Old-Fashioned, or Another Story With Ghosts

Old-Fashioned, or Another Story With Ghosts

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WpMetadataNoticeHuling na-publish Wed, Jun 5, 2024
Greg is an unsuccessful London-based make up artist. When he receives a chance to work at the All Saints wedding party, he has no idea how the officially haunted manor will welcome him. James is also coming to the party. Although he is a bit late, has no invitation, and appears to be a new owner of the property. Also, he is a lord Blacke whose family had owned the house three centuries ago. He is definitely not happy with partying at his country house. But will he be happy with a couple of ghosts wondering around the manor? And how Greg fits into this posh English society with his dyed hair and awful Scottish accent? Hm...let's find out together!
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Shepherd had run all his life. Constant, unabating movement that consumed him. It was relentless, be it the demons within his own mind or external pursuers out of his control, there was always another beast snapping at his heel, urging him forward in the eternal chase. But that was behind him. He was settled now, happy, hidden away from the prying eyes and reaching claws. Until He returned. Reece Greymoore, a name Shepherd so desperately wished to eradicate from his mind. Their meeting had been brief, a lifetime ago, ending on soured notes that Shepherd no longer allowed to disturb his slumber. Reece shouldn't have found him, and yet there he was, speaking of friendship and favours and other pleasantries that had Shepherd's guard firmly bolstered around himself. But Reece never appeared in a shower of sunshine and rose petals. Rather, he spoke of so much worse, of threats to Shepherd's very life. Promises of safety fell upon deaf ears, disbelief a much more comforting blanket to reside within. Reece was not only an alpha but he was a ghost, a figure within Shepherd's past that should have never arisen. He arrived with death and dismay in his wake, sweet words weren't repayment enough. Reece's presence had shattered the fragile cage around Shepherd, allowing the light in, reminding him of the freedom of the chase. The roots he had planted were withering, tearing apart beneath him, leaving nothing but rot and decay where he stood. Maybe running was just how it was meant to be...

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