by Laura DeLuca
course, Wilbur knew that Jessica’s story was nothing but a tall tale. There might have once been some truth to it, but it had been changed and twisted by over a century of wild imaginations. Wilbur knew there was no White Lady. Yet, when he heard the underbrush crackle, he had trouble convincing himself it was just another deer. He wished Jessica had chosen somewhere else to sit.
“Wilbur,” Jessica whispered huskily. “I want you to kiss me.”
She didn’t need to ask him twice. Wilbur turned to face her, and before he knew what was happening, they were locked in a passionate embrace. At first it started out as a gentle, sweet pairing. But as the kiss deepened, Wilbur felt something inside him snap. He was filled with a lust he couldn’t explain. The shy, gentle boy had vanished, replaced with a man whose primal instinct to mate had taken over all his instincts. He wanted to take Jessica—he wanted to rip off her dress and make her his, right there on the bank of Lake Fred. He didn’t even care if anyone saw them.
“Wilbur?” Jessica said, breathless. He kissed the nape of her neck, and she seemed to moan with pleasure in response. “Do you believe in ghosts now, Wilbur? Do you believe in the White Lady?”
“Sure.” Wilbur slipped his hand under the bodice of her gown, cupping her firm breasts in his hand. “Whatever you say.”
“Did I tell you the White Lady’s name, Wilbur?”
Wilbur ignored her questions and tried to force his tongue back into her mouth so she would shut up. Her obsession with the stupid ghost story was starting to try on his patience. He had already listened to her babble about it for an hour. Now it was time for his reward. But she pushed him away, and panted as she brushed her disheveled curls out of her face.
“It’s very important that you know her name!” Jessica told him, her eyes flashing.
“I don’t care about her name!” Wilbur swore. He tried again to pull her back into his arms, but she backed up out of his reach.
“You’re just like all the others,” she whispered. A single tear slid down her check, looking like a diamond the moonlight. “I thought you were different, but you’re just like Phillip!”
“Jesus Christ,” Wilbur huffed. Already he felt the painful throb between his legs that came from going unsatisfied. “Tell me her damn name if it will make you happy.”
A huge smile spread across Jessica’s face, but not the pearly white smile she had teased him with all night. Wilbur watched in horror as her teeth fell away from her rotting gums. Once again, she twirled a loose strand of black hair, but this time it pulled free from her scalp without any effort. Her pale skin was bloated and her white gown dripped with the slimy green water. The beautiful woman had turned into a walking, waterlogged corpse. She reached out to grab his throat with a ferocious strength that would have been impossible for any living woman. Wilbur sputtered and choked for air, unable to speak, as he tried desperately to break free from her death grip.
“The girl’s name was Jessica,” the thing said, pulling Wilbur close for one last kiss. “And you have met the White Lady.”
The last thing Wilbur saw before falling into blissful unconsciousness was the waters of Lake Fred rushing up to meet him. He was missing for six months before his body was found. The school kept it quiet. They didn’t like how every Halloween night, when the veil between worlds was thinnest, a boy would disappear, only to be found months later beaten and drowned on the banks of Lake Fred.
Also from Author Laura DeLuca
The Forgotten Pharaoh
Egypt—2429 B.C.
Djedefre beamed with satisfaction as the sun sunk below the horizon in the west. The rays reflected off his newly completed pyramid, setting it aglow in a rainbow of colors. Even the hordes of workmen and architects lounging in their loincloths or working to clean up the last of the debris couldn’t mar the spectacular view. Though not as grand in scale as the tomb of his father Khufu, it was by far the most beautiful edifice dotting the Egyptian plateau. Cased in polished granite with an upper level of smooth limestone and capped with a sparkling electrum made from the finest copper, silver, and gold, the pyramid sat upon the steepest hill on Abu Rawash, giving it the advantage of inching a few feet closer to the heavens than the older structures below. Such a marvel would surely solidify his place amongst the gods. The sight filled Djedefre with insurmountable pride.
“Most gracious Ra,” the pharaoh clutched his golden ankh against his heart and murmured a prayer of thanks to his patron for all he had been given, “I thank you for your many blessings.”
