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Ah, Ghoul
Support pulseHEAD.com, and get some free money too. (THIS SPACE AVAILABLE)FICTION SUBMITTED BY SmellsLikeBooks AT 2008.11.18 04:19 AM | VIEWED 131 TIMES
CONTENT
I WAS IN FINE SPIRITS as I made the long walk to Eleanor's home. The grand old Victorian building was in decent repair from the outside, but the surrounding gardens had obviously been neglected for some time. Great trees stretched into the sky, and rotten weeds dominated throughout.
This was my first invitation to Eleanor's house. I met her about a month before, at a party. We exchanged telephone numbers as we sat quietly in a corner, supposedly talking business. In fact, I was discreetly stroking her shapely, stocking-clad thighs while she purred obscenities into my ear; we instantly hit it off.
We had chatted on the telephone often since then. She had seemed strangely reluctant to meet for drinks, or dinner, or even coffee. Well, I had a wife of fifteen years at home, and so was quite happy with the little strumpet's discretion.
I strolled briskly to the entrance, a fine bottle of Châteauneuf du pape in my hand and an expectant stirring in my stomach.
The front of the house was huge, and dramatic. The ancient stonework was weather-beaten, but solid. The wooden door felt rather mighty under my weak knocking, and I wondered if Eleanor would even hear it.
Fortunately, she did. She came to the door wearing a light grey business suit. Her pale legs were dressed up in a promisingly risqué pair of heels, her soft cheeks were slightly flushed, and her long, dark hair sat a pinch on the dishevelled side. She flashed a sparkling smile for me, however, and swished me into her home.
"Bernard! How are you?" she beamed, embracing me heartily. She quickly looked me up and down, and a little sigh escaped her lips. "My goodness, don't you look well! I'm so sorry, darling, but I was held up at the office." She extended her arms in an apologetic manner. "Let me show you to the lounge."
She led me by the hand into a large, cosy room, where the fire burned noisily, and soft, romantic music played gently in the background. Yes sir, this looked like the business to me.
I collapsed into the sofa, pulling my hostess asunder. I kissed her soft lips greedily, while the little minx tugged playfully at my trousers. I slid my hands around her and squeezed her curvy hips. She laughed joyously, and fell from the couch onto a thick rug on the floor. With a roar, I leapt to join her, but she was nimbly onto her feet and skipping away from my lunging grasp. She glided over to the drinks cabinet, and I could hear ice rattling in a glass as she spoke in a husky, persuasive tone.
"Darling, you must show patience. We have all evening to enjoy one another's company." She walked over to where I still lay; her marvellous thighs level with my wide-eyed stare.
She handed me a whisky and kissed me lightly on the forehead. Her scent was enchanting. "I simply must get myself out of these terrible clothes, and into something more comfortable." She curled her bottom lip seductively.
"I will not be long, darling. Help yourself," she nodded at the whisky.
As she spoke, she moved her tantalising mouth ever closer to mine; but then, with a wet, lingering kiss, she swiftly glided from the room, the door closing gently behind her.
The whisky was grand, and I got mightily comfortable in that deep, soft sofa, sipping my drink by the warmth of the fire. I kicked off my shoes and drained the glass, with a sigh of content.
I went to the cabinet for a generous refill. As I poured, I noticed another glass was already sitting on the cabinet, with three ice-cubes in it. This was peculiar. Why would Eleanor prepare a drink, and then leave?
I turned back to the comfort of the sofa. Clumsily, I tripped on the edge of the rug, and the drink flew from my grasp. I regained my balance and prepared myself for the crash of the glass as it landed; but it never came. My eyes had instinctively flashed to the point on the ground where the drink must surely land, but there was nothing! I looked again at my own hands; the drink was certainly not there. Utterly bewildered, I turned and looked at the drinks cabinet and gasped.
Not only was my glass not there, but the extra, empty glass, had vanished too!
I tried in vain to blink away this peculiar inconsistency. There were, decisively, no glasses on the cabinet; or on the floor; or in my hand. I turned around and gaped in astonishment at what I saw.
The two glasses were floating, about five feet away from where I stood, at shoulder-height. I took a step back, and as I did so, the full image in front of me manifested.
I was standing before a man: an incredibly tall, well-dressed giant of a man, with an arrogant sneer and menacing brow.
It took me only seconds to realise I was faced with a spectre. Despite his immense girth, prodigious height, detailed clothing, and even though he was holding two glasses...I somehow knew that he was a spirit; a phantom. I was standing in the shadow of a ghost.
He looked at me indifferently, and handed me one of the glasses. As he did so, I tried to make sense of him. He looked solid - yet, somehow, transparent.
Even now, the best description I can muster is this: can you imagine a day when the sun beats so fiercely, and the air carries such temperature, that heat-waves flicker above the ground? Well, that's almost as he appeared. He filled the air with a shimmering energy that was invisible but firm.
He handed me the glass, motioned to the sofa, and asked in a deep and distinguished voice if I cared to join him.
When a ghost asks you to do something, you bloody well do it, and sharp.
He watched me dart to the couch, silently. When he moved over to join me, he did not necessarily walk, and I would not stretch to say that he flew; it was more of a gliding motion, or a hovering; like a cloud.
He lifted his glass to me and drank from it slowly. In his fist, the glass ceased to be an object of this world. I half-expected the whisky to pour through his stomach and soak the sofa, but sadly, it did not. I raised my glass politely, and drank the contents greedily. I stood to pour myself another, but he raised his palm, and stopped me.
"Bernard", he said sternly.
I jumped. "Y-you know my name?"
"You are here to sleep with my wife, Bernard", he said angrily.
