Rick's Ghost

I'm submitting this for the "Halloween 2019" contest. Please vote and thanks for reading.

The news was as shocking as it was tragic. Rick Klasman was dead. Brilliant, ambitious Rick, college engineering major and no doubt future NASA engineer, blew his head off while testing one of his homemade rockets. We learned later that two of his buddies had witnessed it, had seen Rick look down the barrel of his invention and...bam! The thing went off and took Rick's head with it. Some speculated that the humid weather that Saturday afternoon in the fall of 1970 was to blame. Others blamed Rick himself. He got careless, they said, too full of himself. Whatever the reason, he was gone, leaving his parents without a son and his two younger sisters without a brother.

His accident has haunted me ever since for a couple reasons. Rick was so young, only twenty, and it happened on Halloween of all days. I was in high school at the time, obsessed with the genre of horror, from the macabre stories of Edgar Allan Poe, to movies such as House on Haunted Hill and Frankenstein. On camping trips with neighborhood friends, I'd make up horror stories to scare us as we sat around the campfire. We all knew about Rick Klasman. Subsequent to his death, I'd conjure up tales of Rick carrying his head through the neighborhood asking 'why, why me? Why did I have to die so young?'

We watch scary movies and read scary stories because it's fun to be scared—so long as we can crawl back into our safe havens and carry on with life unscathed. The Rick Klasman stories scared the shit out of us because we knew him and lived nearby. My family lived across the alley from the Klasmans, and I had a vivid picture of Rick carrying that big head of his through the alley fully intact, from his curly, dirty blond hair to his blue eyes. I pictured blood sprouting from his neck, leaving a trail of crimson in his wake, while his detached head howled at the cruel injustice of his tragic fate.

I got a scolding when a friend's dad complained to my dad that my Rick stories had scared his son Jeff to the point where Jeff had trouble sleeping at night, especially around Halloween. "Have you no sense of decency, Mike?" my dad lectured. "Rick's parents will be in mourning for the rest of their lives. Show some respect."

My stories weren't meant to be disrespectful. As noted, horror can be fun (although Jeff didn't think so), so long as there's no reality to it. Telling those stories was my way of coping with the scope of the Klasman's tragedy and my own sense of outrage. A kid not much older than me had blown his head off, senselessly, it seemed to me. If only Rick had been more careful. If only it hadn't been humid that day (if the weather had even been a factor in the first place; I had my doubts). If only it had rained that day, thereby forcing Rick to postpone the launch. If only...

In time, these stories of mine got back to Lisa, the older of Rick's two sisters. She was blond and cute and, like Rick, very smart. We were a year apart, Lisa being a year older. Before Rick's accident, we didn't have much contact. I'd see her in passing when me and my friends visited Rick to admire his chemistry set and the model planes and ships he built as a hobby. Rick mentored us in sports as well, and many a weekend afternoon found us on the Klasman's big lawn, with Rick teaching us the finer points of football, the proper way to kick and throw the pigskin. Then came Rick's horrible accident, then my horror stories, which I kept telling in the years that followed.

One day, when Lisa and I were both in college (we attended different schools), she confronted me in the alley that bisected our backyards (but not directly, more like catty-corner). It was late October. I was raking leaves and Lisa was walking her poodle. In all the years I knew Rick, Lisa and I rarely conversed. Hi and goodbye was about it. But on this day, she had plenty to say. "You know, Mike Ingram, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," she began.

Rake in hand, and wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, I stood there bewildered, not knowing then what the hell she was talking about. "Ashamed for what? What did I do?"

She stood there in gray slacks and a green pullover sweater, holding her pooch's leash in one hand, while wagging her finger at me with the other. "You've been exploiting my brother's death by telling gruesome stories, that's what."

I didn't ask how she knew—our neighborhood had an active grapevine. "I didn't mean to cause any harm," I said, then went on to explain how Rick's accident had haunted me and how much I missed him. "Your brother was a great guy. He left us much too soon."

She shot me a condescending look. "Nobody knows that more than us, Mike. Me, my sister Lori and most of all our parents. We live under a dark cloud every day. Rick and I were very close. I miss him terribly." She blinked back a tear.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Believe me, Lisa, I didn't mean to cause you or your family any additional pain."

