Ghost Stories

A momentary panic accompanied the sudden wave of dizziness, and Laurie worried she might black out then and there. She couldn't speak, so it was a second before she could signal to John that something was wrong (she slapped his back a few times). He came up looking confused and she rolled off the couch and onto her knees on the floor. Just breathe, she told herself. She'd left the pills back in her apartment—a stupid thing to do, but she resented having to take them everywhere and relished the freedom of abandoning them. Now she wished she hadn't, but she talked herself through the attack slowly: Just breathe, she reminded herself. One breath at a time and you'll be okay. Just breathe...

In about a minute, it passed. She sighed, relieved. Then she remembered John was still there and, embarrassed turned to look at him. "I'm sorry. I'm okay. It was nothing you did. I just have this...condition."

"Oh. Oh! Is it serious?"

"No!" she said. "It's not. I just get these panic attacks sometimes, and when I do I have to slow down. It's no big deal."

"I get it," he said. Half-undressed on the couch, he looked a bit awkward. "I was moving too fast. If you need to go—"

"I don't," she said, and took his hand. "That is, if you don't want me to?" He shook his head. She smiled, relieved. But now, a puzzle: How to do this without running the risk of exerting herself too much? She eyed his sitting position and said, "Stay right where you are. I want to try something."

He half-jumped when she undid his belt buckle, but then settled back in. That bulge was still there. In fact, it even looked even bulgier now. She scooted his jeans down his hips and he obliged. Laurie pulled the waistband on his shorts down with mock reverence. When she saw what popped free, she was...surprised, and also completely unsurprised. She knew what to expect, of course, and had seen pictures and videos, but the real thing was still different.

Now, let's see if I can figure out the right way to do this, she thought. A cousin had explained it to her, but she was still a little unclear: Wouldn't she choke? Shortly she found that, yes, she would, if she went too quickly. She decided to take it one step at a time, first wrapping her fingers around it (it was springier than she'd expected, but also less flexible). She slid it against her palm from one end to the other and was pleased to hear John give a kind of growl. Trying it again, she found she could make him squirm in his seat quite easily, which as fun. Finally she worked up the nerve to extend her tongue and touch just the tip to him. She licked him up and down, rubbing the grain of his skin first against her tongue and then against her lips. It was cooler than she'd thought it would be.

John grunted deep when she slid the tip of him into her mouth. That was the part that had always made her the most curious: On the Internet it always looked shiny and juicy, and she imagined it would practically pop in her mouth. Instead it felt heavy on her tongue, but when she prodded it she found he went a little wild. The slit at the top dribbled and there was a spark of salty warmth on her palate.

Very, very slowly, she eased him inside one bit at a time (mindful of the common advice about her teeth). It bulged wider than she'd thought, and the feeling of it was totally unlike what she'd expected, but she didn't stop or slow down. Even when it went all the way back and she felt her gag seize up again she just slowed down and did it in even smaller bits, wrapping her lips around it as tightly as she could and massaging with her mouth.

I'm really doing it, she thought. It felt...strange, to be honest. But thrilling. This was the most secret, salacious thing she'd ever imagined; to be confident and daring, like the women she'd seen on the computer or the older cousins who had explained certain things to her. She'd felt she'd never be able to make things work with a guy until she knew how to handle him this way. Now she was, and it was easier than she'd imagined. She slid her mouth over and down him again, bobbing her head and letting her tongue dribble all along the underside. She heard the upholstery tighten as he dug his fingers in. Her hands were free, so she reached up and cradled his balls, careful not to squeeze them too hard. He responded by jerking upwards in a motion that almost choked her again, but also made her giddy.

The darkness of the room and the intimacy of the single candle made it easy to forget everything else. I must look really, really hot like this, she thought. She was still wearing her too-tight jeans, but that was okay; she liked the idea that if anyone else walked in they'd still be able to check out the way the fabric hugged her ass and thighs, even while her breasts bounced free and her mouth swallowed John up and inside. He was dribbling like crazy now and she heard his breathing becoming faster and shallower. Was he really going to—? Yes, she decided in a second, he really was. And she was going to let it.

When it came, it was quicker than she thought it would be: barely any warning, and then a warm gush and a strange, salty, slightly bitter taste filling up her mouth. John twisted and wriggled in his seat and Laurie pushed herself down all the way on him, letting him squirt in her throat and feeling the hot, surreal sensation of it sliding down as she swallowed. When she came off him, his cock was dripping with spit, and her mouth felt like a hot, satisfying mess. "Oh my God..." she said. "That was..."

