The Loiselle mansion reminded me of the creepy house in the movie It. Just thinking about Pennywise gave me the chills. I hadn't realized I was afraid of clowns until I saw the movie. I'd also seen one too many documentaries on John Wayne Gacy. I had a brief obsession with serial killer documentaries.

At twenty-eight, I had yet to overcome my clown phobia.

And I'm embarrassed to admit I was twenty-two when I first saw It, so it's not like I was a little kid.

Whoever owned the mansion failed to upkeep it. Walking through the front yard was like navigating a maze of unruly bushes. The willow tree tilted to the side, its rotting bark on the trunk peeling away. The dead leaves from the nearby oak tree littered the uneven walkway. The fields used to be full of corn, vegetables, and brightly colored flowers. I'd heard lots of stories about the ginormous pumpkin patch, but all the vegetation died years ago. The neglected lawn had grown unruly over the years, transforming into a sprawling meadow that reached up to our knees.

Locals shared stories of the ghostly occurrences rumored to take place in the Loiselle mansion. I never believed in ghosts until I spent a night at Lizzie Borden's house last year. Maybe it was Lorry who convinced me Lizzie was still somewhere in the house with her axe waiting for her next victim. It was Lorry's idea to spend the night at Lizzie Borden's, just like it was his idea to rent the mansion. I wondered who owned the mansion nowadays.

The mansion was once vibrant, mirroring the lush greenery surrounding it. Over the past month, I had recurring dreams of the Loiselle mansion that was full of love and warmth, owned by a farming family who sold the most delicious corn and who made the best apple and pumpkin pies. They also sold pumpkins once upon a time. My grandfather used to tell stories of picking out pumpkins in the great Loiselle pumpkin patch.

The dream was so vivid, I could taste the apple pie and corn on the cob.

I hauled five pumpkins in a wagon up the uneven rocky walkway to the front door. Lyndsey and her long time girlfriend, Carmen, carried bags of chips, pretzels, and assorted Halloween candy. Lorry held a box of liquor while Sam was inside somewhere, setting everything up.

As Lorry opened the heavy front wooden door, my mind wandered to the significance of today, and it had nothing to do with Halloween or this massive party. Lorry and his big mouth invited everybody in our small rural town. Initially, it was only supposed to be a small, intimate gathering of close friends.

I swore I was forgetting something major important like an anniversary or birthday. My parents celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary last year, and I didn't know of any other anniversaries. I hadn't had a steady boyfriend in two years.

Lorry and I had been friends since we met in the first LGBTQ+ club the school ever had. We were only friends, except for a few times we experimented with kissing in ninth grade. We were too different: he was a mega extrovert while I was an introvert. Sometimes his big personality was too much for me.

"Hello!" Lorry shouted, standing in the entrance, his voice echoing, bouncing off the walls. "Hey, Sam! Are you in here?"

A zombie suddenly jumped in front of us, resembling a character from The Walking Dead. Lorry took a step back, stumbling into Lyndsey and Carmen who stumbled into me, causing me to almost fall over. Sam laughed so hard he nearly cried, but stopped himself, afraid to smear his make-up.

"That's not funny," I said. "I could have fallen and broken an ankle or something."

"Oh, lighten up, J.P.," Lyndsey said. "It was funny. Love the make-up, Sam."

We entered the house, impressed by Sam's hard work. A gigantic fuzzy black widow spider hung from one of the wooden beams. In each corner, life-size skeletons sat on old, dilapidated chairs. A mannequin lay face down in the middle of the floor with a knife in its back. Both fake and real cobwebs stretched over the walls and windows.

Lorry nominated me to carve the pumpkins while Sam decorated the wilted bushes outside with more fake cobwebs. Lorry was much better at giving orders than doing hard labor. Lyndsey and Carmen set up the snacks and beverages.

While we worked downstairs, Lorry explored the mansion, possibly hunting ghosts or something else. Lorry was unpredictable. I was so busy carving the pumpkins, I hadn't realized how long Lorry had been gone.

As I sat on the floor, working on my third pumpkin, footsteps approached me. As I looked up, I nearly jumped out of my skin to see Pennywise standing above me. This was Lorry's surprise costume. He laughed harder than Sam did earlier.

