The Haunter Of The Threshold

by Edward Lee

  Hazel shrugged.

  “Answer it!” Sonia snapped. “Don’t be such a shit.”

  “Hi, dad,” Hazel finally picked up. “Sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

  The tinny voice on the other end seemed to vibrate. “Oh, thank God, Hazel. I was so worried. I’ve been calling your home line for weeks–”

  Hazel took the phone outside, for some privacy. “I’ve been real busy grading papers for the summer session. I meant to call you, but

  . . . you know how it is.”

  The tinny voice tempered. “I didn’t even know you had a cell phone until that fine young man Ashton gave it to me...”

  Yeah, dad? You should’ve seen that ‘fine young man’ pissing on your daughter last night. She held back a laugh. “I just got the cell, dad,” she lied. “I didn’t have time to call you because right when the session ended, Sonia and I went up to New Hampshire to meet with her fiancé. We’re there now.”

  “New Hampshire? How long will you be there?”

  “Just a week or two.”

  Disappointment seeped into her father’s tone. “I was so hoping you could come to the grand opening of the new parish, but that was two weeks ago. It’s a beautiful church, honey...”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she kept making excuses. “I forgot. But when I’m back, I promise, I’ll come and see it.”

  “Hazel. You know I want you to do more than just come and see it.” The voice sounded forlorn now. “You need to come back to church, come back to God. It would make me so happy for you to be my choir director. You sing so beautifully...”

  Oh, Jesus, this is a drag. “I’m really busy with school, dad. Between teaching and working on my doctorate, I really don’t have time.”

  A pause, then, “There’s always time for God, honey.”

  “I’ll call you in a few days, okay? And I will come and see you when I’m back, I promise,” she struggled to end the uncomfortable call.

  Was her father choking up? “I love you, Hazel—”

  “I love you too, dad,” she nearly whined.

  “And more important than that, God loves you. But sometimes I don’t think you believe that.”

  I DON’T believe that, came the instant thought. Why would God love a reckless, indulgent pervert like me? Every thought in my head OFFENDS God...

  “Hazel? Are you there?”

  “Yes, dad. I have to go now but I will keep in touch–”

  He chuckled. “At least try to not duck all my calls.”

  Hazel sighed.

  “Goodbye, honey,” her father bid. “Go with God...”

  “‘Bye,” she said quickly and ended the call.

  SHIT! that’s so uncomfortable! She knew the reason she didn’t like talking to her father was because even the mere sound of his voice made her feel guilty. My head’s a cesspool, and he wants me to go to CHURCH! She turned despondently, leaning against a front post. How could anyone be so at odds with themself? A pickup truck parked only feet away, and out strode two more working-classers, either loggers or construction workers. All brawn and wide shoulders, muscled legs, tufts of hair spilling from their collars. “Howdy,” one said with a half-smile. Hazel eyed his crotch, said, “Hi,” and watched them enter the tavern. Go with God, she repeated her father’s words but at the same time fantasized: she’d been hauled atop the pickup’s hood. The first redneck lay right on her head and fucked her face; an elephantine penis seemed to bend down into her throat and bug her eyes out with each thrust. The other pumped her pussy with a small toilet plunger...

  Sick, sick, sick, she thought.

  Fwump! came a sudden sound.

  Behind the tavern a large man effortlessly tossed a huge garbage bag into a dumpster. It’s him! It was the “woodsman.” This close Hazel felt tiny. He could roll me up in a little ball and just fuck me, squash me into the dirt...

  “Excuse me,” she rushed. “Do you have the time—”

  He disappeared through a backdoor, never having heard her.

  Hazel shuffled back in, hoping her perch was ready, or anything to get her mind off the carnal muck that seemed to cover her like slime.

  “Are you sure?” Sonia said from the driver’s window. “That’s a long walk in this heat.”

  “The cabin’s only a couple miles. I just feel like a walk”—she patted her stomach, which was protruding now—“I need to work off some of this food.”

  “Well, all right. But if you get tired, just call me on your cell and I’ll pick you up.”

  “Okay.”

