by Cara Vance
It was a bit pointless, though. Whatever Harold was doing to me was definitely getting the job done. His cock slid in and out of me easily, lubricated by my rapidly moistening vagina.
“You like that?” he whispered in my ear, obviously pleased with himself. “Leave that in your ass until I tell you otherwise.” He really got off on being in charge. Once again, though, I wasn’t an inexperienced little girl. There wasn’t much I could physically do, the way he had me, but I could still turn the tables.
I leaned into the window, feeling the icy touch of the glass against my nipples, enjoying the differing sensations of heat and cold at various points of my body.
“I think they’re watching us,” I purred, although I had no idea if they were or not. There were lights on in the house behind us, but I couldn’t see any curious faces peeking out. It didn’t matter, though. The thought was more than enough to drive me wild.
“Fuck me harder,” I demanded, causing him to speed up his tempo. “I want them to see me cum!” I cried out, only partially acting. It was exciting and I was quickly building to my own climax.
Harold’s breathing intensified as I continued prodding him. “More! Own me. Show them I’m yours.” I felt my legs begin to quiver. It was coming on fast. Regardless of what I had planned for later, I loved this part.
“Faster. I want to know that old man is jerking off, wishing he were here. Make them want it too. Make me fucking scream!”
And scream I did. I came and let loose with everything I had, voicing my primal fury. In that moment, I was an animal. I bucked and fought against Harold, growling like a beast in its death throes and he struggled to hold on to me. At last, it was too much for him and I felt his hips shudder as he released his fluids into me, one hot spurt after another.
♦ ♦ ♦
By then, I was well versed with what came next...with one small exception; Harold forced me to keep the butt plug in. There was some small talk, much like always, to pass the time. After a while, wanting him to be good and tired for later, I grabbed his cock and began to jerk him off. I made sure it was long and slow for him, drawing it out as much as I could. I finally let him cum all over this body’s tits, fulfilling what I’m pretty certain is every man’s little porno fantasy. That seemed to excite him quite nicely and I’m sure I got a few extra drops out of him for the effort.
I knew Harold’s M.O. That would leave him just barely enough time to reload his gun for when my three hours were up.
Sure enough, I was right. I glanced at the clock, being ever mindful of the hour, and saw it was time to put on my act. I swooned back onto the bed, pretending to lose focus. Once more, I professed my love to Harold, this time more as a test than anything else. Again, he simply bade me farewell, the asshole!
After that, I closed my eyes and lie still, pretending to slumber. As with the other occasions, Harold let me do so for a few minutes before awakening me in his preferred method...with his dick.
I wish I could claim my enthusiastic love making was an act, that my annoyance with Harold caused me to do little more than go through the motions. However, that would be a lie. Sensations, such as those experienced during intense sex, simply have no equal within the afterlife. Nothing there even comes close. Thus, pissed off or not, I took him with every fiber of my being...enjoying every last thrust he gave me and accepting his seed gladly when he came.
I made sure he had to work for it. When he finally finished, I could see in his eyes that he was through. Heck, I was ready for a nap myself, but I wasn’t about to give myself that luxury this time.
Instead, I pawed at him, begging for another go. He smiled at that, his ego gratified, but suggested we relax for a little while first.
Perfect!
♦ ♦ ♦
As with prior times, I let him fall asleep then waited for a while until I was sure he was fully out. I hated to waste the limited time I had, but I’d sooner lose an hour than have the entire jig be up and lose countless more in future encounters. Harold had the power to use me as his personal blow-up doll for all of eternity if he so pleased. The sad part was, even if that happened, I would probably let him. The sights, sounds, and feelings of mortal life were far too intoxicating to turn down.
At last, I got up out of the bed. This body (Shilpa, I believe he said her name was) had a natural grace to it - a dancer maybe - and I was able to slip out of the room with nary a sound. I made a quick stop at the bathroom to towel off first. I was still sticky and wet from my romps with Harold. No point in dripping all over the floors. With my luck, I’d leave a trail for him to follow. I also used the opportunity to pry his little toy out of my asshole. It had been kind of fun to wear, but I had a feeling my exploration would be somewhat hampered by a hunk of metal shoved up my ass.
Still naked, but at least slightly dryer now, I stopped at the head of the stairs to consider my next move. I had spent so much time thinking about the why’s that I hadn’t really taken the chance to map out a plan of action. I would have to remedy that. Sadly, there wasn’t much in the beyond that I could use to take notes with. Fortunately, I didn’t really need much of a long term strategy. With each piece of the puzzle, I could decide on my next steps...or at least I hoped.