"That's not funny," I said. "You should be more careful. I'm holding a knife."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Lorry said, sitting beside me on the dirty, worn out hardwood floor. "Look what I found upstairs." Lorry held an old book in his hand, one that resembled an original classic like Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, one of my favorite books. This wasn't a work of fiction, though. It was someone's diary. "It's a diary, written by Philippe Loiselle. Look... his name's printed in fancy writing inside the cover. See..." He opened the book to show me his name. "Did you ever know any of the Loiselles' names?"

The name Philippe Loiselle sparked something inside me, which confused the hell out of me. "Yeah... Peter and Marge were the last ones to live here. That was like twenty or thirty years ago," I said. "They both died in the house."

"That's creepy. How do you know all this stuff?"

"My dad likes to tell stories and I listen."

"Aww... how sad... " Lyndsey said, staring down at her phone. "It says here that Philippe Loiselle died in the Somme Offensive in October 1918. He was only twenty-three."

"This Philippe guy sounds interesting," Lorry said, opening the book to a random spot in the middle. He read it aloud as we all listened as if he was about to tell a scary ghost story.

May 2, 1916

The expectation is for me to marry Camille Dumont, the oldest and noblest daughter of the Dumont family of Cleghorn. Both the Dumonts and Loiselles are the wealthiest families in town, so in many respects it makes sense that their two oldest children wed.

I went to see Dr. Robinson about my strange desires, hoping he could cure me of these obsessions. He could only offer me advice and nothing more. If I want to remain a free man in society, I must heed his advice of secrecy. I had hoped he would offer a cure for my affliction, but there does not appear to be a cure. I simply must resist my urges.

Camille and I have merely had two brief encounters together and yet here I am on the cusp of proposing to this woman. She desires to kiss me, but I do not desire to kiss her. I have other, ungodly desires, desires that a woman could never fulfill. I've never been on such depths of despair that I've considered taking away God's greatest gift.

"Do you think he was gay?" Lyndsey asked.

"Well, yeah, it's obvious," Lorry said in that arrogant tone of his that makes us all feel stupid.

"That's so sad," Lyndsey continued. "Can you imagine living in the closet, always afraid of being locked up?"

"You only got locked up if you were caught acting on these desires," Lorry said. "Let's move on..." Lorry flipped through several pages since we didn't have much more time before guests showed up.

October 1, 1916

The most peculiar man arrived today. He came here to help with the harvest, but no one knows where he came from. He has not said a word since his arrival. He has the blondest hair that I have ever seen. His skin is fair and his cheeks have a pinkish hue to them. I must admit he is handsome.

Harry introduced him as Jean Paul. He will be staying in the servants' quarters for the next month until the harvest is complete. He is not like the other servants. He is not like anyone else I have ever met.

"Hey, that's funny," Lorry said. "You're Jean Paul, aren't you?"

"Half this area is French Canadian," I said, reaching for the frail diary. "Anyway, it's J.P, not Jean Paul. What difference does it make, anyway? This diary is over a hundred years old."

"But your full name is Jean Paul Rondeau. J.P.'s your nickname, and you have blond hair and pink cheeks, especially when you're blushing like now."

"Shut up, Lorry."

"Maybe this Jean Paul is a great great uncle or something," Carmen said.

"Shut up, all of you." I didn't want to hear any more nonsense. As I carefully turned a page in the diary, I wasn't sure I wanted to read it out loud. I lost the motivation to continue to carve pumpkins, more motivated to read Philippe's diary. I held the diary close to me, preventing Lorry from reading over my shoulder.

October 3, 1916

He spoke today if only to tell me he prefers to be called J.P. To oblige him, I have agreed to call him his preferred name.

***

October 6, 1916

I watched J.P. in the fields today. He has clearly never done this type of work before. I suspected he is a scholar or an investigative journalist. He speaks differently, using words and phrases I have never heard before. It is not proper to converse with the servants, but J.P. is too endearing to ignore. He was most appreciative of the apple pie I brought to him in the late evening.

As of this date, I have yet to propose to Camille, much to my parents' dismay. J.P. has distracted me enough to bring me out of the depths of despair, but I am afraid of what will happen when he leaves to return to wherever he is from.

