Gull Cottage Horror

Iris traced the outline of a stiff rod trapped within Ian's pants. Overwhelmed with curiosity, she moved from kneeling over Ian's lap to kneeling on the floor in front of him. She unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his fly, and freed her new favorite toy. Blonde pubic hair reinforced the sense of strangeness and wonder building in Iris. The circumcised soldier twitched and saluted her attention. She was not a connoisseur of cocks, but her husband's always appealed, and Ian proved to be every bit her husband's equal.

Tentative strokes along Ian's shaft spread warmth from Iris' fingers to her groin. Her mind unlocked whatever compartment imprisoned lust and longing. The beast roared with gleeful freedom, and her body prepared for ravishment.

"You're going to make love to me now," she stated without doubt, "but remember where you left off with your hands. I expect you to resume there later."

"Yes-ma'am," he agreed.

Ian unbuttoned his flannel shirt as Iris wrapped two hands around his cock. A dozen or more ladybugs crawled out of his t-shirt onto his neck.

"What the hell?" He brushed and smacked at them. More crawled from the couch cushions.

Iris leaned away baffled. "Where are they coming from?"

Ian's neck and half his face vanished under a swarm of bugs. The crawled into his mouth and ears. Thousands teamed flapping tiny wings but not flying away. He jumped from the couch and jogged to the front door. On the stoop, he danced and swatted the harmless insects. Iris followed to smack them from his back and brush them from his hair.

Pretty red spotted corpses littered the path to the door, but new specimens swarmed out of the woods. A cloud of clumsy flying bugs crashed agains Ian's face. He spit out their bodies, but more crawled into his mouth, nose, and ears.

Iris saw the young man struggle to remain calm as irrational distress welled. Gestures grew frantic, and Iris stepped away in shock to avoid being hit. Only a handful of bugs landed on her. Most took flight toward Ian at the first opportunity.

"I've never seen anything like this," she commented with clinical detachment. Ian's penis, now limp, hid within his unzipped pants. Bugs crawled there too.

"Ah think ah'd better go," Ian pleaded with evident disappointment. He didn't wait for contradiction. He jogged past the topless older woman of his fantasies toward his truck.

"I'm sorry," Iris called as the engine fired and blue gray smoke spurted from the tail pipe. She shivered half naked in the crisp Fall air. Tears streaked her cheeks. Ladybugs struggled in vain pursuit of their target leaving the stoop almost clear again.

"What the fuck!" she cursed.

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Scene 7: Surgery

Iris located the trap door under the large throw rug in her bedroom. She sat on the floor with her back braced against a wall using her legs to shove the heavy four poster bed out of the way. Once she found time to look, it seemed obvious. The house's exposed wood floors provided few hiding places. When Iris saw the dingy old gun-metal lock, she expected the key fit.

She struggled for another half hour pulling the bed far enough for the door to clear. When it swung open, cold clammy air oozed from the void. A rickety ship's ladder descended into gloom. Another fifteen minutes vanished as Iris searched for a flash light. She needn't have bothered. As soon as her feet reached the bottom, a pull cord brushed her shoulder. The single bulb ceiling lamp illuminated a small rectangular space.

Leather bound books lay scattered on the floor in no apparent order. A four drawer file cabinet stood askew missing three drawers. Loose papers cluttered the room. An old fashion metal exam table with rusty legs dominated the center of the room. A simple wooden sign hung by two flimsy chains from the ceiling and read "Surgery."

A ghost of a chill settled on the young widow's spine. "What was Dr. Strong into?"

Iris bent and lifted a book at random. It contained hundreds of pages of indecipherable flowery script written right to left. Neat hand written block letters in the margins revealed some of the doctor's opinions. "False, Inaccurate, Stupid, and Wasteful" comprised the bulk of the notes. A page caught Iris' attention. The note said, "Compulsion," and it looked like he translated the entire section. Iris barely glanced at the writing before tossing the book aside.

Her feet crunched over yellowed papers until Iris reached the cabinet. The remaining drawer contained few items, but one practically slapped Iris across the face. A thick folder bore the label, "Iris Bloom," and she grabbed it with trembling hands.

Dim light and dank atmosphere in the subterranean "surgery" prompted Iris to ascend the ladder to her comfortable room. She navigated to the well lit kitchen and plopped onto a chair letting the folder smack against the table. A ladybug fled her wrath.