I decided a return to the basement was my best bet for that visit. It made sense to solve one mystery at a time. If there wasn’t anything of note in the back room (although I was willing to bet Shilpa’s left ass cheek there was), I’d...well, decide on something else. What can I say? In life, I was a gallery manager, not a private eye.
I made a quick detour to Harold’s office to check the date. Saturday, October nineteenth. Exactly one week. That made sense. If you were going to bang strange women all night, you’d probably want to do so on the weekend. That was two in a row. Another, and I’d be relatively comfortable in saying it was Harold’s pattern. He had always been a creature of habit.
I made my way to the kitchen to retrieve the basement keys. Harold had kept it locked before. I had no reason to believe he would do otherwise this night. They were in the same place where I had last found them. I was tempted to scoff at his lame security precautions, but then remembered I had insider information into these things. Anyone else would probably wind up tearing apart half the house before finding them.
I continued to rummage in the drawer. In the past, we had kept...bingo! I found a small flashlight in the rear. As I said, my husband was a creature of habit.
I grabbed it, knowing how badly lit the basement was. There was no point in either stumbling around in the shadows, or creeping myself out. Sadly, being dead didn’t impart upon me any special abilities. I couldn’t drain the batteries from electronics, see in the dark, or even make the walls bleed. Of course, I could sure as hell make a dick squirt, but I had a feeling that had nothing to do with ghostly powers.
I was about to close the drawer when something else caught my eye. It was one of Harold’s old wristwatches. It was nothing special. He had probably tossed it in here, forgetting about it. I wound it up, set the time, and put it on my wrist. It was old and beat up, but still worked. I could use it to let me know how much time had passed. Last week’s encounter had been a little too close for comfort. Going forward, I wanted to make sure I was back upstairs with plenty of time to spare.
Thus armed for my adventure, I walked over to the door, opened it, and headed down; eager to learn whatever answers awaited me below.
Chapter 12
It was just as creepy as the week before. The only upside was that Shilpa’s body wasn’t even close to being winded. If I got spooked, I could run back upstairs without the risk of a heart attack. I hadn’t been so certain of that with Darla.
Even with the lights going, I still flipped on the flashlight. The little extra bit of illumination made me feel a bit better as I walked toward the rear room. I didn’t know what I expected to find. For all I knew, the weirdness on the floor was just the result of Harold dropping a can of paint and not bothering to clean it up.
My gut, however, didn’t quite believe that.
When I had last been down here, I’d gotten a strange feeling when nearing that room. It might have just been Darla’s body reacting to my over-active imagination, but somehow I didn’t buy that either.
Stepping to the doorway confirmed that feeling. Again, I felt...weird. It was like a low level electric current was running through my body. It wasn’t just my imagination either. I could feel the hairs on my neck standing up and, looking down, I saw that my nipples were entirely erect. There was definitely something odd here.
I had the flashlight, but I didn’t want to see just bits and pieces. That would probably freak me out even worse. It was all or nothing. I reached around with my left hand and found the switch. I flipped it and the room lit up. There was still just one bare bulb, but Harold had apparently upped the wattage.
I blinked my eyes at the sudden brightness and then just stared.
“Holy shit.”
♦ ♦ ♦
What I had seen weren’t just random paint marks on the floor. It was kind of crude - Harold had never been much of an artist - but the shape would have been obvious to even a blind man. A large black pentagram was painted on the floor of the room, taking up at least half the space at over ten feet in diameter. It would have made even the most bitter of Goth teens weep with joy. Had it been the only oddity in the room, it would have been freaky enough. It wasn’t, though.
Something lay in the middle of the pentagram. From the look of it, it might have been a table of sorts. It was hard to tell. If it was, though, there was obviously something (or multiple somethings) on it. Either way, the whole thing was covered in black felt so that only the legs were visible.
I could only see the bottom six inches, but they looked familiar. “Son of a bitch,” I said, recognizing it. It looked familiar because it was our old coffee table. When it was upstairs, it sat in our living room covered in books and a few knickknacks. Now...well, now it was obviously being used for a slightly different purpose.
The room wasn’t finished with its surprises yet, either. The far half was perhaps even freakier, if that was possible. A work table took up one corner. It looked like it was covered in books of some sort. That wasn’t the weird part, obviously. The other side of the room, though, that was definitely catching my eye.
This definitely warranted closer inspection, no matter how much I really didn’t want to. I stepped in, again feeling that weirdness, skirted the outside of the pentagram - for some reason I didn’t want to step into it - and walked over to the far side of the room.