"Hey, J.P., are you gonna to finish carving the pumpkins or are you going to sit there and read Philippe Loiselle's memoirs?" Lorry asked, bringing me back to the present. "People'll be here any minute."

"Um... uh... yeah," I said, tossing the open diary to the side. Lorry placed tea lights inside two of the pumpkins and brought them outside.

After completing the third pumpkin, I resumed reading the diary. I couldn't focus on carving anymore.

***

October 12, 1916

J.P. said something so incredulous that I feared for my safety. He knew something that put me in grave danger. On the outside, he appears innocent and kind, but on the inside he is a deviant, someone not to be trusted. I must keep my distance from him; otherwise I will find myself exposed and humiliated, forced to live a life of shame behind bars or in an asylum. J.P. has no shame. He is fearless because he has nothing to lose when I have everything to lose. He and I must never speak again.

But I cannot resist him. His smile and soft voice are forever ingrained in my mind. I won't ever forget him. He reminds me of all the reasons why I cannot—why I must not—marry Camille Dumont.

***

October 15, 2023

J.P. is relentless in his pursuit. I was on the verge of contacting the police to have this man taken away and put in a place where he truly belongs.

Unfortunately, I belong in one of those places with him. I cannot let him go.

I did not call the police because I have realized he means no harm. He is simply from another world, another place that has piqued my curiosity. I long for his strength. He is a quietly strong man.

I allowed him to enter my room last night. We spoke into the wee hours of the morning at which time he returned to his own room. Emptiness filled my heart as soon as he said goodnight.

***

October 20, 1916

If I die today, I'd die the happiest man in the world. J.P. is here beside me, his arm draped over my chest. We did things I would not dare write about.

Our love in not platonic, and that is all I have to say.

J.P. is from another world where I'm not sure I belong. That's why I cherish these moments when it's just the two of us in a warm embrace. Our love is wrong, immoral, and perverted in the eyes of everyone else but us.

Perhaps I am naive to believe his words, but there are so many things that make sense to me.

I am afraid of what will happen to me when J.P. leaves. I cannot imagine a world without him. He brings me reassurances and hope that things can only get better.

The war rages in Europe. I'm afraid that soon the Americans will join the British and French in the trenches of Europe. I do not want to fight. I want to stay right here in J.P.'s arms.

***

October 25, 1916

J.P. leaves in six days. We have been trying to find a way for us to stay together forever, but we have failed. J.P. Looks forward to returning to a world where he can be free. That's something I will never experience.

***

October 27, 1916

J.P. and I found the woman responsible for J.P.'s trip to my world. Ms. Laplume did not have many answers. She claims to be a travel consultant.

I am desperate to return with J.P. to his world, but it is impossible at this time. Ms. Laplume thinks there is a way for me and J.P. to be together, but I will need to make sacrifices. She could not tell me anything else. She said she will tell me when the time is right.

Ms. Laplume said she has only had one success in her life. I'm hoping I will be her second success.

I couldn't read anymore. This J.P. reminded me too much of myself, but it was foolish of me to think that I was the J.P. in Philippe's diary. Not only was it foolish, it was stupid and impossible.

To me, Philippe sounded like an imaginative, creative writer. If he had lived, maybe he would have become a successful author of his time.

My body tensed and shivered, the whispers in my ear distracting me from the first guests. Jackie and Dana were so predictable, anyway, dressed like Sonny and Cher. I wasn't even dressed yet. I swore someone whispered my name. I couldn't wait for this night to end because I felt like I was going crazy.

Lorry called my name as I headed toward the stairs. "Hey, J.P., what's with you? Are you okay?"

"I gotta go change into my costume," I replied. 

"You seem spooked. Did you see a ghost or something? I bet the Loiselles are lurking in these walls."

"Stop it, Lorry. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Dressing up as Jack Sparrow was no longer my priority as I searched for clues. This place and these stairs were eerily familiar, like I'd been here before. How was that possible when I'd never set foot in this house?

My heart beat out of my chest as I walked slowly down the hall, peeking into each room. An invisible force drew me to the room at the far end of the hallway.

I know this room.