  Hazel watched Sonia back the Prius out from amid the phalanx of pickup trucks, then drive away. She felt stuffed now, yet antsy. The call from her father, she knew, had thrown her off kilter. Yes, she knew she was a crummy daughter. She knew her father was a good man who loved her very much and would do anything for her, yet still she avoided him. He made her think of herself too much, and this frustrated her. She felt frustrated, too, in not being able to meet the woodsman, though why she couldn’t imagine. He’s just a backwoods manual laborer. She could only presume her fascination denoted some subconscious—and perverse—fantasy.

  Shit...

  Over the treeline, the horizon began to flame as the sun inched lower. Maybe a couple miles of walking’ll clear my head...

  The winding road back toward the cabin was paved but soon Hazel found herself veering off on a wide dirt road. If she had her bearings right, it should navigate her toward Lake Sladder, which she’d love to see. Intermittently, she passed clusters of trailers set back in the woods. They seemed hidden. Flaps of laundry fluttered on clotheslines. The forest thickened the farther she proceeded, the tall pines and oaks seemed closer and closer together. Suddenly she felt uneasy, bare-legged and flipflopped when snakes and briars could be all around. Go with God, go with God, her father’s voice kept harassing her. She’d devoutly attended church up until the end of high school, long after her sexual obsessions had made themselves plain in her psyche. Did I ever really believe in God? she asked herself now but then was certain that she did. So when did I stop?

  No answer.

  Her father had always been a Methodist minister, and owned a small truck dealership on the side. The new parish was his dream. Hazel knew how much her father wanted her to come back to church—he blamed “liberal, atheistic university life” for steering her away—but now, in this vibrant heat and fresh outdoor air, she suddenly realized that it had not been waning faith but instead a sense of overriding self-disgust. She felt she didn’t belong in church, that for someone who so eagerly pursued sexual debauchery as herself, her presence in the pews would be hypocritical. I’ve got enough to feel bad about... Her mother had abandoned her marriage only months after Hazel had been born, and though her father had never offered details—“It was simply God’s will, and that’s good enough for me”—Hazel had overheard some relatives verifying that her mother was actually quite a tramp. Now I know where I got my sex-pot genes, she thought. Sometimes she wondered the most ludicrous things: Is my mother an Asthenolagniac? Is she a Asphyxiphile or a Maieusiophiliac? Hazel had to laugh.

  Suddenly she stopped; it seemed her mind had been meandering along with her feet, for now she realized the dirt road had forked and she’d unconsciously veered with it. The trees stood surreally still around her. Up ahead—ten yards? Twenty?—a man stood with his back to her. Just...standing there.

  Hazel’s eyes thinned. There’s no reason to be afraid...so DON’T act afraid. She took confident strides forward. “Excuse me, sir. I think I took a wrong turn back there. Could you tell me how to get back to the—”

  Her throat sealed off the remaining words when the man quickly turned. Her purse fell to the dirt. The man wore a shabby, stained T-shirt, smudged jeans, and—

  Holy shit, what IS this?

  —a mask. A Peter Pan mask.

  Hazel didn’t actually shriek until she turned around and found a second, taller man blocking the road behind her. This one, dressed just a shabbily, wor
e a Snow White mask.

  The several-second pause was her biggest mistake; by the time she attempted to flee perpendicularly into the woods, Peter Pan had already had his hand gripping the back of her top. One swoop of his arm flung her into the dirt.

  Stereophonic chuckling descended. A knife to her throat chaperoned words in what seemed a southern accent. “Don’t’cha make no noise or’se I’ll cut’cher throat’n bleed ya to death while we’se fuckin’ ya.”

  Hazel’s heart hammered as a dirty hand hauled her top over her head. Two dirtier hands mauled her breasts while Peter Pan grabbed her hair. “What a big-ass pile’a steel wool this is,” he chortled. He rubbed her face in his crotch. The denim of his jeans smelled unmistakably of fish.

  Snow White said, in a syrup-think New England accent, “Yew heerd what she said, said she eats like a pig. Well, haow ‘baout we see if she fucks like one tew?”

  Someone from the restaurant, came Hazel’s frantic deduction. But, shit! The restaurant was packed!

  Now a hand pawed her crotch. “Bet’cha she got a shaved pie.”

  “Neeeew...”

  “Shore. Young gals these days, ‘specially the collerge gals, all shave it. Bet’cha it is.”

  “Aw’right, then, yew’re on. Winner gets his nut’n her fust.”

  Hazel’s flipflops were flung away and her shorts were peeled inside-out and off.