"Okay, but you did," she insisted, "you did." Her blue eyes bore into me for a few moments. Then: "Where do you come up with this stuff—Rick carrying his decapitated head..." She couldn't finish. I shrugged. "You've got one perverted imagination, it seems to me," she continued.

I couldn't disagree with her. And even if I did, I wasn't going to argue; she'd been through enough. Again, I apologized, told her the horror stories about Rick would cease.

"That's great, Mike," she said, "but just remember this. Truth is stranger than fiction."

I'd heard that too, but couldn't fathom what it had to do with Rick. Curiously, I looked at her, her pale skin, her blue eyes, her silky, shoulder-length blond hair that curled at the ends. She followed her truth and fiction statement with a devious, baleful kind of smile, one an antagonist might flash in some horror flick. "What sort of truth are you talking about?" I asked.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know," she taunted, tugging at the leash to keep her pooch in place. "My horror stories about Rick are a lot scarier than yours will ever be. And you know why?" I shook my head. "Because they're true, that's why."

Now I was really curious, and asked that she tell one of them. "I'll do you one better," she said, "I'll show you."

"Show me?"

"Yes. As you know, Rick was killed on Halloween. My family visits his grave once a year, usually in the spring. Me, I actually go twice, once with them and once alone. At night. Halloween night."

I swallowed hard. "Okay. And?"

"Well, Halloween is two nights away. Care to join me?"

She held that devilish smile as I tried to figure her out. She talked like her Halloween visits to Rick's grave were far from an ordinary visit from a grieving family member. I asked for more details. Then she said, "That would spoil the fun. Join me and you'll see."

*****

I couldn't resist her offer. This should be good, I thought. Or bad. Depending. So, while trick-or-treaters begged for sugary treats, and others soaped up car windows (and worse), I stepped into Lisa's light blue, '75 Chevy Caprice (her dad's car, actually) for the six-mile drive to Ruxton Ridge Cemetery. No, it wasn't a dark and stormy night. It was dark, all right, but hardly stormy. In fact, it was typical invigorating fall weather: comfortably nippy with the fresh smell of fallen leaves in the air. I hadn't said a word to anyone where I was going and neither had Lisa, who had told her folks that we were going out for "a bite to eat."

On the way over, I tried to pry from her some idea of what to expect. "You'll find out," she said, followed by that sinister smirk. Moments later, in a sarcastic tone, she added this: "Don't tell me you're scared, not a big strong guy like you."

I played fullback for my college football team. At six-foot-two and two-twenty, I dwarfed the petit Lisa, who stood perhaps a foot shorter and weighed at least a hundred pounds less. "Hardly, just curious," I said. I left out anxious, though I figured she sensed it.

Lisa steered the big Caprice along the narrow, serpentine roads of Ruxton Ridge, passing all the grave sites until she got to her family plot, marked by a huge headstone: KLASMAN. Her relatives were buried here, including Rick, of course.

When we alighted from the car, I read his headstone: RICK KLASMAN 1950-1970. Beloved son and brother. You will always live in our hearts.

I stood while Lisa kneeled down and touched his headstone. She sniffled and shook her head sorrowfully while sliding her fingers over the rough granite surface. "We were close, very close" she said to me without looking up.

"I know, I'm sorry," I said, becoming uncomfortable bearing witness to Lisa's grief, while still confused as to why she wanted me along.

Moments later, she stood up and faced me. "You're sorry? Is that why you make up irreverent stories about him, Mike? I bet right now you're picturing my beloved brother carrying his bloody head across this cemetery, aren't you?" she snarled. Hands on hips, her normally cute face contorted into an ugly grimace. She stood just inches from my face, staring me down.

"Whoa there, Lisa," I said, taking a few steps back. "You've got this all wrong. As I said, those stories were meant to help me cope with what happened. I never intended to make light of it." After a moment of tense silence, I said, "So is this why you called me out here, to scold and berate me at Rick's gravesite? If so, that's pretty sick in itself."

Her scowl morphed into another fiendish grin. Then, without saying a word, she stepped around to the trunk of her car and pulled out a long-handled ax. Uh oh. Even in the dark, I could see the sharp blade, red with a silver tip. She stared at me from a couple yards away, her face a picture of sinister intent. "Yeah, well, I've been awfully SICK with grief ever since Rick's accident. And then when I heard those SSSSICK stories of yours, I began to make up stories of my own. But unlike you, I kept them to myself. You see, Mike, I knew that only you could appreciate them. Only you could picture what you saw Rick doing, carrying your bloody head in your arms, yelling and screaming in the hope that someone would listen to how you became decapitated. Sound like a story, Mike Ingram? One you might like to tell your buddies?" She chopped at her hand with the dull end of the blade.

