A Ghost by Any Other Name

The strange and supernatural had always been a fascination for Jack. As a boy, he had frequented every film, loved every legend, and heeded every harrowing tale his horror-hungry habits could handle. Now a young man, few things had changed.

He had never given up the hope that the fantastical was merely hiding in the shadows. A fool's dream, he knew, but from time to time, his secret dream led him down strange and mystical roads. More specifically, the strange and mythical road of Serenity Lane.

True to its name, Serenity Lane was the most tranquil of places one could find in the outer regions of suburbia. Flowers of every variety decorated the streets and the wind always blew with the faint fragrance of their bloomage. And that was to say nothing of the residences who lived there. The only time he saw them break their perpetual state of smiling, gardening and waving was when they offered him some sort of homemade good whenever he passed them by. Something was certainly amiss on Serenity Lane, it was one of the reasons Jack loved it so. What really piqued his interest, however, was an old bit of Victorian architecture sitting down the end of a cul-de-sac. The ever ominous and all mysterious Purple Rose Manner.

Easily the tallest building on the block, it boasted three stories of grimy windows and cracked roof tiles. Small chips of paint had fallen away here and there, exposing its brick and mortar build, but the charm of the house was as strong as its foundations. By movie logic law, and probably some residential zoning laws, it had abandoned and possibly haunted. The neighbours had sweet little to say about the previous owners, and no-one ever to go near the place with any sort of intent. By movie logic law, and probably some residential zoning laws, it was abandoned and possibly haunted.

Jack was admiring it, one easy afternoon, when a stray thought crept into his head. Why not climb the fence and investigate? He was lying to himself if he couldn't think of dozen or so reasons not to, but many of those reasons required the house to have residence to catch him. One quick peek inside, maybe a lap of the garden, and that would be all. Doing a quick perimeter for anyone spying on him, he began his climb.

An uneasy feeling crept up his spine as he threw his legs over and dropped into the yard. The swampy mix of grass and weeds rose up to his knees, claiming almost every inch of soil on the property. Had the cobblestone walkway not been there, the house would be but an island lost in a sea of garden. Winding vines made their way up the house's weathered walls and several rose bushes stretched to join their company.

Jack's intent clashed with his instincts. Every step made him feel closer to a danger he couldn't identify. He bargained with his better judgement on the decision to continue, forgoing the nature walk, but he was determined to see in through the window.

Despite the layers of dust collecting on everything but the ceiling, the house looked to be in good shape. Antique after antique decorated the dimly lit dining room. At the back of the room was a great mahogany grandfather clock that couldn't tell time any more than it could endure it. He could have spent the better part of his day staring through windows had he not accidentally side stepped into a bush. The prick of the thorn were his unfriendly reminder that he didn't belong here.

Ready to leave, Jack made for the gates. Not a step away from the house, he felt the wind begin to stir. The scent of roses wafted about the garden. Something about the wind made him uneasy. It moved with a semblance of purpose, breezing through over his neck like a finger over his naked skin. The sensation spread over his body; whispering faintly for his attention. Morbid curiosity tricked him into turning around.

He could feel a presence watching him from behind the window. Its billowing form glowed with purple iridescence, shifting and writhing like a fog. He tripped backward, clutched the grass, frozen to the spot. The thing was a woman. No mistaking her now. Her simple dress was sewn from the illumine brilliance of her ghostly form. Her face was obscured, hidden behind a mess of cascading hair, until a dainty pair of hands parted the curtain of locks. A caballing smile slowly stretched across her face.

To his left he heard a click, followed by the whining of weathered hinges. Jack's attention flickered to the front door-now ajar-and back to the window. The ghostly visage had vanished just as quickly as she appeared.

The wind continued to blow. He could hear it now, shaking branches and sweeping up the the petals. They swirled around him, charming him with scents and colours.

"Join me."

Jack's instincts flaired to life once more. He had to clamber back over the gate, run to safety and never return. He wouldn't. The thought of leaving was extinguished as quickly as he had it. He was driven by more than simple curiosity now.

