In Your Dreams

Jessie woke up in a mess. The sheets had been pushed to the side and her t-shirt was wrinkled up above her naked breasts. The cool night air was welcome on her warm sweaty skin but that was not what had awakened her. The dream was so realistic that her panties were damp. This was not the first time that she woke up like this. It started about a week ago and had happened every night. Before that, Jessie could not recall ever having an erotic dream. The alarm clock glowed, 2:48, in red against the blackness and Jessie threw her head back against the pillow in exasperation.

"I really gotta find a man," she sighed to herself.

She laid there, recalling the dream, when things suddenly changed. She felt a cool hand glide along her stomach up to her breast. She bolted up and focused her eyes but nobody was there. That was the end of the sleep she would get for the night. She tried to convince herself that she imagined it but it was just too real. She was scared and she didn't get scared. She was always in control but she didn't know how to control this. Jessie didn't believe in ghosts. She didn't disbelieve either. It hadn't seemed important till now. The difficulty wasn't the concept, but the belief. In her mind, faith and trust were synonymous with betrayal. She drank coffee until it was time to go to work. She was afraid to go back to that bed.

Jessie liked her job but she felt she had hit that glass ceiling. She had enough money that she didn't need to work and she had tried that for a while but got bored. She is an advertising exec and had pursued her career with undaunted ambition. Nothing was more important to her but she often remembered her younger, simpler life and wondered if she had taken a different path. She had all but given up on her youthful dreams of a family of her own. There was that one time that it was within her grasp but she had other priorities. Mostly, she didn't want to have a family like the one she was born into. The best day of her life was when her father died. If it wasn't for his insurance, she wouldn't have been able to go to college. She resented her mother almost as much for her silence when her father abused her.

She called her secretary into the office. She needed somebody else's opinion but she didn't have many friends she could talk to.

"Trish, this is gonna sound weird, but do you believe in ghosts?," she asked pensively.

Trish was confused at her boss's personal question. Jessie had never spoken to her about anything other than work.

"Ya, I guess so," she answered reluctantly.

Actually, Trish loved this kind of stuff. She had a whole library of books on the subject and has always considered herself to have psychic ability.

"Have you ever seen a ghost?," Jessie continued with more confidence.

"No, but I, sorta, felt them," Trish answered as she sat down on the opposite side of the desk.

"What do they feel like?," Jessie pounced

"Well, it's like they have something incomplete, like they didn't finish something in their life."

"But have you, actually, ever been touched by one"?

"Ya, it was kinda like a cold breeze that went right through me."

"Through you," Jessie repeated as if relieved.

"What happened," Trish asked as she began to clue in.

"It was probably just a dream."

"Was it a good dream or a bad dream?," Trish asked coyly.

"I don't know," Jessie answered, "It was just a dream."

Trish realized that life had gone back to normal and excused herself to leave.

"She really needs to get a man," she thought to herself as she went back to her desk, "Life's a bitch and so's the boss."

That night, Jessie had quite a bit more wine than usual before she went to bed. It didn't help. Again, she was awoken with her pussy on fire and her nipples hard. She waited a while to make sure she was completely alone and, in that time, decided she was being silly. Still, though, her body was aching for satisfaction and she slid her hand under her panties to finish the job. As her finger rubbed against her swollen clit, she felt her panties being tugged down to her knees as her legs were pushed together.

"You like that, you sick bastard," Jessie yelled into the air, "You getting a good look"?

Suddenly, her ankles were lifted and the panties flew off. Jessie was more angry than scared. She's been through this before in her lifetime but, back then, he had a face. She felt just as helpless now and she didn't want to surrender without a fight but there was nothing to hit. She, sure as hell, wasn't going to let her see her cry, even if she remembered how.

"C'mon you bastard. You want some of this? Doesn't your little prick work unless we struggle. Fuck you. Fuck me."