I stood there thinking that this chick had either gone off the deep end or was acting out some sort of bizarre joke. What to do? Fight, flight or stay put? I wasn't sure. Clearly, she was angry. But would she attempt to go through with what she was threatening? If only cell phones had existed then.

Still chopping at her hand, she began to inch toward me. "Mike, ever wonder if the human brain is capable of feeling or thinking after the head is severed from the body? Some people think so, you know. Think of all those heads during the era when the guillotine was used to execute people. Think what must have gone through those people's severed heads. Better yet, think of what Rick's final thoughts might have been as his head lay on the ground. Grist for one of your stories, Mike. Or, if you believe in ghosts, as I do, then what Rick might be thinking now watching this play out, watching his kid sister seek retribution for your insensitivity."

I backed up as she inched forward. "Lisa, this has gone far enough. You made your point. Now put that ax away and let's get outta here."

"You're not scared, are you?" she hissed. "A big strong football player like you. Where's your sense of fun, of adventure?"

I clung to the car, using it as a buffer, inching my way around it as she inched toward me. "Lisa, put that ax away," I repeated. "You don't want to do this."

"Actually, I do," she countered, and took one swing of the weapon over the roof of the car. "You underestimate me, ya big coward."

She picked up her pace and I followed, keeping the car between us. Sure, I was bigger and stronger and faster. But she wielded that ax like a real pro, like she might have practiced for hours in preparation for Halloween. What the hell should I do? Running off into the night, screaming for help, didn't appeal to me. It would have made me feel cowardly, would have confirmed what she had just called me. Plus, I felt confident I could keep my distance. In time, she'd wear herself out. Lisa wasn't known for her athleticism. Plus, while I wore sneakers, she wore loafers.

We kept circling the car, with Lisa spewing more vitriol and swinging her ax, while I kept trying to calm her down. I knew she'd never catch me with the creepy-crawly pace she maintained around the car. My stress level actually decreased as the minutes passed, because I felt confident that she'd eventually give up. In fact, she was slowing down and almost came to a complete stop. She was in front of the grille, while I had backed up to the rear quarter panel. Then, as if shot from a cannon, she sped up, caught me totally by surprise. Reacting with a quick backpedal, I ran right into the curb in front of the gravesite, then went down hard on my butt. Next thing I knew, she was right there, wielding the ax over her head. I threw my arm up in response. Her mouth twisted into a snarl. There was fury in her eyes as she spewed forth a guttural laugh, said something about what "goes around, comes around."

"Lisa, please don't do—″

"Shut up, Mike. Just shut the fuck up and listen to me."

"Okay," I said, stiff-arming the air between us.

"Rick was so dear to me, dearer to me than you know, than anyone knows, my family included." She slowly lowered the axe; her tears began to flow. "You and your horrible stories...they were so disrespectful."

"I'm sor—″

"Stop it, stop your stupid, phony apologies!" she barked, raising the ax once again. "They don't mean shit!" Still on the ground, I slid back a couple inches, keeping my arm up.

"You just can't imagine how close we were," she continued. "I've been coming here every Halloween night since Rick was killed. And do you know why?" Thinking it better I kept silent, I merely shook my head. 'Okay, I'll show you."

She threw the ax down. Then she stepped forward and lowered herself onto Rick's gravestone. I stood up and watched, watched her tuck her hands under her blouse and sweater and begin to massage her breasts. Her face streaked with tears, she began to tell me how close she and Rick had become the final year of his life. "We were more than siblings, Mike, we were lovers. Nobody knew, nobody still knows except you." She began to take deep breaths. "I told you I believe in ghosts. When I come here, I feel Rick's presence around me and through me. I can smell him and taste him. Can even hear his voice. I feel his lips all over me, kissing me, sucking on my breasts, licking my tummy, licking my pussy. I feel him making love to me, feel his throbbing cock stabbing in and out of my throbbing cunt. He was a fantastic lover." She unsnapped her jeans and slid her hands inside her blue panties. "Oh my," she whispered. "Yes, yes! Oh Rick, just like that. Ohmygod! I love you."