Foregoing all reasoning, he took a hesitant step up to the porch and dared a peek inside. It was unusually dark, as if the light from the mid-morning sun was consumed by the house. Jack took a deep breath and pushed himself forward. He did well to stick to the wall, carefully teetering by any furnishings he found, and followed it to the dining room. The sunlight was swallowed there too. It was just as elegant as it had appeared through the window, though significantly less haunted than he was expecting. Jack felt a pang of disappointment, followed by a healthy dose of reality to join the anticlimax. He was trespassing on what could very well be private property, poking about like he owned the place. What on earth was thinking, wondering into some rundown old building on a whim like some crazed ghosthunter? He retraced his steps as carefully as he entered, scolding himself for being so foolish. The hinges creaked and light spilled over him. As always, sunlight dashed his hopes of something, anything, going bump in the night. With a sigh of defeat, he went to leave, only for the door slam itself shut and lock as loudly as it opened.

The young trespasser was still, letting what transpired churn through the his mind for a moment, and then jumped to fight with the lock until his hands were sore. He scrambled for his phone, seeing the no reception icon as his que to panic. He shook the screen several times, but when nothing changed his fear cemented.

A giggle echoed around the room and a chill ran over of Jack's body. He scanned the darkness up and down for whoever might be toying with him. He was alone. He slumped to the ground with his head in his hands, suppressing the need to panic as best he could. Desperate to keep some semblance of level headedness, he picked himself up began to think. He knew a thing or two about paranoia. Anxiety was creeping in and now his brain was playing tricks on him. They were delusions, he assured himself, nothing more. He tried to chase away his alarm with reason, remind himself the only thing keeping him from freedom was an of inches of wood with a golden handle. There had a key somewhere, all he had to do was find it.

Find the key and escape. Simple. Jack ignored everything but those thoughts and began searching like his life depended on it. His sanity certainly did.

It wasn't in any of the vases, he quickly discovered, or tucked behind any of the photos on the wall either. If it was anywhere in that room at all, he would have been long gone. Jack cast a solemn look towards the dining room, hesitant to explore any further. He came in to indulge in his little fantasy and now he was pilfering through antiques looking for a way out. His searching took him all through the dusty house. From the dining room through to the sitting room, painter's room, office, both bathrooms and every nook and cranny he could fit his hands into. Whoever had such a house build must had a lifetime's worth of wealth, and another lifetime to furnish it.

Eventually he looped back into the heart of the house, the recreation room. A sizable fireplace acted as the centerpiece of the room and all furniture seemed to exist around it.

His fixation on the key was slowly chipping away at his resolve. He had tried the windows more than once, but they proved to be just as stubborn the lock, and the last thing he wanted was to add destruction of property to his list of potential charges. Jack sat himself down on an old camelback couch to collect his thoughts. He saw two different flights of stairs and didn't have it in him to explore either, not if he could avoid it. The first floor was frightening enough for him. Instead, he sat, fighting with his trembling body to keep still. It was, perhaps, the feeling of expectancy that had him so wound up. The frigid atmosphere toyed with his nerves and made him anticipate that which was never going to happen. He focused on that small revelation, clinging to the logic like a newly found religion. Deep breaths were going to get him out of this mess, deep breaths and some sort of distraction. His sights fell on a picture frame he wasn't entirely convinced was there before. He hesitantly took it from the table and studied an elegant woman sitting on a chair. She sat at an angle with her hands resting neatly on her legs, a modest dress covering her almost completely. It ended at her ankles where she wore long socks and a simple pair of low cut single strap shoes. Her's was a humble beauty, made all the sweeter by her happy smile.

Jack found himself to be calmer when he was lost in her eyes. For a for a brief moment he was at peace and even considered carrying taking the photograph around with him until he escaped.

As he continued to look at the photograph, however, the more he took notice of the black rings forming around her eyes. A new eerie sensation swept through the room. All at once, the doors slammed closed and another bout of torterious laughter filled his ears. Jack was on his feet in an instant with the photo raised and ready to swing. It was only then did he begin to see just how hopelessly surrounded he was. The spectre stared at him from a dozen portraits on the walls; a one-woman art gallery gazing down upon him with rapacious eyes. He watched them in turn, dreading their next move. The air moved slowly in and out of his lungs, as steady as he could manage it, but there was nothing he could do to spare himself from the terror welling in his gut.