  “Well dew tell!” said Snow White. “I en’t never seed a chunk’a red pussy har like thet!”

  Mortified, Hazel tensed when one of them grabbed a fistful of her abundant pubis plot and pulled. Pain prickled; the skin of her sexual mound pulled out.

  “Big ass pussy fer such a little thing.”

  “Ee-yuh. Nice big lips on it.” The eyes behind Snow White’s eye-holes leveled. “Best jew keep them eyes shut, reddy-head. Less yew see’a us, better the chance we durn’t kill ya.”

  Hazel’s eyes sealed shut.

  “Flip her over naow. I wanna see whar her shit come out.”

  “Dag straight.”

  The rough hands flipped Hazel over like a sack of flour. Her buttocks was parted.

  “Shee-it!” affirmed the southern voice. “That ass is fresh cornbread right out the oven!” and a fingertip shimmied in the anal opening.

  “Well-used, tew. Yew kin tell by lookin’. More like’a slit instead of a hole. Means she’s no stranger to gettin’ it in the ass.” Belt buckles clinked. “Well go on. Yew got fust dibs.”

  Hazel sensed her attackers changing positions. She grunted; her cheek dragged in the dirt as her hips were hauled up. With her eyes closed, she seemed to sense more. She heard the sound of a throat being cleared, then—

  Hhhhock!

  A mucoid lump landed in the crack of her buttocks after which a penis of more than modest girth pushed through.

  “Shee-it,” came the immediate complaint. “This stringbean’s asshole tain’t tight at all. And fer such a li’l thing?”

  “Heh, heh, heh. Told ya it looked well-used. Probably had more cocks goin’ in it than shit comin’ aout.”

  In spite of the reeling horror, Hazel was able to register the grievance, and—

  “Ho boy!” Peter Pan delighted.

  —Hazel deftly tightened her anus. So I’ve got a big asshole, huh, she managed to think. How’s this for big, you redneck garbage-pile? Her dexterity enabled her to tighten the sphincter and hold it for a considerable length.

  “Aw-aw-aw, man! All’s a sudden, she’s tighter than a li’l boy’s ass!”

  Snow White’s New England drawl cackled. “Haow would jew know abaout li’l boys’ asses?” and then a guttural peal of laughter fluttered up.

  “Just a figgure’a speech, ya know?”

  Now, with a mechanical promptitude, Hazel began to oscillate the intricate muscle without any relent at all, opening and closing at a pace that matched her heartbeat.

  Her sodomizer was panting, grunting almost in distress as the penis plunged in and out. “I’se swear on my mama’s grave this is the best dang cornholin’ I ever had!” and then he began to shiver, his strokes picking up, and:

  “Ah, fuck—ahhhhhhh!”

  Hazel easily felt the hot spurts eddy into her bowel. She felt sickened, yet thrilled. Eventually the invading penis slid out of her.

  “Cain’t believe my dick spit that fast.”

  “Your dick always spits fast,” Snow White laughed. “En’t had the ‘sperience I had. Naow yew get aout my way,” Snow White said, “‘curz it’s my turn. And while I’m jiggin’ up her shit, yew best thank the lady for bein’ setch a good sport, eh? Mebbe like a Nor’east Mustache?”

  “Wish I’d thunk’a that!”

  As the taller man popped a considerably larger erection through her sphincter, Peter Pan pulled her face off the ground and wiped his deflated penis across her upper lip. Oh, you MOTHERFUCKER! she thought. Now she had to smell remnants of her own excrement. All the while, though, the question beat like a drum in her head: What will they do to me when they’re done?

  “Well I’ll be gard-durn’t if yew en’t right,” Snow White railed, pumping her. “She larnt proper, I’se tellin’ yew. Just as I’se sarten my daddy fucked sheep, I’m durn sarten this is the tightest backside I ever buggered.”

  “Tolt ya!”

  “Make it tighter, reddy-head, make it tight as yew can, less yu’d ruther me’n my pal here cut yew’re li’l cupcake tits off’n choke ya tew death on ‘em.”

  Hazel summoned every iota of strength in her body, focused it on her sphincter, and squeezed...

  “Ee-YUH!”

  More sperm slopped into her bowel; Hazel could feel that this deposit was considerably more voluminous than the first man’s. The cock spasmed in curious quivers as the assailant’s balls drew up against her vagina.