She spread her legs and stared up to the ceiling. Agonizing seconds went by before she felt a touch. It was gentle and, in some way, caring. The touch wasn't sexual as much as affectionate and if it could be translated into words, it would say, "Shh, baby. Don't cry." Slowly, the tender caresses began to grasp and kisses as soft as butterfly wings fluttered on her skin.

"Shit," she thought, "What kind of rapist would go down first."

If nothing else, Jessie knew it wasn't the ghost of her father. This was just too weird for her and she pinched herself to check if she was really awake. Probably, all she had to say was, "Stop" or "No," but the words never left her mouth. She didn't want to enjoy it but she couldn't help it. It was like trying not to laugh when tickled. She couldn't tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began. She even had to admire this faceless spectre for his skill. It just kept going at it and never lifted it's head from it's business. This was no cold breeze. It was a hot flood.

She screamed, "No, Not now," as she felt it rise from deep inside and , then, the flood gates opened.

That was it. He, or it, had gone an she was left wondering if she had gone insane. She knew one thing and that was she hadn't had enough to drink. She had to laugh at her predicament. She imagined reporting the incident to the police. Then, she imagined being locked up in a padded cell.

Jessie took the next day off work and arranged to see a psychiatrist. She, also, reserved a hotel room. When she did go back to work, she called Trish back into the office.

"So, how much do you know about ghosts"?

"I've read a lot," Trish answered plainly, "What's going on?"

Jessie tried to talk but the words stuck in her throat.

"It's okay," Trish cut in, "I know somebody you can talk to."

Trish went to her desk and returned with a paperback book called "Spiritual ..." something or other and a piece of paper with a phone number.

"He's a friend of mine," Trish offered, "And he really knows what he's talking about."

Jessie glanced through the book but found it silly. She still couldn't bring herself to believe and always thought that those who did were idiots. She was a pragmatist and a scientist at heart but the fundamental philosophy of science is to be open minded. So, that night in the hotel room, she made a phone call. She had nothing else to lose.

Ernest Erikson looked exactly as she anticipated. He was a freak. He had long hair, a beard and round glasses but he seemed nice enough. It only cost her a dinner to talk to him and she had no trouble opening up with him. It wasn't likely that she would ever see him again. Still, she stopped short of incriminating herself. He had that way of answering a question with a riddle which is supposed to make him look intelligent. Jessie didn't fall for it and told him so. After that, it got better. He really didn't know anything about ghosts but he had an interesting philosophy.

"Everything that you can see or feel or know is false. Reality is just a persistent delusion. The light of day reflects abstraction and the dark of night shrouds the truth."

That sounded like poetic bullshit to Jessie too, at first, but he was serious and she started to think about it. Since her world had been turned upside down, an answer that was inside out seemed to make sense. She got out of there not knowing anything more but, at least, she knew that she didn't know anything. She was determined to learn the unknowable.

She checked out of the hotel and went back home. She sat in bed, with all her clothes still on, and challenged the ghost to return. She waited in vain for hours, debating her sanity versus her reality. Then, she remembered.

"The dark of night shrouds the truth."

She turned off the lights and returned to bed.

"What the hell," she thought and stripped down to her underwear. For some reason, she had chosen to wear a lacy black bra and panties that day, which could, more accurately, be described as lingerie.

It wasn't much more than a breeze, but the breeze blew her hair back and kissed her on the neck.

"What the fuck do you want?," she yelled into the darkness, "Who are you?."

She felt her hand get cold. The tiny hairs on her arm stood up and a chill went up to her neck. Her head tingled as if it were charged with static. It was just a touch but, like a picture, a touch can say a thousand words.

"Is that it? You want me to love you? Jeez, did you ever pick the wrong woman."

She remembered that she was in love once. She was capable of love. She even married the jerk but it ended badly, especially for him. "Any idiot can fall in love," was her philosophy, "just don't let it get in the way."

"If you want me to love you, make me an offer," she countered, "Let me warn you, I'm not cheap. It'll cost you."