His fears took to life when the woman, in all her painted forms, began to twitch and squirm.

The portraits moved of their own whim, each with their purple gaze laid upon him. She smiled at him, waved at him, winked at him and blew kisses at him all at once. They each shared a harmonious laugh as his neck snapped from painting to painting. She peeled her bodies from their various poses, stretching into full bodied animation. She took a moment to compose herselves, flattening out her dress and fixing her hair before erupting into life. They bent perspective to their whim, tearing at their framed realities like a child on Christmas morning until all that remained was a perfect recreation of the room Jack had the misfortune of being trapped in. In the blink of an eye, she vanished.

Frightened out of his wits, Jack looked down at the photograph still in his shaking grip. A familiar room and a very empty chair was all he could see. He looked up. The portraits around him were as empty as the photograph. Off in the corner of the room, an old gramophone had begun to crank itself up and splutter out a tune. As the music crackled into a more melodic tune, the ghost appeared in the painting above the fireplace.

Her hands rested on her hips and her coy expression remained unchanged. She took one confident step and simply left her clothes behind. The purple dress that hugged her so closely was left to hang limp in the air with her socks and shoes.

Underneath her simple outfit belied a set of lingerie Jack had only ever seen in window shop mannequins and late late-night movies. A violet corset hugged her hourglass all too perfectly. Floral patterns were sewn into the finer details, trailing up to her generous breasts and down to her creamy thighs. The way it squeezed her bosom together made a tight valley of cleavage and very nearly pushed her feminine flesh over the top. Following the flowers down to her shapely hips, he saw a lacy pair of panties stretching across her waist. Finishing off the saucy ensemble was lovely pair of a stockings pinching into her equally lovely legs.

She remained still, reveling in his unwavering attention like a dancer in the spotlight. Raising her arm up high, she clutched a small object in her hand. She twirled it around her fingers and kept it just nimble enough for Jack to become curious, tucking it into her bosom once he had an eyeful.

She flashed him a smile of wicked delight and vanished into the air, leaving her clothes and a record player stuck on repeat. It was a slow minute before he was able to shake his head of the confusion. A rush of excitement had crashed into his heart pounding uneasiness, leaving him confused as how he should feel about this predicament he found himself in. Victim of his own pubescent lust and excitement, Jack was unfamiliar with the ways of slow seduction. This ghost woman was an oddity to him in every definition he knew, and lit a spark in him, coaxing temptation from the swirling mists of fear.

Jack hadn't given up on trying to understand his situation, but it certainly hadn't gotten any easier after... whatever that was. His cock, however, had long since betrayed him. Try as it might to lead him after her, he wasn't about to blindly follow his lust.

His attention turned to a door creaking open. It led back out to the entrance way, yet the door continued to resist his efforts. He reasoned that the ghost wanted him upstairs. It was too much to hope that she would simply let him go. She hadn't done anything to him, so he pinned his hopes to a way he could possibly earn his freedom. Jack wasn't about to walk up there with any sort of faith in her good intentions though, he needed to arm himself.

A lifetime of media binging gave him grounds for thought. From what he knew about ghosts,-things he hoped were true, now more than ever- there had to be something, anything, of mythical value he could use against the spectral seductress.

He gave the room another looking over, broadening his search from key to clue. The recreation room was not the most opportune of places to be looking for clues, and there was precious little to be found amongst all the dust. He thought for sure he was through, when an idea struck him. The photograph. He hadn't the chance to examine it before she decided to confuse his fear with arousal. In his moment of weakness, he had left the frame by the couch. The picture was unsurprisingly vacant, and for that he was somewhat relieved. The frame was crafted with meticulous detail. Two curving stems were carved down the sides, the roses intertwining at the top, creating an almost oval like frame. While there was no name connecting her to such a finely made picture holder, Jack was beginning to detect a theme. The plants, the corset, the picture frame.

"Rose." He said with every ounce of confidence he could muster. There was a sudden jerk in the surrounding ambience. Something had come undone. He pushed again, "Your name is Rose."