Liberating was the word she was thinking of, but she didn't say it. Too weird.

"Yeah," said John. "It was." He paused. "I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have. I didn't know if you wanted to—"

"Oh, I definitely wanted to."

"Right, but now I can't...I mean, if you wait a while, maybe..."

She wanted to giggle. "No problem, tiger." Tiger? Is that something people really said? "You know where to find me. You know, tomorrow, or anytime. If you want." The truth was, she did have a particularly troublesome itch that she guessed she'd have to go scratch on her own now. But that wasn't so bad.

"Yeah. Yeah!" John said. "Okay, definitely. Do you want another beer, or..."

"I think I'm at my limit. Oh, where did you throw my bra?"

"Back here, over here. Your sweater is—"

"I've got it." She put the sweater on but simply carried the bra, swinging it back and forth a bit as she went to the door. "Thanks for the invitation. I had a really good time."

"Me too. Yeah. I'll see you around?"

"I hope so."

They kissed at the door (briefly—she suspected he didn't want to taste what was still lingering in her mouth). She took the stairs two at a time. She felt...well, a lot of things, actually. But one of them was a strange kind of relief. None of this was hard at all. It wasn't all some strange, foreign thing reserved only for other people. She could do it too. She could do anything. Tonight had confirmed all of her best expectations.

Laurie paused when she got to the front door. It was open, just a tiny crack. Had she forgotten to lock it? Or...well, any burglars who came in would have left disappointed, since there was hardly anything to steal, unless they wanted to unpack all of her boxes for her. And what thief would climb all the way to the top floor anyway? Probably she'd just left it open. "Or else the ghosts did it," she said out loud, and laughed.

She locked the door behind her, kicked off her shoes, and weaved her way somewhat unsteadily toward her room. She wondered if she should stop by John's place tomorrow, just to say hello? Or maybe I don't want to, she thought. Maybe I just want it to be a one-nighter. I could go out and meet other guys instead. I could meet a guy every night. She flopped onto the bed and giggled. There was nobody to tell her no. There was nothing—

She hadn't bothered to turn the lights on, so it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. A moment for her to notice the dark shape looming over her on the bed. A moment to recognize the gleam of cold steel in the intruder's hand, and detect the subtle shuffle of boots on floorboards. And then another moment to remember how to breathe, but even then she found she couldn't bring herself to stand, or run, or scream, or do any of the things that she knew she should do. All she could do was stare.

It wasn't until the black shape actually raised the knife up that her body began to obey her brain's frantic commands. She rolled off the bed (she meant to stand, but her knees were too shaky), scrambled across the floor, pulled herself up using the doorframe, ran to the living room window (open, although there were bars on it), and screamed as loud as she could:

"HELP!"

A noise behind her. She saw the intruder slip out of the bedroom and into the hall. The bare moonlight coming through the window accented the blade in his hand. He made scarcely any noise at all, his footsteps padding ever so softly on the floor. Laurie stumbled backwards. She had to run, she knew. There was still time to make it to the door, but soon he'd be too close. Even though her heart was pounding and adrenaline in her veins made her feel crazy, her feet dragged when she tried to move them. Oh God, she thought, my condition; I still don't have my pills. The lightheadedness was coming on.

If she blacked out now she didn't stand a chance. I have to take three deep breaths, she thought, but she didn't have time. Two breaths, then, and then I run. Only a second had passed, but the man with the knife was that much closer. I've got to go, she thought, but first she forced herself to breathe. Breathe, she told herself, come on and breathe. Another second. No more time. Any longer and he'd be right on her...

Bare feet skidding on the hardwood floor, Laurie bolted. The man with the knife lunged to grab her, but his movements didn't seem to have much strength behind them. She felt the tips of his gloved hand brush her wrist...but by then she was already passed him and to the front door. She jerked the doorknob, threw it open, and was about to sprint out into the hall and escape—

And then the door slammed shut. It happened so fast it nearly knocked her in the face. The door swung smack shut again as soon as she'd opened it, and when she grabbed the knob she found that it wouldn't turn. The lock was undone, but no matter how hard she struggled it wouldn't budge. Oh God, oh God, what's happening, she thought? She heard footsteps behind her. I've got to get to the window—no, there were bars. Was there any other way out? Could she get back to the room and lock herself in? Could she—

A gloved hand touched her hair. Laurie collapsed, screaming, to the floor, hands over her head. This was it, but she didn't want to look. This can't be happening, she thought, this can't be happening. This can't—

And then she heard it: Two voices, very quiet but very distinct. They sounded like children. "Dora, that's enough. Don't be mean."

