The Haunted (Sleeping with Monsters Book 1)

by Alexander, Cassie

  “Thank you Arthur,” she said, pushing her chair back from the table. “And thank Mrs. Dudley too, that was lovely.”

  He bowed politely, and she left.

  Daphne took her time walking up the stairs. She wasn’t tired, though she ought to be, since she’d left the light on all night. Instead, she felt excited – invigorated, even – at the chance to see the rest of the house, in the bright light of day.

  The upstairs was organized into two massive wings, accessible only from the wide-winged stairs in the hallway out front. She felt like a detective, trying to piece together what each room had been. Four old divots in the hardwood, as if from a desk? Then perhaps it’d been a study. An abandoned piano in one room – a conservatory? She plinked out a few tentative notes and listened to them echo before moving on. Many of the rooms had massive beds, but little other furniture – and halfway through she realized she’d started thinking of the people who’d come through after the Master had died as locusts, stealing away the home’s rightful furnishings, like the curtains and the portraits from the dining room’s walls. No wonder the statues seemed so upset – they’d had to watch everything else around them get taken away.

  She tried all the faucets in the bathrooms – they were done in garish shades of lime green and pink, and they’d all need remodeling too, if she could get contractors out this far – and flushed all the toilets, making sure they worked. As she walked from room to room, inspecting doors and closets, looking out each window’s view, she began to feel a sense of ownership. She may have been abandoned here, but this place was hers, already so much more than it was Richard’s, even if the only reason they could afford it was because of his deep pocketbook.

  She trotted down the stairs again, across the cold tile of the entryway, and up to the other wing’s second floor.

  This side was all bedrooms, one after another, politely divided by more garish bathrooms. They were all empty, except for a few more statues, and one enormous room holding a massive four poster bed.

  Its mattresses were as high as her hips. It had enormous clawed feet and the posters were only inches below the ceiling in height. She walked across the room to it slowly because it looked like a living thing, like it might come alive and attack her. There were no sheets on it, nothing to hide the elaborate carving that held the mattresses in on all four sides, roughly hewn symbols of a bygone time, roaring lions, sleeping dragons, and a brace of running wolves taking down a bucking unicorn. Someone must have commissioned it, because she was familiar with antiques in a general sense, and she had never seen its like.

  Daphne slowed as she reached its end. A feeling of warmth overcame her – a flush of embarrassment, she thought, because it was impossible to stand at the bottom of this kind of bed without imagining being bent over it, ass in the air, being taken from behind. The longer she thought on the image the more turned on she was, and her pussy began a low familiar ache. Richard was gone so often – and still gone, now. She swallowed, and remnants of last night’s half-forgotten dream returned, how close she’d been to coming then, before her fear denied her.

  Heat gathered inside her hips. She shouldn’t stay here, she should run back to her own bedroom and finish herself off, be able to stroke her own clit and push welcome fingers inside – when she felt the distinct outline of a hot hand press against her leg and move up.

  Daphne yelped as if caught, and whirled around. No one was there. But she’d felt it, it’d burned her almost, it felt as hot as her pussy was – and maybe just as hungry.

  But she was alone. She stood there panting, half in fear, half in need, trying to convince herself that what she’d felt had been real and not sure at all that that was a good idea.

  If it hadn’t been daylight, if birds hadn’t been singing outside, and if Arthur and Mrs. Dudley hadn’t been puttering in the library and kitchen downstairs respectively, she might not have continued – but because it was, and they did, she took a crazy chance.

  “I know you’re there. You can come out, if you want.”

  A hot hand squeezed her own. She gasped and stepped aside.

  “I’m – not insane, am I? Are you…real?”

  Whatever or whoever it was decided not to honor that.

  “Who are you?”

  The hand squeezed her own again, and she had the sensation of someone taller than she was standing very close. She could feel the heat radiating off of their unseen body all along her own.

  “Did you used to live here?”

  The sensation of nearness did not decrease.

  “Did you live in this room?” she guessed. “In this house?” she clarified. In response, she felt one warm finger trail down her arm. She shuddered at the contact, not in fear, but in pleasure – and was instantly ashamed and horrified.

  “I have to –“ she stepped aside, away from the heat, and ran, both frightened and turned on. She slammed the door shut behind her, hoping to hide from whatever it was in the room with her and her feelings.

  She raced down the stairs and into the library, where the Master’s portrait looked down disdainfully at the progress Arthur had made.

  “Arthur –“ she began, breathless.

  “Ma’am?” He startled straight at the sight of her. “Do you need tea? Lunch will be --”

  “No, no – um –“ Now that she was here with him, she wasn’t sure what to ask without feeling foolish. “Can you tell me some of this house’s history?”

  He blinked. “I was only here for the last twenty years of the Master’s life, and other than his interest in carving furniture, there’s not much to tell.”

  “Have you…ever seen a ghost here?”

  He seemed to consider this. “A house this old has history, no doubt. And history, almost by default, includes ghosts. But no, I’ve never seen one.”

  Daphne chewed the inside of her lip. “Never?”