With its stunning yet resilient craftsmanship, Djedefre knew his temple would thrive for millennia—forever a reminder of his reign on earth long after he moved from this life to walk in the light of Ra. His pyramid would outlive, outshine, and outlast all the others and his name would stand the test of time as well. It was written in the stars as his favored lay priest had proclaimed the day he came to power.
“It is a masterpiece worthy of the Son of the Sun God, my pharaoh. Ra is greatly pleased with what you have accomplished.” The priest bowed so low his forehead touched his papyrus sandals, causing his black wig to fall slightly askew. The older man stayed in that position until Djedefre gestured for him to stand.
“Rise, Manetho,” Djedefre told his priest and guide, though he kept his eyes focused on the walls of his shrine. “It was your wisdom as well as the blessings of the gods that led me to this great triumph. You even lured my master architect here from across the Nile. You need not bow before me, old friend. Ra will surely reward us both with everlasting life for all we have accomplished in his name. Now come. Let us retire to the palace and feast in celebration.”
“Thank you, Pharaoh.” Manetho bowed again. “Your words do me great honor.”
“Honor! There is no honor amongst murderers and thieves!” A familiar voice sounded from behind him.
The grin died on Djedefre’s lips. His heavy, striped headdress flapped against his bare shoulders as he turned to face his accuser. He was instantly consumed with fury that any man would dare to challenge him at the moment of his greatest achievement, but that anger morphed to the deepest feeling of betrayal when he recognized the man who stood before him. Djedefre should have known the raspy voice of his younger brother Khafre instantly, but he was used to reverence and admiration in lieu of such righteous indignation. Though his brother’s words wounded his heart, Djedefre could show no weakness. As pharaoh, he was the living embodiment of Egypt and the land was only as strong as its ruler. So he set his lips in a tight frown and raised the hooked end of his scepter, but before he had the chance to speak in his own defense, the priest pointed a gnarled finger at the young prince.
“How dare you speak to Pharaoh in such a manner?” Manetho demanded. “We should have you whipped for such insolence.”
Khafre flinched. The priest had the power to invoke the gods. His voice trembled when he finally continued, but he did not back down. “I speak in the name of truth, as the rightful heir to the throne of Egypt and the title of Pharaoh!”
“Truth?” Djedefre leered down at the young prince in retaliation. “And what do you know of the truth, brother? I could destroy you with a single breath if I wished it. You are no heir to the throne of Khufu.”
“Speak plainly,” Khafre demanded, confused but adamant. “Do you have something to say in your defense? Or do you only mean to distract our people from the true crime with meaningless ramblings?”
Djedefre did not speak for several heartbeats. A damning secret burned on his tongue, but despite his brother’s treachery, he could not bear to say the words that would bring about Khafre’s death, even if it meant preventing his own disgrace. Sadly, Khafre only took his silence as an admission of guilt.
“I accuse you, Djedefre, son of Khufu, of the murder of the crowned prince Kawab.” Regardless of the threat in his words, there was only grief in Khafre’s deep brown eyes as well as infinite sadness. “You are hereby sentenced to death.”
A group of soldiers lined up behind Khafr
e, each armed with spears, crossbows, and shields—all members of the royal guard Djedefre had believed loyal to him. But their betrayal paled in comparison to that of his younger brother. He wondered how he managed to keep the devastating grief from his voice when at last he managed to speak.
“Brother, why do you voice such lies against me! We both grieved the loss of Kawab, but his death was not of my doing. Since my rule began, I have governed all of Egypt and have brought our people only peace and prosperity. Why would you come forward with these false allegations?”
The crowd around them grew larger. Now even the commoners who helped mold the stones of his pyramid watched, some curious, some judgmental. They knew peaceful Khafre had no desire to sit upon the throne and would never make such accusations lightly. Djedefre began to worry his claims were too boastful. After all, much of the royal treasury had gone to the building of his pyramid and to the great Sphinx he’d erected in his father’s memory—a gesture made to still the rumors of a break in the family tradition when he moved construction of his tomb from Giza to Abu Rawash.
“I am Pharaoh!” Djedefre declared with more bravery than he felt. “Son of the Sun God, chosen by Ra to rule over all of Egypt. I have no need to profess my innocence to you or any mortal man. The gods would