"Shhh! She'll hear you!"

"Just stop it now, okay? She's scared enough."

"All right. You're no fun..."

And that was all. She heard the rustle of fabric and the clatter of something heavy on the floor. The intruder didn't grab her or haul her up by the hair or cut her throat. He didn't seem to be doing anything at all. After a few agonizing seconds, she forced herself to look, and when she did she saw...

Nothing. She was alone. The room was empty. No, that wasn't quite true: On the floor in front of her was a crumpled pile of black clothes. A pair of sneakers sat orphaned nearby, with nobody's feet in them. The intruder, whoever he was, had vanished.

It was some time before Laurie could bring herself to move again. When she did, she found the room seemed to be heaving back and forth, and when she tried to breathe she couldn't. Oh, right, my condition, she thought. Now that she knew she wasn't about to be murdered, the stress caught up to her body all at once. Should she try to get her pills, or was it too late for that and better to call an ambulance instead? In the end it didn't matter, because before she had even a second to make up her mind everything went black, and she crumpled with one last heavy thump to the floor.

***

Although the building was mostly empty, there were still enough neighbors home, awake, and sober to hear the screams and call 911. The police found Laurie unresponsive, but she regained consciousness in the hospital a few hours later. Her statement, when she could make one, was rational enough, but it didn't explain any of the strangest things they found in the apartment.

In the bedroom they discovered a digital camera had been set up, and on the floor around the bed it appeared the intruder had crudely painted a circle with a crisscrossing star pattern in it. "One of those, what do you call them, pentagrams," said one of the responding officers. "The kind those Satanists use."

"Think so?" said another one.

"Of course. It's Halloween, so one of those nutso devil worshipers broke in here and planned to murder this poor girl as a ritual sacrifice. Then he was going to tape the whole thing and sell it to perverts on the Internet. You know: a snuff video."

"Oh, yeah, I heard of those."

"Sick fuckers like this do that kind of stuff all the time," the cop said. "I tell you, it's a shame what's happening to this country."

"I don't know," said another cop. "Have you ever actually heard of devil worshipers killing anyone? Not just a story, I mean, but ever picked up the paper and seen that in there, with names and photos, or talked to another cop who worked the case? And I always heard that nobody ever really finds any snuff tapes whenever they try."

"But everybody knows that kind of thing happens," the first officer insisted. "That kind of shit happens all the time. I mean, just look at this mess here. It all makes sense."

Even the skeptic was forced to agree. Except a few things still didn't make sense: Why the suspect had apparently run out of the apartment and left all his clothes behind rather than finish the deed, for example. And how an apparently naked stranger had been able to flee down thirteen floors and out into the night without anyone seeing such a thing remained a mystery as well. Neither could anybody explain why the attacker had apparently dressed himself in clothes from the victim's own closet.

In fact, all the evidence left turned out to be things from the apartment: The knife (a harmless prop, upon closer inspection, part of a disused Halloween costume) belonged to the victim's roommate. The pentagram was drawn with nail polish from the bathroom medicine cabinet.

"It's a crazy world," was all that the talkative cop concluded.

As the night wound down, Dora was looking at the police tape over the door with a bright, brittle grin. Jill moped nearby.

"I still say that was mean," said Jill. "You shouldn't have put all that gross stuff in the bedroom, nor done that thing with the clothes. You could have really hurt that girl..."

"Yeah, but she's fine. And she was SCARED."

"It wasn't any scarier than the normal stuff we do."

"But nobody believes all that stuff. Everybody think it's just stories; all made up, like the other ones. This story people will believe—and it's actually true."

"Well, sort of," said Jill. She made some of Laurie's other shoes walk a few feet by themselves again, and then made another pair of pants float up and join them for a few steps more. It was an easy trick. Both ghosts yawned as the sun came up, and dragged their chains back down to the basement.

"What do you want to do tomorrow night?" said Dora.

"I don't know," said Jill. She paused. "Hey, did you ever hear the one about the guy who wakes up in the bathtub full of ice and—"

"You told that one already," said Dora.

"Oh," said Jill.

Another pause. "But...you could tell it again."

"You want me to?"

"Might as well," Dora said. "It's not like anything scary is going to happen around here."