Do you know why?” I ask him. I can hear the desperation in my own voice.

“I don’t know. But I have my own theories.”

“Which are..?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Look up Alfred Baker. Alfred Baker and Jimmy Crawford. That’s where it all started.”

My stomach sinks, hearing the name Jimmy. I’m not surprised though. Maybe it’s actually all starting to make sense. Still, I can’t help asking, “Who’s Jimmy Crawford?”

But he doesn’t answer. Instead he says to me, “Look, I better be on my way. Just… look it up. And maybe think about finding a new place. I wouldn’t wait around, I’d get on with it.” He gives his dog’s lead a little tug to get it moving. “I hope it works out okay for you two.”

I smoke my cigarette as he walks away. Then I stub the butt on the paver and go inside.

My laptop’s sitting on the coffee table in the living room, and I sit down on the sofa with it and type ‘Jimmy Crawford’ into the search bar. There’s hundreds of results, of course there is. It’s a not exactly a rare name. So I add the name Alfred Baker alongside it in the search bar. That’s whittled it down to just a few results, mainly listings of newspaper articles in the state library archive. I open the first one, it’s an image of a small article in what looks like a very old newspaper, the headline in block text reading POLICE BELIEVE GRUESOME DEATH BY IMPALING NO ACCIDENT.

An arrest has been made following the grisly death of James Patrick (Jimmy) Crawford, a domestic servant aged 29. Police were called to a home on Ramshead Road, Paddington on Tuesday 11 May following reports of a fall, to find the deceased body of Mr Crawford impaled on the pallisade fence in front of the home in which he worked. Mr Crawford suffered three wounds in the chest and torso from the spikes of the fence after falling from the first floor balcony, and was deceased by the time police and ambulance brigade arrived on the scene. Police do not believe Mr Crawford’s fall was an accident, and have taken into custody his employer, Alfred Baker, aged 32, the owner of the home where the death occurred.  

The date on the metadata for the article says 13 May, 1910. I exit out of it, and look at the next listing in the search results, another scanned image of a newspaper article, this one from November the same year. 

Shocking and distasteful scenes were on display in the High Court today as 33 year old accountant Alfred Baker was tried for the murder of his manservant James (Jimmy) Crawford in May of this year. Mr Crawford was discovered impaled on the street-facing fence outside his home after falling from a balcony — a fall that prosecutors allege was the result of assault by Mr Baker.

The jury heard testimony from three neighbours who each shared evidence suggesting that the relationship between Mr Baker and his long-time boarder, a Henry Turner, were of an inappropriate and unnatural nature. When asked about the deceased, one neighbour confirmed that Mr Crawford also had a reputation for similar proclivities prior to being taken on my Messrs Baker and Turner as a manservant in their home. 

The last witness of the day to be called was Mr Turner. After some significant reticence to reveal the events of the evening in question, when faced with rigorous questioning from the prosecution Mr Turner admitted that both he and Mr Baker had been living in the manner of man and wife, and that Mr Baker had flown into a jealous rage upon returning home to find Mr Turner engaged in obscene physical conduct with Mr Crawford in the bed he shared with Mr Baker. An emotional Mr Turner then told the court of an ensuing fight that ended with Mr Baker pushing Mr Crawford off the balcony of the bedroom Mr Baker and Mr Turner shared, resulting in the gruesome death of Mr Crawford who was empaled by three metal bars of the fence below.

The jury has now retired to consider its verdict. However, based on the testimony heard today it is unlikely to be a long or difficult deliberation.

I shut my laptop. All of my questions seem answered, even though the answers seem impossible. I tell myself that I’m just falling prey to confirmation bias, seeing a bunch of facts and somehow forcing them into the shape of an explanation for why Keith’s been acting so weird. But I don’t believe my own attempts to talk myself out of it.

I open my laptop again — I can’t help it — and I start scrolling through the other search results. Mainly more of the same, more newspaper articles about the case, the speculation about the sexual inclinations of these two men and their live-in servant. And then I open a page that has a picture in it. The photo is grainy and poor quality, but I recognise it instantly. Recognise it, but can’t place it. Like a person I met long ago but have forgotten. And then it hits me, where I know it from. It was the face in my nightmare, one of those first few nights in the house. When I’d woken up and it has still been there, etched into my mind, it was this face.

“Keith!” I yell. “Keith! Come here!”

It doesn’t take him long to come charging down the stairs. “What is it?” he asks, worry in his voice.

“Come here, look at this,” I say, gesturing to the laptop. And as soon as he’s close enough to get a good look I swing the screen around to face him. “Do you know this face?” I ask.

He studies it, and I can see the recognition come over his face like a cloud blocking out the sub. His face freezes. Like he’s seen a ghost. 

That’s all the confirmation I need. “You do, don’t you?” I say. “Is this Jimmy? The one you’ve been fantasising about?”

He stares at it longer. Then finally, he shrugs nonchalantly. “He does look kind of like that, I guess, yeah,” he says. “But like, it’s a pretty low-res picture. And it’s a pretty generic face.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” I demand. “I know it’s him. Do you know who this picture is? It’s a guy who used to live in this house. A guy who was—”

“Jimmy is just some guy I dreamed up for a jack-off fantasy,” he says, cutting me off. “Jimmy is not a real person.” There’s finality in his tone. It’s not up for discussion.

I’m not going to let that stop me though. “Is he? Is he really? Because I think he’s…” I can’t even let myself say the last bit. I’m convinced by this point, but it still sounds too stupid to say out loud.

Keith sighs. “Just stop, okay?”And before I can say anything else he’s turned and is walking out of the room.