73 - The Case of the Well-Laid Ghost

"Spirit photography," Roberta said. "Is difficult. How do you capture the intangible, the spiritual, the psychic residue left behind? Yet if we believe such beings do exist, that they can interact with our world, why is it so difficult to believe that we might capture evidence of them? These were the questions I sought to answer with

THE CASE OF THE WELL-LAID GHOST

"If these walls could talk," Mrs. Haversham ran a hand along one of the walls. It consisted of sedimentary rocks, almost crudely mortared together. Fossil sea-shells were evident in the soft stone. "This was one of the first permanent houses built on what would become the town-site. A trading post and general store, to deal with the Japanese and whatever railroad folks stopped by. My grandfather renovated and expanded it, added the second story. My father tore out the old porch and replaced it with brick and cement. So many memories."

One dark hand rested on her swollen stomach. I tried not to stare at her enormous breasts, barely contained in the pretty floral dress. I don't think they made holsters for breasts that size. Mrs. Haversham's other touch exposed wood, brick, stone, the occasional old photo.

I had my Nikon about my neck, a camera case slung at my hip, and my few clothes and essentials in a backpack.

"I really appreciate you letting me shoot in here, Mrs. Haversham," I told her. "Do you know which rooms are most likely to see manifestations?"

She turned back to me, her strangely youthful face in a broad smile.

"Oh, every room holds its memories. There have been at least fifteen deaths in this house. Most of them were fairly peaceful—the older generation letting go, children that got sick and didn't make it—but—"

Mrs. Haversham gave a little tour of the house. The bedroom where I was to sleep had been her mother's; she had died of a heart attack, caught in bed with two lovers, who had shortly thereafter been killed by her husband's shotgun. There was a spot on the new porch where a young man had been killed by an axe blow while in the act of performing oral sex on a member of the family. In the living room, Mrs. Haversham pulled aside the rug to show a dark stain, the result of "a very creative suicide that combined autoerotic asphyxiation and **** by impalement."

Then, she left me to it. She would, she said, mostly stay within her bedroom and bathroom for the next few days, except for meals. I had the run of the house, at all hours of the day or night.

I started in my bedroom. Took careful measurements, set up the cameras. Temperature stable, no cold spots, no unusual electrical activity. I had shed my normal dress and was only in my undergown. Mrs. Haversham hadn't told me when the event had happened, but I was hopeful midnight might bring some activity.

You can imagine what it is like, in an old, big house. The strange creaks and moans of the woodwork. Houses of a certain age seem to breathe. Clocks tick, and the ticks echo through the vents and hidden spaces. The heavy tread of Mrs. Haversham's gravid form in the main bedroom, the flush of a toilet. I kept the lights out, only the moonlight from the window, which was reflected from a large, ancient mirror mounted on the wall opposite the bed. I sat in the dark, facing the bed, sipping a Mountain Dew-based energy drink.

I shouldn't have fallen asleep.

Yet suddenly I was on the bed. Two dark figures on either side of me. A man and a woman. Warm hands pulled my shirt off. Hot mouths found my nipples. Strong lips sucked, tongues teased. I gasped, unable to give voice to anything except a moan. The air grew hot between them as my hands slid down their pants, finding what I wanted, needed. A hard cock. A wet cunt. We moved together, communicating our needs with **** kisses, hungry hands. Stripping clothes, moving into new positions.

My heart hammered so hard against my breastbone I thought it would burst. I felt him enter me, even as she guided my face to her hot cleft. Despite the need for silence that I could feel, we got louder. I moaned into her cunt, her juices dripping down my chin even as he drove into me. Her hands dug into my hair, hips twitching as she humped me frantically.

The pain blossomed in my chest, a sudden convulsion that made it hard to breathe. My lovers couldn't hear my sudden distress. I was a toy for their use. And by the Goddess, I didn't care either. I couldn't have stopped that driving piston that pounded my cunt like the hammering of railroad spikes being driven into place. Couldn't stop sucking on that sopping, hairy slit as she threw back her head, all caution lost and screamed, thighs quivering.

Then my heart stopped. Limbs went limp, even as he pulled out and sprayed hot, sticky drops all over my stomach. As my vision tunneled into darkness, I was aware of him wiping his dick against my thigh, squeezing out the last drop into my spasming cleft.

Then the door opened. A figure stood there, shadowed, indistinct. The double-barreled shotgun aimed.

The world exploded.

I awoke, with a start, my undergown soaked with sweat. The room seemed to reek with sex. I panted in the darkness, then as awareness caught me, I checked the camera.

Nothing. Whatever I had relived, whether it was a true manifestation or just a figment of my overactive imagination, it had not been captured on camera.

"Did you try the other rooms?" Asenath asked.

"Yes. The cameras didn't catch anything there, either," Roberta said.

"Did you discover anything during your visit to that house?" Leroy asked, he and his sister watching her with singular intensity.

Roberta said nothing for a moment, then nodded. "In that vision, or manifestation, I saw for a moment my own reflection in the mirror that faced the bed. And the face that I saw was Mrs. Haversham's."

So saying, Roberta blew out her candle.