"Dearest Cassian," a letter began. "Thomas left, and we have the week to ourselves. Join me on the beach. I'll wear the dress." Another note stated, "I need you! Come tonight."

Iris hugged herself and squeezed her arms until they hurt. She read into the night eliminating all doubt. "My mother had an affair with Dr. Strong, and it lasted years." Her father had no idea, if the letters could be believed. "But why is my name - my married name - on the folder?" she wanted to know. Iris found a blurry photocopy of her birth certificate folded among the correspondence. She spread everything on the table. A scrawled note in her mother's hand asked, "What should I do?"

Iris read everything again. Her birth in May 1983 left little doubt. A letter dated September 1982 stated, "I took your advise and asked Thomas to come for a few days. He left happy and will believe it's his. I wish you were here instead."

"I'm Dr. Strong's daughter," Iris said aloud to test the sound of it.

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Scene 8: The Sheriff Looks for Ian

Snow showers started in the morning, and the temperature dropped. Iris leaned against the stove in her robe and waited for the kettle to boil. A loud knock at the front door shocked her out of a sleep deprived stupor.

"Just a minute," she called from the kitchen. She shoved the papers back into the folder and tightened the belt closing her robe. Her saunter to the door turned brisk when the rapping grew more insistent.

"I'm coming!" she snapped.

She flung the door open to behold a taller, thicker, older version of Ian dressed in a brown sheriff's uniform. "The Lawsons look good in uniforms," she thought remembering Ian's tight uniform pants.

"Ah, what can I do for you?" Iris inquired.

"May ah come in?"

"I guess."

"Ah'm looking for son. Is he here?"

"No, he left last night."

"Do you mind if ah look around?"

Iris was about to agree, but she remembered the open trap door in her bedroom. "I'd rather you didn't." She wasn't ready to reveal her discovery yet.

"Ah see." The sherif scowled. "What time did Ian leave?"

"We watched a DVD. It's still in the player, I think. It was probably 9:00. I didn't look at a clock."

"Did he leave on foot?"

"No. He took his truck."

"Then why is it pah-ked on the road at the end of you-ah driveway?"

"It isn't - is it?"

"Ah-huh. Did he say where he was going?"

"No. He left in a hurry."

"Why was that?"

"Um - ah - there were these bugs. He attracted them, and he just left."

"Bugs?"

"Yes! Bugs." Iris could tell the sheriff didn't believe her, and she didn't like the way he appraised her body either.

"Wasps? Bees? Where-ah did they come fah-rom?"

"I don't know," tired frustration leaked out. "They were in his shirt, I think. He brought them from outside, or they were in the couch or something. They were ladybugs."

"Ladybugs?"

"Yes."

"Ladybugs made him leave in a hurry." The sheriff's words weren't even a question.

"There were a lot of them," Iris shrugged her shoulders and pulled the robe tighter.

"Can ah look ah-round to see if Ian's here?"

The kettle whistled.

"He's not. I told you. If you don't mind, I didn't sleep well last night. I got some bad news. I'd like to go back to bed."

"Ah'm sad to he-ah that. What was the news?"

"It's about my mother - nothing to do with Ian."

"Ah see. Well, if you see or he-ah, tell him to call me or call me yah-self."

"I will. I promise."

Iris almost shoved the sheriff out her door and sprinted to take the kettle off the heat. Screaming kettles set nerves on end.

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Scene 9: Michael Powers

Snow fell all day, and wind howled by sunset. Iris managed a restful nap, but speculation about her mother with Dr. Strong kept her uneasy. "What about dad?" she worried. "Did he ever know? Mom always seemed happy with him, and he stayed with her to the end." Iris missed her father - well, the only father she knew.

"This place is becoming Grand Central Station," she cursed when another loud rapping on the front door interrupted her bowl of instant soup.

A dark haired man about her age stamped snow off his boots onto her stoop. Snow piled on the shoulders of his long coat. "I'm sorry, miss," he whined. "My car slid off the road and hit your truck. I can't get any bars out here. Can I use your phone to call a tow truck?"

"I don't have a truck," she claimed before remembering the sheriff's remarks about Ian's truck. "That's strange," she said to herself.

"Please, miss?"

"Yeah, OK. Take off your boots, so you don't track into my house. There's a phone on the wall in the kitchen."

Iris sat at the table and inhaled the aroma from her soup disliking the invasion of a stranger.

"There's no dial tone," her guest claimed.