I stood there transfixed by this tragic, pathetic site of a bereaved girl who appeared to be schizophrenic. Either that or she was one hell of an actress. Holding out my hand, I said, "Lisa, maybe it's time we head for home. Come on, I'll drive you back."

She closed her eyes, ignored me and continued on, churning her fingers inside her panties, massaging her breasts, moaning and groaning and calling Rick's name. My emotions felt like ping-pong balls inside a lottery bin, colliding with one another. Her tragic state brought me close to tears, yet I was getting aroused watching her masturbate. At that moment, I actually believed that she imagined herself making love to Rick's ghost. I was in a dilemma, debating whether to force her to stop or allow her to continue her indulgence.

My debate didn't last long, for moments later, she climaxed, throwing back her head and then letting out a piercing scream that anyone within a couple hundred yards could have heard. She lowered her head, then slumped to the ground, keeping her back against Rick's headstone. She looked up at me in a relaxed smile. "So now you know why I come here," she said. "Put THAT in your stories."

I shook my head. "They'll be no more stories, Lisa. We should leave now."

"I'm not ready to leave," she said, and then sat back on the headstone. "Come here."

"Lisa—″

"Come over here," she demanded. "Don't worry, I'm done with the ax." When I stepped forward, she reached up and felt my crotch over my tan corduroy pants. "Just as I thought," she said. "It turned you on, didn't it?" She grinned triumphant.

I couldn't deny it; my boner spoke for itself. Even so, I again suggested we leave.

She ignored it. Instead, she pulled up her blouse and sweater. She wore no bra—no surprise, for I had seen her lovely boobs bouncing beneath her clothing as she chased me around the car. "You like?" Then she unsnapped her jeans. "Wanna fuck me, Mike?" I shook my head no. In a taunting tone, she said, "Yes you do, you know you do. Come on, we'll fuck right here on Rick's grave. Rick won't mind, will you Rick?" She looked toward the dark heavens as if to gain his approval.

She began to slide her jeans down her legs. Her plump white thighs came into view, then her dimpled knees, then her shapely calves. She kicked off her loafers. "Rick loved to take down my panties. How about you?" She again looked skyward. "Rick said it was okay."

"Lisa, Rick isn't..." I was going to say 'Rick isn't here,' then realized he was here, in one form or another.

She kept taunting me. "Well, are we going to get down?" She opened and closed her legs in a flapping motion, slow and teasing, erotic as hell. "It's Halloween, Mike. Get with the program. Trick or treat. I'm the trick AND the treat." She pulled her sweater over her head and threw it on the ground. She then opened her blouse, threw her chest out and cupped her hands under her boobs. "Bet you can't suck my nipples the way Rick did. But I'll let you try. Come on, Mike, take down my panties already. Rick loved doing it, so will you. Step closer and smell me. Rick would always tell me how nice I smelled. Like 'honey and 'lilacs,' he'd say."

I stood there and gawked, feeling shame, not for Lisa but for me for considering her outrageous proposal. She was damn cute, damn cute with a luscious body to boot. And there was something else—the sharp contrast between her angelic-like face and her dominatrix affect. That aroused me also. It surprised me because S&M was never my thing. Yet somehow it was working now, arousing me, propelling me to do something I knew was wrong, if not criminal given the situation. Damn cute Lisa might have been, but she also appeared damn sick. This girl needed psychiatric help, perhaps even confinement for a spell. Or, maybe not. What did I know? I was a college student, not a mental health professional. Perhaps there was a method to her "madness."

I felt stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place, the hard place being my cock, hard and getting harder. The classic battle between head and heart—head and cock in this case—raged inside me. "Okay, Mike," she said with a sigh, "if you won't take down my panties, I guess I'll have to."

Lisa wasn't bluffing. She tucked her hands inside her panties, then began to slide them down her legs, slowly, teasingly, watching me watching her and grinning. "My pussy's still wet, you know," she said. She tucked a finger inside, pulled it out, then licked it. She thrust her juiced index finger at me. "Mmm, so good. Taste me, Mike, taste me. I'm sweet, sweeter than candy. After all, it's Halloween." She opened her legs, wider this time. "In the mood for—what do you guys call it? —sloppy seconds?"