I quickly scanned the room for the likeliest escape route.
His wrinkled his forehead in a deep frown, and I did what I do best in a moment of crisis: I told him exactly what I thought he wanted to hear.
"Me? Sleeping with -" I pointed to a photograph of the little trollop that hung on the wall. "Goodness, no! Come on now, of course I'm not here for...that." I tipped my glass greedily to my mouth, and remembered with dismay that I had already finished my drink.
The phantom rose, and took the glass from my hand. He moved over to the drinks cabinet and refilled it, thankfully, with a most hearty measure.
This emboldened me. "Now listen here, my friend - "
"Listen to me, Bernard. And look at me", he interrupted.
So I did. He was an awful sight, really. Alive, he must have been as handsome as a warrior, but in death, in this ghoulish guise, he appeared potent and bitter.
"Your life is in grave danger", he said, sternly.
"No! For the love of God, man, I have a family! Please, I have told you - I have no designs on your wife!" I pleaded, unconvincingly. The ghoul through his head back and laughed heartily.
"Hah! How ignorant are the living! You think I am capable of such terror? No, Bernard. You have no reason to fear me. Yes, I can drink, and smoke, and grip," he clenched one of his mighty fists. "But I am incapable of murder."
"I - I do not understood. Dammit, if you cannot hurt me, then what the hell do you want?" I immediately regretted my bravado, as his cheeks reddened, and he towered above me to his full height.
"I am trying to help, you oaf!" he roared. "That fiendish slut you are here to please: she is the danger!"
I looked around, confused. Eleanor? She was soft as a pillow, surely.
The ghost calmed, and hovered back into the couch. "She is not as gentile as her curves would have you believe," he hissed. "She was my wife - and she murdered me."
I was mystified. I looked into the phantom's sad, solemn gaze. Could my life really be endangered by his affectionate widow?
I could not help but think of my beloved, tedious wife at home. She was not a great lover, but she had never endangered me, the pet.
"She murdered you?" I whispered. The notion was absurd.
"She is insatiable," he lamented. "We were married one year. I gave her stability, a home, a reputation, a fortune! And she killed me, in cold blood." It was his turn to sink the whisky, and I moved to pour him another as he continued his tale.
"She demanded so much. It mattered not how many hours I had worked, or how stressed I was. She must be ravished for hours every night, else she screamed and fussed and made life unbearable."
I returned with the drinks and sat down again, utterly confused. "You couldn't please her - in bed?" I asked, somewhat pleased.
He rounded on me furiously. "I was just as young and capable as you, boy!" he seethed. "She does not have a normal appetite. One night, after making love, I dozed off. This displeased her, and so she smothered me with the bed sheets. I was left to wander this huge house - my family home! - a pitiful shadow of the man I once was. I live in these walls and timber, and she brings home her men. Not one has pleased her - and they have all paid with their life."
He cocked his head to one side, as though listening intently. "But quick - here she comes! If you want to leave this house alive, Bernard, take my advice: be fierce, be energetic, be selfless! And in God's name, do not fall asleep first!"
"This cannot be!" I bawled in desperation. I began babbling in a blind panic, and reached out to grab him; but he had already vanished, fading into nothing.
The door opened, and in walked Eleanor.
The murderous tart looked bewitching. She wore a tiny negligee, her bosom heaved from the lacy seams and her legs cut a marvellous shape in steep, pointed heels. Her hair curled down like a snake, drawing my eyes to the dark shadow between her breasts.
"Bernard..." she coaxed lustily, holding out a slender hand. "Come with me, darling..."
Now, I've never been one to kiss and tell, but I bulled that immaculate wench all over her spacious bedchamber. We thrashed around for hours, time after time. She smoked cigarettes hungrily between bouts, while I kissed and stroked her nakedness, desperately fighting off the urge to sleep.
The ghost's words remained in my head throughout; his haunted face appeared in the creases of the sheets, and his voice whispered in the draft from the open window.
When it was finally over, a satisfied Eleanor spoke openly and warmly. She was a charming girl, I reasoned, on the evidence of her lusty enthusiasm; but then the awful image of her poor, murdered husband invaded my thoughts, and I watched her suspiciously.
As the hours wore on, Eleanor increased in charm, and I began to relax. As the morning sun poured through the curtains, I was overcome with fatigue and complacency. I decided to tell her about the ghost in the lounge. The evening had gone so well, and I was sure I had imagined the spooky brute. It all seemed too ridiculous for words.
So I told her. She listened with puzzled amusement at his tales of murder, and his descriptions of her carnal greed. When I had told her everything, she lay back, bare-chested, and smiled beautifully.
"My husband's name was McKenzie," she conceded. "He died in a car accident, years ago. I loved him dearly. And he was an enthusiastic partner" she grinned sleepily. "He does still visit from time to time, to catch up."
I sat bolt upright.
"What the hell did you say?"
"Don't be so naïve," she scolded. "Its just a little game he plays: a fetish. He pretends that I'm some sort of insatiable, demanding assassin."
"You knew about this?" I was in complete shock.
"He does it all the time. It encourages my visitors to last longer, and try harder." She chuckled dementedly, and a little saliva lay on her thick bottom lip. "McKenzie simply loves to watch me with another man. He loved it when he was alive - he drilled a peephole behind that mirror. And now, in death, he simply fades into thin air, for a much better view," she mused dreamily. "Don't you, darling?"
Her bright eyes travelled beyond me to the ceiling. Aghast, I looked up. The awful spectre of McKenzie hovered not two feet above the bed. His cheeks were flushed, his trousers unbuckled, and a post-coital cigarette hung lazily from his smiling, dead lips.
RATING: 3
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