She sighed and tried it herself. "The lines must be down in the storm. Let me get my phone from my bag." Iris extracted her old cell phone from the bottom her purse, but when she flipped it open, she had zero bars. "Huh. The storm must have hit the cell towers too."

"My name's Michael Powers." He extended a hand.

"Iris Bloom," she replied but ignored his offered shake.

"Does your car run at all?"

"The engine works, but I'll never get it out of the ditch."

Iris heaved a wary but resigned sigh. She looked out the window to the blizzard raging. This is a small town in Maine, she reminded herself. "I guess you can stay here until the storm lets up, or the phone works, or we can hike to the neighbors' in the morning."

"Thank you. I'd never survive the night without your help."

"Yeah. I'll make-up the couch for you. Want a bowl of soup?"

"Thank you. No. I ate a heavy meal in the village."

"Have a seat." She pointed to a chair at the table. "Tell me a bit about yourself. Are you from around here?" she stalled for time. The night promised to be a long, and sleep would not happen with a stranger in the house. She expressed silent gratitude for her earlier nap.

"I'm from Ohio, but my family vacations here most summers. I traveled to Boston for work and decided to drive up for a weekend. I didn't count on a blizzard in October."

"Where do you stay when you're here?"

"There's a bed and breakfast on Market Street, but sometimes we rent down in Blue Cove."

"Huh," Iris acknowledged and sipped her soup.

"This old Doc Strong's place."

Hair jumped on Iris' neck. "Did you know him?" she asked.

"By reputation. Does he have a secret room someplace - in this house?"

Blood drained from the widow's face. She wanted to escape but realized she couldn't stand. Remembering Ian's disastrous poker face, she sipped her soup again. Mumbled or subvocalized words penetrated into her consciousness. She recognized them and explained to herself, "I barely scanned the page, but I'm certain he's saying 'Compulsion'." She strained to remember the long passage, and it flashed in her mind's eye.

"Who are you really, Michael Powers?" she asked in a level voice.

"Do you even understand who you are?" he responded in a way suggesting he didn't expect a meaningful answer.

The soup got cold.

"I'm Cassian Strong's daughter."

"You know? That explains a few things."

"So, who are you? What are you?"

"Let's find the secret room first," he commanded, and Iris stumbled from her chair.

"What room?" she bluffed from her perch on the floor.

"We know you have the key. We waited for you to claim it. Give it to me now. Locks have a way of calling to keys," he claimed with a smirking glance to Iris's crotch.

"I don't have it. I don't remember where I put it," she replied with sincerity. "What's so important about the supposed room?"

"The doctor's research is valuable to some people."

Iris despaired realizing her guest wouldn't be so candid if she had any chance to foil his plans.

"Why didn't you just buy the cottage yourself? You'd already have the damn key by now."

"Ha! We tried - several times - using shell companies. The misguided lawyers remain loyal to your father. You're the only one permitted to purchase this land."

"Take what you want and leave me. I don't care about the research of a man I never met."

"Show me where it is, and we'll see," he commanded in a strange compelling voice.

Fighting every move, Iris clambered from the floor and stepped from the kitchen. She guided the invader to her bedroom as if it was her intent while screaming silent protest. When Michael spotted the open trap door, he exclaimed triumph, and forced her down the ladder.

"Get on the table," he suggested with irresistible authority, and Iris complied.

Cold metal drained heat from her body into the sinister examination table.

Michael pondered the room smiling broadly. "I'm a warlock," he bragged and brushed aside books and papers on the floor.

Iris tried to disbelieve. She lived a life of relative sanity until that moment, and she hated to part with a working life plan. "Don't fool yourself. It's true," she thought and searched her mind for a way to resist.

Michael worked his way around the table kicking and shoving aside debris revealing a golden pentagram inlaid in the floor.

Iris recited the words of 'Compulsion' silently in her head. It surprised her by remaining vivid in her mind.

"What do you want?" She tried to remain calm.

"I want to save the world." He smiled like a used car salesman.

"How?"

"Your father was an evil genius, and his research drove him mad. He attempted to raise a demon from Hell, and it took the combined effort of other warlocks to stop him."

Iris hoped she gained the upper hand in the 'Compulsion' game. "How?" she repeated.

"He used the beach house at the bottom of the bluff for his ritual. It worked, and the demon proved more than he could handle. The rest of us summoned a storm to destroy the the demon and your father."

"That storm wrecked half the town. People died."