  “Never,” he said, shaking his head solemnly. “It is spooky here sometimes though. So much open space, so little life. Perhaps you should buy some houseplants? Orchids would go nicely with your décor. Or take in a cat or dog. I can arrange that in town, if you’d wish.”

  She shook her head quickly. The thought of a cat staring off into space watching something she couldn’t see didn’t appeal to her much.

  “Perhaps can I interest you in some tea?”

  “I’d like that.”

  She sagged into the sitting couch as Arthur left the room. He was right about one thing – there was history here. And the family that’d lived here after the Master had died had done little to erase it.

  Daphne looked down at her arms. She’d felt it, hadn’t she? It had touched her – it had been real.

  But who was it?

  A lazy breeze made the shadows of the trees outside wave across the ground. She watched them for a time, and when she looked up she saw the Master staring down.

  Daphne finished unpacking the bedroom that day and didn’t go exploring again. Dinner was a quiet affair, she ate because she needed to eat, nothing more.

  “Are you sure you’re well?” Arthur’d asked solicitously at the end of the evening.

  “I am.” She wasn’t, not at all. But she’d been thinking about it, all afternoon.

  She didn’t want to tell Arthur about it and sound crazy. The ghost, if ghost it was, hadn’t tried to harm her. There’d been no parlor tricks, no flies beating against the windows, or blood dripping from the ceiling – nothing frightening, just a presence nearby. If this had been her home for eighty years, wouldn’t she want to vet the new owners too? And she didn’t want to go in with guns blazing, hiring a priest, as if their mumbo-jumbo-malarkey would even work. No, there had to be a way to come to an amicable agreement – an understanding -- between the two of them, to live here in peace. The house was certainly big enough.

  She heard the alarm chirp on and calmly walked upstairs. If the ghost had wanted her dead, he’d already had two nights to do her in. And he hadn’t tried to scare her yet – he’d
just wanted to make his presence known.

  Daphne closed the bedroom door behind herself and swallowed before speaking. “You’re still here, right?”

  Nothing. No heat, no sensation of anyone else in the room. She didn’t know if she should be angry or relived.

  “Hello?” she tried again. Where else would a ghost have to be? She smirked, imagining him going off to a ghostly dental appointment – when the feeling of being watched began, wiping the smirk off of her face.

  “You’re here.”

  Nothing touched her. No heat. Just that skin prickling feeling that was as intense as being turned on.

  “I don’t think I’m afraid of you. I mean I am – but – I shouldn’t be, right?”

  A warm hand took hers and pulled her to her bedside, as though she and the ghost were girlfriends, about to have a difficult conversation. She sat down, ankles crossed, her skirt pulling just above her knee.

  “We live here now. But there’s no reason for you to go anywhere. This house is definitely big enough for the two of us. Three of us, if you count Richard – although I realize you haven’t seen him yet.”

  The hand that’d been around her own disappeared – and reappeared, on her knee, like a familiar lover’s.

  “He’s very nice. You would like him if you met him. I know you would,” she said, talking faster as the hand moved fractionally up her thigh. “I mean, we’re married, and, he’s only gone because he has to be. He’s in the banking business and –“ the sensation of heat crept higher along her bare skin and underneath the front edge of her skirt. Daphne saw the fabric ripple, allowing him access beneath, the edge of a hand, an arm, as she felt fingers stroke the inside of her thigh.

  “And I know he loves me – he must, mustn’t he? He bought me this whole house –“ she went on, as the heat rose. She knew she should be running away, be hiding in a closet, be setting off the alarm. But every motion the hand made created a warm flutter inside her, echoing its motion, and she found herself experiencing it as though she were in a movie, waiting to see just how far it would go, how far she would let it go, if she would – could -- even stop it.

  She was holding her breath now, and the hand stilled, grabbing hold of her inner thigh, fingers, thumb, and palm all hot, mere inches below what her underwear hid. She could feel her pussy ache, empty for so long, wet and scared and excited now.

  “You won’t hurt me, will you?” she whispered to a seemingly empty room.

  There was no reply.

  Chapter Four

  Another hand joined the first one, pushing her knees apart. Daphne inhaled to scream, then realized the futility of it, as they were completely alone. She squirmed, but his hands held her in place, opening her thighs wide on the edge of the bed, her skirt edging ever higher.

  She gasped – she’d been a fool to invite this, to think she could handle this alone when – she felt the pressure of a tongue, as hot as the rest of him, lapping at her clit through her underwear.

  The sound she was about to make, shouting stop, no, go away, changed to panting disbelief as she stared down. There was nothing to see, she could only feel what was going on, but it was…incredible. She moaned without thinking and the tongue below sped up. Even through her underwear, the friction was intense.

  She bent over, looking down, imagining the man there looking up. “How? Why?”

  He didn’t stop to answer her. His tongue just kept pressing, stroking, circling and pushing at her clit through the thin piece of fabric. Her hips began to rise and her legs spread of their own accord to offer more of herself to him. But if she were going to come -- she needed more. If she was going to do this, then let it be done right.

  She reached down. She didn’t want to reach through him, that would be rude at best, at worst it would banish him, so she carefully slid her hand down and – nervous again – pulled the crotch of her underwear aside, exposing herself to him.