An autumnal cool breeze swooshed into the room, ruffling the sheer curtains. Despite my fear, I walked into the room. The entire mansion had a musty smell to it, but this room was different. It wasn't a smell, but a warm, inviting scent that encouraged me to stay. It made me happy, even aroused. Afraid to close the door, I left it open as I undressed.

The floor boards creaked in the hall. I assumed they were Lorry's footsteps. "I told you I'll be down in a few minutes!" I shouted, pulling up my pirate trousers.

I expected Lorry to respond with a wise ass remark, but no response came. He was up to something.

Donning my wig, I rushed to the doorway, assuming Lorry was playing another trick of me. Down the hall, I spotted a man's shadow on the wall. The figure was too thin to be Lorry and too tall to be Sam.

By the time I reached the stairs, the shadow had disappeared. I started to think I had an undiagnosed mental illness because I'd been hearing and seeing things all day.

Struggling to breathe, my heart raced and my sweaty hands trembled. Maybe a drink would relax me.

Upon my return, I found the first floor teeming with partygoers in costumes.

As the bartender, Lorry stood behind a table in the back of the room. "Hey, where ya been?" he asked. "You look great by the way."

"Thanks. I need a drink."

"Sure thing. Hey, did you see the guy in the old soldier's uniform?" Lorry asked, pouring unknown liquid into a red cup. "It's not just any soldier's uniform. He's dressed like a soldier from one of the world wars... world war 1 or 2. I think World War I because I saw the movie, 1917. You saw it, right?"

I downed the drink, nearly spitting out the liquid. It was the most sour drink I'd ever tasted. It was like nothing I'd ever drunk before. "Uh... yeah," I coughed. "What the hell is this?"

"It's supposed to be a whiskey sour. Some lady made it. She said you'd like it."

"What lady? Does she have a name?" Despite the disgustingly sour taste, I finished the drink, hoping the whiskey would do something to tame my nerves or knock some sense into me.

"Something Laplume. She said she knew you. She's as weird as the guy in the uniform. I thought I knew everyone in this town. I guess I don't. The soldier had that deer in the highlights kind of look. I think he's looking for someone. He's cute, though. He's got dirty blond hair and hazel eyes. Everyone keeps asking me who he is, but I have no clue. Does he sound familiar?"

"Nope." I held out my cup for more whiskey sour. I hesitated before swallowing, musing over the name Lorry just mentioned. Philippe wrote about a Ms. Laplume in his diary. The name rang a bell. Maybe I did know her from somewhere. I removed the diary from my inside pocket and re-read a few passages. The drink and the mention of Ms. Laplume sparked something in me. I needed to get the hell out of this house. There was some place I had to be.

"Now where are you going?" Lorry asked.

"I need some air."

I couldn't get out of there fast enough. As I breathed in the cool air, memories returned to me. I remembered meeting a woman named Edna Laplume. I knew this house was full of warmth and love because I was there to experience it, along with the fields of vegetables and the infamous pumpkin patch. I kissed a man under the biggest harvest moon I'd ever seen in my life.

I walked away from the mansion, heading to where the pumpkin patch used to be. I felt like I was late for something.

Although there was no harvest moon tonight, the moon still cast a bright glow. A silhouette of a slender man stood in the former pumpkin patch, holding a cup and pacing back and forth. As I approached him, I realized he was the man Lorry was talking about, the guest in the soldier's uniform. Once he saw me in my pirate outfit, he dropped his cup and ran off.

"Wait, Philippe! Stop! It's me!"

At the sound of my voice, he came to a halt and turned around. I couldn't believe what I was seeing: the man in my dreams.

But it wasn't a dream. He was here in the flesh. The diary I held close to my heart belonged to the man in front of me. He was the man I kissed under the moon. 

"Jean Paul Rondeau?" he said. 

Removing my Jack Sparrow wig, I ran to him and stopped directly in front of him. To check if he was real, I pinched his arm, maybe a little too hard.

"Ow." He rubbed the area where I pinched him.

Stunned, I gazed into his hazel eyes. I remembered loving this man. "You look incredible for a hundred and twenty eight year old man."

He half laughed, sniffing back his tears. "I'm sorry I'm late. Better late than never."

I pulled him me, hugging him tight. No one had ever felt like Philippe. "No, you're not late," I said in his ear. "You're right on time."