The best way to describe it would be an altar of sorts. A circle was drawn in the floor around it, looking as if it were made with nothing more exotic than chalk. As for the altar itself, well I wasn’t sure. I was never much of a movie buff in life, but I had seen my fair share. I had even watched a few scary movies in my day. This wouldn’t have fit into any of those. It wasn’t terrifying, so much as odd or off in a manner of speaking.
The front of the altar didn’t seem so surprising. There was a dagger, a few small urns, an incense holder...nothing more unusual than one might see on any given Halloween. The back of the altar, though, was strange. There was a small statue. It seemed to be of a man sitting on a throne. He was wearing some sort of headdress and was holding a couple of objects in his hands. Sitting in front of the statue were life-sized replicas of the items he held. One appeared to be brass or maybe bronze. The other, though, I was willing to bet it was silver. Quite the trinket. Regardless of what they were made of, something about them seemed vaguely familiar. I had seen items like these before, although I had no idea what they were called.
A faint recollection popped into my head. I still had no clue what they were, but for some reason they struck me as Egyptian. Looking at the statue again, I got the same feeling. The man on the throne resembled some of the depictions of pharaohs I had seen once or twice at the museum. Unfortunately that was all I had. I had never been into mummies or the like, so my interest, and therefore my knowledge, was somewhat limited.
I eyed the pentagram and the covered object inside of it. My curiosity was piqued, but I still felt a pressing desire to stay away. I heeded that for the moment and crossed over to the work table.
A mishmash of books covered the surface. Stacked amongst them were an equal number of notepads. Whatever the subject of these tomes, Harold had definitely not gotten them at Barnes and Noble. They looked and smelled old, their covers a variety of unusual materials. One was clad in rusted metal, another in what could have been tree bark. Others were wrapped in leather - or so I hoped...hadn’t I seen a movie once in which a book was bound in human skin? Ugh, not a pleasant thought right then.
The title of one of them appeared to be in Latin. Sadly, that was the closest I could get to recognizing anything. The rest, those that had writing at least, appeared to be written in illegible scribbles, although I was somehow sure they weren’t. Regardless, I couldn’t read any of them.
Fortunately, it turns out that I didn’t need to. Having a hunch, I picked up one of the notebooks. Sure enough, Harold’s neat handwriting stared back at me. I glanced at my watch and saw that while my time wasn’t critical, I probably didn’t have the luxury of an extended read this trip. Still...
Flipping through the pages, I glanced at a passage. It appeared to be a mix of thoughts and notes.
Too many contradictions. The Sumerians warn against disturbing the gates, yet the Tome of the Screaming Dead claims it is all but an illusion. The door swings both ways and freely at that. The Atlanteans - if indeed their foul culture is to be believed - prescribe a mix of poisons and hallucinogens to bring the caster closer in tune with the souls of their ancestors.
Madness! So many different methods, so many dire warnings. Don’t even want to think about what the Dzyan Manuscripts foretell will happen.
I turned the pages and saw more.
There may still be hope. Beginning to see commonalities. The Book of Coming Forth appears to have potential. Not sure I believe in their mumbo jumbo, but will attempt the ritual regardless. Seems to be low risk. If it fails, so be it. I shall try again. If it succeeds...then praise-be to Osiris!
Finally:
Progress! The gate has appeared and I have gazed through it. Gibbons’s research says that it can be made permanent, the flesh rebonded, but he’s a discredited fool. Not worth the effort to decipher his gibberish anyway. I have the vessel. If I can bind it to the gate...still so much work to do. There is hope, though. We shall see where this leads.
I looked back toward the altar. Osiris? That name definitely sounded somewhat familiar. It could have been Egyptian. Was that who was depicted in the statue? Neither Harold nor I had ever been fervent church goers. It didn’t seem like him to start worshipping an Egyptian whatever. I had no idea who this Osiris was, but I made a mental note of the name. At the very least, it would give me something to research for my next trip.
I realized I was breathing hard, thoroughly creeped out by what I had found. It left me with more questions than ever, but at least I had confirmed that Harold was neck deep in something and I was willing to bet it wasn’t particularly savory either. One didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure that much out.
I put the notebook back where I had found it and prepared to leave. I was pretty sure I’d had enough for one night. I turned toward the door and once more, the object in the middle of the pentagram caught my eye.
No. I’d leave that for another day.
Or at least, that was what I kept telling myself as my bare feet began to step across the room toward it. Nearing the outer edge of the circle, I again felt my body responding to some kind of energy. It wasn’t exactly painful, more like a continual electric hum in the back of my head. I stopped at the edge and let myself acclimate to it.