From a twitch to a unmistakable shift, there was a momentary lapse in atmosphere. Jack felt a slither of courage return to him. The room quickly returned to normal, reminding him that there was still a presence to be feared somewhere, lofting about. Knowing her name wasn't going to be enough, but it was a fine start. He checked his phone again with the same amount of success. He sighed and surrendered himself to her unspoken instructions.

Jack's confidence lasted him well into the entrance way and wavered only once he reached the upstairs hallway. It stretched in two directions. To his left he could see a few doors before a very discouraging darkness consumed the rest of the corridor. To his right was a door left ajar with light peeking through as though to invite him in. Jack couldn't keep from wondering at what sort of cliché spectre he was dealing with.

The clichés continued into the bedroom. It was every bit as "Victorian era" as the rest of the house. Four widows stretching up the walls were rendered useless by the long sweeping curtains decorating them. The room was rich with dark colors. A blend of royal purple, black, with splashes of deep sea blue and only the occasional bit of white. What space not cluttered with furniture, cushioned stools, chairs and the like, showed a rich mahogany floor. Tying the room all together was a great big canopy bed, miraculously intact, that continued the theme of purple sheets embroidered with roses. Frills hung on all sides, ready to hide what shouldn't be seen. Last but not least was the feature wall. Poorly concealed behind two chairs was a blue marble fireplace without so much as a log to burn.

Above it was the largest painting by far, with the woman of the hour waiting inside. Adorned in only her raunchy garments, she sneering down on him with her crooked smile. There was a pronounced essence of wickedness hovering about her that she just couldn't contain, or simply refused to hide. Every part sexy as she was frightening, it took everything he had not to fall for her. He steeled himself and returned her gaze.

"Let me out of here," he demanded.

The smile widened from a sneer to a grin. She continued to look down on him. Her look of mockery would not dissuade him, his mind was set and his will was sound. She would have to do something about that.

Starting at her hips, she touched her hands up her body and ran them through her hair. Her hips began to sway with pendular elegant as she rocked smoothly from left to right. The ghost traced lines from the tip of her cleavage down to the laces of the struggling corset. Ever so gently she tugged at the stings, hips moving in a circling motion. One by one the laces were unfastened, ghost purled around more and more she had her back to him.

Letting her breasts hang heavy, she slid a thumb into her panties and gave them a light stretch. Jack's glimpse at her perfect pale ass made his pants all the tighter, his cock pressed hard against his jeans in yearning.

The panty line eased down her thumb and gave her ample behind a nice elastic slap. As the jiggling ebbed from cheek to cheek, she cast a dazzling eye over her shoulder. If mystique was her cloak, then her eyes were her dagger. With the slow wink of a temptress, she began to roll her hips once more. At the peak of every sway came another small tug, revealing more of her tantalizing tush. The panties continued to ease down her thighs until she kicked them aside, confidently naked from the waist down. The white cushiony softness of her behind, so shapely and plump, promised a good time. She spun to face him, covering her ghostly bosom with her hands and pressing them to her chest. Slowly she leaned over, offering him a peek of cleavage. Ever so gradually, she let them fall from her chest. Hands still blocking his full view and shaking her shoulders to give them a little jiggle. She stood upright, hiding her nipples behind fingers while his eyes devoured the flesh she bared. Rose's dainty little digits could do little to stem the tide of bosom, and were nearly encompassed by her breasts.

A war was raging within him, and was quickly bubbling to the surface. Jack wanted nothing more than to gratify his curiosity and sate his burning lust, to touch her would have been a dream come true, and yet some deeper part of him knew better than to upset the spirit that so lovingly tormented him.

As if she could read his thoughts, she vanished again, only to reappear at the forefront of the painting. Jack was blessed with a full view of her for but a moment, but it was a moment burned into his memory for good. Rose moved to uncovered her nipples, and every fibre of Jack's being thought his grand finally had arrived, but there was to be no such ending. Rose's fingers touched upon a window he could not see, a divider made of the same thin air she appeared from. Rose played a masterful trick of perspective, obscuring his sight by having her two fingers on this invisible barrier. Her games were nothing short of torture for young Jack. He could hardly control himself, his cock pressed hard against his pants and his breathing was growing heavier by the second. Everything about her stirred a lust in him deeper than any he had known before.