If it takes honesty to dissuade a ghost, then let it see a heart colder than it's own. It wasn't really cold though. It was armoured and protected. Even when it beat strongly, it was still contained.

She felt him on her lips but she did not pull back. She kissed him back. If there had been something to hold on to, she would have. The next thing she knew, she was lying on her back being fondled. She didn't just feel it, she saw invisible fingers pressing into her flesh and her breasts moved from unseen forces. She didn't just resign herself to the situation, she volunteered.

Before long, Jessie was naked to the night and welcoming it inside. Gentleness had gone and passion had taken it's place. The unseen spirit had a selfish side. It took what it wanted forcefully and violently. This was something that Jessie could relate to. The mattress compressed and bounced under her and she felt useless with nothing to hold on to. Jessie could feel it's presence pounding into her but she could not touch it. She prided herself on her sexual prowess but, now, she felt like a virgin, to misquote Madonna. She could only accept what he had to offer and she did so willingly.

He wasn't cold anymore. It was as if her heat had transferred to him. As if he absorbed her energy to manifest himself. The hotter she got, the stronger he became and when she reached climax, so did he. It seems gross , but she wondered what kind of ectoplasmic goo was inside of her. He hadn't left, she felt the weight of his arm pressed against her and his hand moving from her thigh to her damp pussy.

"Shit," she exclaimed as she jumped out of bed, "It's you. It can't be. You're dead. I killed you."

She knew it was John, her late husband. Who else would do that? He had always haunted her memories and, now, he haunted her bed. They were married for two years when he met his death. Actually, he married his death but it just took a while. He was wealthy and well insured. When the opportunity came, and he was perched on the edge of a cliff on one of the hiking expeditions they both enjoyed, she couldn't resist.

It was such a shame because she really did love him. Not at first, but she grew to love him. She even learned to enjoy sex for the first time in her life. He was a good man. It wasn't fair that he happened to be rich, as well. It never was the plan. The plan was to divorce him after a couple years but she lost the will to do that. She had learned about happiness, or had it within her reach, but she was still a scorpion on the back of a swan. It was her nature.

Over time, even nature evolves. Many years of festering guilt can change a person. It took years to form Jessie into what she was and it took many more to undo even a portion of that. Unfortunately, she could never live long enough to undo that one moment.

"I'm so sorry. I don't know why I did it," she pleaded, "I really loved you. I didn't want to. I didn't know how to. I didn't deserve you."

"You were there and I saw a way out. It was instinct. I didn't even think."

She was talking to the air. The sun had come up and that reality had retreated to the shadows. You would think she would have a better excuse after all these years. She had been rehearsing but she never expected to say it out loud. For days, she had hardly any sleep and she was getting groggy but, still, far too anxious for sleep. She shouldn't have bothered to go to work that morning but she thought it would be a diversion. It wasn't. She neglected her morning ritual of lipstick and eyelashes and a dozen other tricks that seemed pointless. She shut herself in her office and would not see anyone. Mostly, she just stared at a picture on her desk. It was the last picture taken of her smiling sincerely. She kept it there so that other people could see that she had been married once. She preferred being thought of as sad rather than pathetic. The truth is that nobody really knew her and, because of that, thought she was aloof. Beyond that, nobody cared. Who has time for mysteries anymore?

The day had been just a waking dream. Jessie had to know if he had forgiven her. She waited, impatiently, for darkness and when it came, she forced herself to breathe as if she had forgotten how. She left the balcony window open to welcome the night and sat in silence, searching for a sign of his presence. She didn't expect what she saw. It was like a puff of smoke and, for a while, she thought it was from her own cigarette. It didn't reflect the light. It glowed with a light of its own.

"John, is that you?"

She didn't need an answer. She followed him to the balcony and when he dissipated into the air, she reached over the edge to touch him. Now that she got him back, she didn't want to let go. It takes a long time to fall fourteen floors to the ground but, in that time, she never lost her smile. The happiness that she couldn't find in life, she found in death. Scorpions can't fly, either.