  He paused, and for a moment she thought he’d disappeared, that she’d scared him off – and then his tongue regained her and she could feel the heat of him directly on her clit, now with lips too, him kissing her there, hard, and then feel him slide his tongue between her labia to press in-in-in.

  She moaned long and low. She rocked back on the bed, falling onto it, giving herself over to his mouth. She never felt the pressure or strength of a finger, only his tongue, lips, and the outline of a chin, all hot, licking and sucking, as though they might never get to taste a woman again.

  Her hips rose even higher as she went on her tip-toes and her free hand wound in the sheet beside her ass. She could feel her orgasm building, stoking like a volcano, and everything he was doing was going to make her explode – his chin pushing in, his lips sucking hard and his hot tongue dancing across her clit, writing in letters of flame.

  She shuddered, hips bobbing, and she screamed as she came. His mouth followed her, sucking her last juices out as her orgasm flowed through her, leaving her moaning on the bed.

  Time stopped, or felt like it did. Daphne let go of the sheets slowly, feeling as wrung out as she had made them.

  “Ghost?” she tried out the unfamiliar term. Was ghost really what you called someone who’d just given you what you’d wanted so thoroughly?

  There was no response. No feeling of heat, no sensation of otherness. The space between her legs was cooling now without his presence there.

  Daphne sat up, supporting herself on both arms and looked down. Her skirt was as disheveled as she was. Was that – had that – been real? How could it have been? But – it was. She’d felt it. She’d felt him.

  She pulled her legs up on the bed with her and curled up. The philosophical questions she could ask herself took second place to the fact that she was completely satisfied now, in a way she hadn’t been since Richard’d left, and without undressing she slept.

  Daphne woke at six AM the next morning. All that’d come before felt like a dream – but she was still in this house, and still in her clothes. And the memory of last night rushed back – her inviting the ghost in, and then letting him have his way with her – she shook her head. It hadn’t felt like cheating at the time, and there was no proof it’d even happened, yet it left a bitter residue.

  She stumbled through the empty house to the landline phone downstairs and dialed Richard’s cell. She’d tell him what’d happened and he wouldn’t believe her, he’d tell her she’d been dreaming, and that would be that. Her conscience wouldn’t be completely clean, but it would be freshly laundered.

  She picked up the old fashioned phone and dialed and sank down to sit with her back against the wall, waiting for her long distance call to go through.

  “Hello?” answered a woman on the far end of the line.

  “Hello?” Daphne said, much more sharply. “Who is this?”

  A moment of hesitation, and then, “This is Richard’s secretary.”

  After last night, Daphne was sure of very little in this world – other than the fact that that woman was not her husband’s secretary.

  “Who is this?” the other woman asked her.

  “This is Richard’s wife. Put him on the phone. Immediately.”

  There was a pause and she heard voices in the background, before Richard picked up. “Pet – how are you? What time is it there? Is everything okay?”

  Daphne licked her lips in thought. “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to hear your voice was all. What time is it there? Where is there?”

  “Tokyo. It’s 3 PM. You managed to catch me in between meetings.”

  “You and your secretary,” she said, clinically.

  “The banks here always provide you with clerical staff, yes. Never know when you’re going to need to write an urgent memo.”

  “Of course.” Sound reasonable, Daphne. Don’t let anything on.

  “So –“ She could hear the hesitance in Richard’s voice, not wanting to own up to being caught if he didn’t have to. “Everything is fine?”

  She swallowed. “Ye
s. I just thought you should know how much I love our new house.”

  “I’m so glad. I can’t wait to see what you’ve done to the bedroom,” he said in a voice that sounded like he thought he was off the hook.

  He was – but only for now. “I can’t wait to show you. When are you coming home?”

  “Business is taking longer than usual – I’m afraid I won’t be home from a week from today.”

  Daphne frowned. Gone for longer, and with that woman -- “But you’ll be home then?” she asked, her voice small.

  “Most certainly.”

  “Good. I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me either, pet. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” she said, and heard him hang up.

  Daphne hung up the phone more slowly on her end. It was the first name that did it. She could have convinced herself otherwise, if the woman hadn’t used his first name. Secretaries – especially assigned ones – were not that familiar.

  How long had it been going on? Did he have a woman in every port? Or was it just this one time? How would she know? How could she ever, ever, trust him again?

  Daphne wandered through the downstairs halls, herself like a ghost, crying bitter tears, until she wound up in the library. Dawn was peeking over the edge of the world and the books Arthur had already put up were basking in a warm light.

  She stood in front of the portrait of the Master, looking up into his piercing eyes.

  “I -- I don’t want to be alone.” She whispered the words, to herself first, and to him second.

  Then she felt him in the room, like a rush of warm rain, and she found herself pushed bodily against the nearest shelf, his heat all over the front of her body, him kissing the tears off of her face and his hands racing down her sides. She gasped at the onslaught, fighting, not-fighting, relenting, basking in the heat of his raw desire.

  And then the alarm chirped as Arthur and Mrs. Dudley arrived, and the ghost instantly departed. Daphne almost fell to the ground, cold without his warmth – and then she gathered herself, running upstairs up to her bedroom to hide.