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The attack was quick and fierce, as Abel felt himself being torn apart bit by bit. Must have been the weed was his last thoughts, “I’ve got to be dreaming.” He said out loud. At least he thought he said it out loud.
Victim: Cohen, Cassandra, Case #Co187793rh930
The house had been in the family for over a century, but Cassandra Cohen had never appreciated it the way her parents and grandparents had. Her great-grandfather had loved the house so much that he wouldn’t allow the doctors to take him anywhere, and his life ended painfully. Their forefathers had been French, and they had mixed their blood with the local Indian tribes. The family had made money along the way, old money, made in ways that no one could remember. Some later generations had claimed that there was piracy involved, others claimed that the money had come from slavery. In any case the money had always been there, and so had the huge house. There were rooms that Cassandra hadn’t visited in years. At 34, she was the sole heir to the house and all the money, and she had no lover, husband, or children. Each guy she had met had fallen woefully short of her expectations. Two had made marriage proposals, and that had seemed to seal their doom with her. She never saw them again.
Cassandra never had any reason to work, but she had chosen a career in paranormal psychology. There was something about unexplained occurrences that seemed to get her excited. That was the only reason she bothered to stay in the house. She had contemplated moving into an apartment or just globe trotting for a couple of years, but something always drew her home.
The house was haunted by every stretch of the imagination. Abhorations, poltergeists, high frequency sounds, olfactory emulations, you name it this place had it. It was like living in your own private laboratory. What was even better, was that neighbors (especially kids) tended to leave her alone. Cassandra had never had a problem with the house. An occasional angry spirit came through, but she found that ignoring them tended to make them go away. Every once in awhile a brave or stupid teenager would try and break into the house, and rarely were they disappointed. Offers had been made by several television stations and non-profit groups requesting rights to film the events inside the home. Cassandra had turned them all down. This was her place, and since money wasn’t an issue; she saw no reason to exploit the hauntings.
It was tougher on her when she was younger. The spirits had scared her back then, but they were just trying to get her attention. Sometimes they wanted to talk, other times they wanted to see if they could disturb her. There were even times when they wanted to see if they could make her laugh. The funniest had come during her prom night her senior year of high school. Her date had brought her back to the house and managed to slip his way up into her bedroom. She had wanted it too that night, but allowed him to think he had smooth talked her out of her clothes. Half way through the dirty deed, one of her lovely little spirit friends had actually blew a raspberry zerbert right on his left but cheek, then floated a candle through the air.
Cassandra had always thought that a man couldn’t urinate with an erection, apparently that wasn’t quite correct. The boy left tread marks when he flew out of the driveway. The offending spirit could not stop its haunted laughing for several hours, until Cassandra had gotten angry and bored of its humor. She rarely ever brought strange men back to the house for any sexual adventures. They had to be acclimated to the house and its ethereal inhabitants, and they to any man. It was amazing how frustrating it could be to start the act of sex and have it interrupted frequently and freakishly on a reoccurring basis. Cassandra was sure that she understood what it was like to have a toddler in the house interrupting the same act. Only a child didn’t tend to scare most men, not the same way ghosts did.
She also wasn’t sure if masturbation also counted as exhibitionism with all the eyes that could be watching her from so many different planes of existence. When it came to be that time when she couldn’t hold back any longer, she found she didn’t care if they watched or not. In fact, it was kind of a turn on. It had been a long time even since she had managed to find the desire to pleasure herself.
Cassandra opened up the windows and left the doors unlocked. No one ever dreamed of breaking into her house, and the house had ways of protecting itself and her she believed. She always slept peacefully no matter what storm surrounded her, neither atmospheric or criminal.
When she woke up that particular morning, she threw on a light silk robe, with nothing on underneath and went down the curving staircase to put on a pot of coffee. The cleaning lady had been there the day before, and the sink and features sparkled. The cleaning lady was an old Jamaican woman, that Cassandra figured was also some Voodoo priestess. Cassandra didn’t care, as the house always smelled and looked clean by the time the middle aged woman was done. Occasionally the scent of burnt sweet grass would follow the lady around, and the house spirits seemed to enjoy her company.
The coffee beans smelled so good she bathed herself in their aroma. Nothing ever smelled so good in the morning than fresh roasted coffee, well maybe bacon, but she ate that rarely. The coffee was hot, and the three teaspoons of sugar she added made it so sweet. It was the same way she liked her sun tea, overly sweet. She looked out her kitchen window and let the gentle breeze push her blonde hair around. The sun was coming up and was warm already on her skin. She jumped a little as a breeze ran across her bottom, right where the hemline ended. She turned to see what or who had brisked past her. But the room was empty. She closed her eyes and reached out with her other senses, trying to search for what had moved in the room. Nothing moved, and nothing was present as far as she could tell. Too much time studying the paranormal could make you believe that every twitch in the imagination was cause for examination, when in actuality it was just imagination. Still it behooved her to pay attention to the unexplained. It was her life’s work as it were.
The telephone rang, and disturbed her calm. She hated the telephone, it never brought good news and sometimes it was worse than bad news, it was telemarketers. If only the house spirits could answer the telephone and play with the telemarketers on the other end.