  The man exhaled. “If’n this ‘un could make her asshole any tighter she could likely cut PVC pipe.”

  “Or bust an empty Bud bottle, fer shore.”

  “Ee-yuh. Tew bad we en’t got one.” His hips nudged closer to Hazel’s buttocks. “Loosen up naow, reddy—theer, good.”

  Hazel was cruxed. He just came so...what’s he doing now? He seemed to be adjusting his hips like a golfer just before making a shot.

  “En’t done just yet,” and then—

  Oh my God...

  —he began to urinate.

  “See, what I always larn’t was that if yew’re gonna cum up a bitch’s ass, yew might as well piss up it tew, eh?”

  “Dag straight.”

  Hazel winced with her face in the dirt. And I thought I was sick in the head. Heat blossomed in her lower abdomen; she could feel her bowel swell and swell–indeed, she could even feel pressurized urine tracing up the convolutions of her large intestine. After what had to have been two full minutes, the flow had not abated. For shit’s sake, buddy! Are you gonna piss all fucking day?

  “Like pullin’ the truck up to the fillin’ station!” cawed Peter Pan. “Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding...”

  When no more urine remained, Snow White slowly withdrew. Hazel thought of a fat, shaved rat being dragged out of her ass.

  “En’t much I’d ruther dew’n piss up a gal’s backside. Just sup-thin’ that tickles me pink abaout the ideer of a gal filled with piss.”

  Peter Pan clapped in degenerate glee, and when he did so, his limp cock jiggled. “I’se hear that!”

  Hazel collapsed to her belly. All that piss bloating her bowel made her feel buoyant. Her brain seemed like something diced into dozens of nuggets, and each nugget struggled but failed to fully reconnect with the others. She couldn’t quite contemplate the potential that she would be dead soon.

  “Come tew think of it...”

  Suddenly she was being dragged across the dirt by her hair, until she was arranged in a sitting position against a tree.

  “Time this bitch got filled up both ways. I done filled up her ass, so’s why’n’t jew fill up her belly?”

  “Yeah! It’s been a spell since I don
e that!”

  Hazel’s skewed faculties didn’t register their intent until Peter Pan was standing with his revolting-smelling penis right in her face.

  “Open up.”

  Hazel glanced upward through half-closed eyes. “What?”

  “Come on, red! Crank that cock-sucker open.” The smiling Peter Pan mask looked ludicrous as such words were emitted from it. “I’se gonna pee in yer mouth’n yer gonna drink it.”

  Hazel blinked. Hadn’t she had enough yet? When she gazed down at herself, her lower abdomen bloated such that she looked half-pregnant herself. I’m sitting in the woods, raped and naked, with my belly sticking out ‘cos some redneck just used my ass for a urinal, she thought very concretely.

  “No,” she said.

  Peter Pan’s eyes looked incredulous. Snow White’s gaze slowly roved over. “Say what? ”

  “I’m not going to drink your piss,” Hazel said. She shrugged. “I don’t care any more—my life’s a piece of shit because I’m a piece of shit. My father’s the most wonderful man in the world and I treat him like a bum—I avoid him because I’m too lazy and indulgent to bother. The only person I truly love—a woman, by the way—thinks we’re only ‘buds,’ and I’ve got more mental problems than an abnormal psyche text.” She held up dirt-smudged hands. “Go ahead and kill me. I’m done.”

  Peter Pan flicked his knife. “If’n that’s the way ya want it—”

  Hazel smiled as the blade lowered. I guess it is...and I’m fine with that.

  “New, new, new”—Snow White’s hand intervened to pull the knife away. “En’t no sport in killin’ a woman who en’t afeared, and anyway, she’s just playin’ with us naow.”

  “Playin’?” questioned Peter Pan.

  “Ee-yuh. She don’t keer if she live’re dies, but ya knaow what?”

  “What?”

  “We’ll tie her up’n take her back to the shack.” Snow White got down on one knee and looked right at her through his eye-holes. “Then tonight weer gonna snatch ourselfs thet pregnant one.” He pronounced “pregnant” as preg-ernt. “Ee-yuh, li’l reddy-head heer thinks she can fuck with us. Afore we kill yew, we’ll kill yew’re knocked up friend fust.”