"More would have died as the demon rampaged."

"My dad survived."

"He did - if you call it that. The demon took the better half of him."

They considered each other in silence for a time. Iris tried to move but remained invisibly bound. He mumbled, and she read from an imaginary page. It was desperately important she win the struggle. As the weight holding her dissipated, Iris gained confidence. She demanded more information.

"What does this have to do with me?" she asked.

"Your father sought revenge for our interference. He drove my family and the others into hiding. I was a boy, but I swore to resist him."

"What does this have to do with me?" she repeated and felt the compulsion bite into her rival.

"He can return by possessing a member of his line."

"He can possess me?" Iris slipped letting concern creep into her voice.

"No. You are an adult and too strong. He needs a child or a baby to overpower." Michael's mouth twisted as if his words tasted sour. He resisted the command to speak and lost. "He needs your child. You are the last of his line."

"Are you here to kill me?"

Michael's face contorted. "Yes. No. Not first." He smiled, and a new wave of fear splashed over Iris.

"Why didn't you kill me years ago?"

"You're hard to kill. You're Cassian Strong's daughter."

"I see, but you could kill my lovers to prevent a baby. You killed Ian, didn't you?"

Her assassin looked at the floor and his damp socks. He surged in strength resisting her will. A short curved knife appeared in his hand. In a flash, he cut away the buttons from the blouse she donned after her nap. He pressed the blade against her bare flesh but didn't draw blood.

"I will kill you tonight. There is no risk of a baby." He leered and cut away the drawstring of her long skirt before retreating to survey his handiwork.

Iris resorted to singing the words of 'Compulsion' aloud. Her voice boomed, and Michael lunged.

"Stop!" she screamed in an ear piercing wail.

Michael lowered the knife, and Iris sat upright on the table.

"Is Ian alive?"

"No."

"Did you kill Martin, too?"

Her puppet attempted to lie but failed and nodded. Iris sensed she hadn't found the whole truth, but burning anger started to interfere with her recitation of the 'Compulsion' chant. She hopped from the table holding her skirt with one hand and closing her blouse with the other.

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Scene 10: Return of the Man-boy

Iris and Micael struggled in their duel of wills. Her adversary remained strong, and escape promised the best outcome. Iris lost her skirt on the ladder when she needed a hand for balance and Michael flailed at her. He clawed at her panties dragging them halfway over her ass and scratching her upper thighs with his fingernails or the knife. She didn't dare pause to investigate.

At the top of the ladder, Iris pounced on the trap door to seal the invader in the surgery, but a sudden nagging dread informed her, "That is a bad idea." Maybe the books grant more power, or maybe my compulsion weakens through the a closed door. The decision made itself when her hesitation enabled Michael's scramble out of the hole.

Iris screamed, "Help!" but nobody heard. She kicked at Michael's hand, drawing blood and dislocating his finger, but he retained the wicked blade. He snagged her foot, knocking her back to the floor where she continued her struggle, inching away from him. Each scooch dragged the panties further down her thighs, and she lost track of the open blouse completely. Michael's animal glare terrified Iris.

The 'Compulsion' chant demanded attention. It kept the attacker at bay for the moment, but each time she willed him to stop advancing, he flailed and slashed trying to grab or cut. The new stalemate lingered until a shadow detached from the darkened hall and collapsed onto the warlock.

"Ian," she exclaimed disbelieving her eyes. Dried blood matted Ian's hair, and a vicious gash from the back of his neck to his mangled shoulder left one arm hanging limp.

With the break in Iris' concentration, Michael resisted and shoved the rescuer away like a rag doll. Ian crumpled on the threshold of the hall and didn't appear able to stand again. Michael's stride closed the gap to Ian in a blink. The knife glinted and plunged. Two shots echoed, deafening Iris and rocking the invader backward with the impacts.

A minute passed while Iris tried to make sense of the scene. Blood pooled on her bedroom floor. Michael twitched and moaned. A handgun slipped from Ian's hand as he lost consciousness.

"Die already," she rasped at Michael, and for once, he seemed unable to resist her command.

"Stay with me Ian. Don't die," she cried. His body felt like ice to her touch. The frozen blood on his clothes and in his hair thawed while Iris held pressure to the wounds she could see. "Don't die," she commanded.

Sheriff Lawson arrived with the dawn. Iris saw blue and white lights from his cruiser through a gap in the curtains. She couldn't tell if any life remained in Ian.