The Bleaker House Ghost

She stood there for a moment, chewing on her lip like she does when she's thinking real hard. Then she undid the top three buttons of her dress. "How's that, pervert?" she asked, scrunching up her cleavage so that it was practically popping out of her bra.

"Nice, but that ain't gonna cut it in Hollywood. You gonna walk around in your one good Sunday dress, pushing your tits up with your elbows all day?"

"You'll see," she said, buttoning up her dress again. "I'm leaving this damn hellhole, and I'm never coming back."

"I'll bet you in six months, you'll be crawling back here like a dog with its tail between its legs."

"What do you wanna bet?" she said, starting to pace back in forth in front of him. Cleave loved it when she did that. It reminded him of a spunky young filly, just itching to run.

"I'll bet you my truck. If you're gone for more than six months, I'll drive my truck out to L.A., park it in front of your house with the keys in it, and take the bus home."

"Why would I want your old piece-of-shit truck?"

"Don't matter, cause you ain't gonna get it. You're gonna lose this bet, which reminds me, what do I get when you lose? What are you willing to bet?"

"Don't matter," she said, sitting back down.

"Okay," Cleave said, cracking a wry smile, "if you lose the bet, you gotta prove to me that you're good in bed."

"Cleave!" she hissed, raising her hand again, "I swear..."

He leaned back in his chair so that he was out of range of her right cross. "Well?"

She sat there in her chair, fuming the way she did every time Cleave and her had a conversation that lasted more than two minutes. "Homer Halloway will tell you who's good in bed in this county," she said, marching off into the other room. "And by the way, don't leave a bunch of junk in the back of your truck when you park it in front of my house."

So, was it Cleave's fault that she lost the bet? And was it his fault that on her first Sunday back from L.A., when he decided to collect on the bet after church, and she told him to go jerk off behind the barn like he always did, he had to use the rope to calm her down? If she'd just been a proper lady about it, taking him upstairs to her room and getting undressed and settling the bet, she wouldn't be lying in a three-foot grave at the bottom of the ravine right now.

And if Miss Margaret only knew about how Lu Anne's rope got tangled up when he had to swing the gate shut when the bull got loose, forgetting that he'd tied the rope to that gate when he'd strung his sister up two days earlier, if she only knew all of this, she'd see him for what he was - just a red-blooded church-going American, trying to get some pussy without having to pay for it. He wasn't no damn murderer. Obviously, old Miss Margaret had been watching too many of them cop shows on TV, but he doubted he'd be able to convince her of that right now.

*****

Margaret took another step towards him. He backed up till he ran into the louvered door.

"So. What now, Cleave?"

"I promise, Miss Margaret, I swear, I was just..."

"Shut up, you lying sack of shit."

"Please, Miss Margaret?"

"On your hands on knees. Now!"

"Yes ma'am," he said, bowing in front of her.

"Face the chute, asshole!"

"Yes ma'am." He shuffled around so his head was dangling into the darkness of the abandoned laundry shaft.

"Now Cleave, I'm going stand here and think for a minute or two, so just relax." She stepped behind him, bracing her back foot against the door jamb for leverage. "You know, I really do like you, in spite of the fact that you raped your sister and then killed her. I like any guy who can give me ten orgasms in one night. So, what I have to think about is, would it be worthwhile to keep you around?" She aimed her foot at his ass. "Or should I just..." With a firm, quick shove, she sent him sprawling headfirst down the shaft.

"Nooo..."

His body thumped to the floor of the basement, making a sound like a watermelon display spilling at the supermarket - a series of sickening thuds, followed by silence. She waited, her heart pounding, her mouth gaping open. Finally, she peered down into the darkness. After her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw his silhouette, his arms and legs splayed at impossible angles, his head crooked, as if it was no longer connected to his neck.

Letting out a long, ragged sigh, she collapsed in the hall, the gun clattering to the floor. "Holy Shit," she sighed. "That was close. That was too fucking close." She sat there for a few moments, collecting herself. Then she struggled to her feet and headed for the bedroom.

She picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1. "Hello? Yes, I'm calling from the Bleaker house? Um, I believe I've just encountered the legendary ghost, you know, the one in the rumor? He's lying in my basement with a broken neck... No, this isn't a crank call... Forty-five minutes? That'll work. Thank you."

She hung up the phone and sat on the bed. "I've got to get my act together."

She looked around, trying to figure out her next course of action. The condom would have to go, but what else was there? Wash the vibrator, put clean sheets on the bed, toss Cleave's rope back down the shaft, and who would ever know?

She burst into action and in ten minutes, the crime scene was no longer a crime scene. It was just a bedroom, with a scared lady in it, a lady who had confronted a prowler and, when confronted, the prowler had tumbled back down the shaft from whence he came. It was simple. Answer a few questions and it would be over. The Bleaker house ghost was history.

She jumped in the shower for a few minutes, being careful not to get her hair wet, and then she dried off and pulled on her jeans. She was just buttoning up her shirt when she saw car lights in the driveway. "That was quick," she said to herself, as she bounded down the stairs.

Cleave climbed out of his truck - gingerly. His ankle hurt, his neck was out of whack, and his little finger was busted, but other than that he was fine."That was a good move," he said to himself,"dragging that old mattress over to the bottom of the shaft."

He hobbled up the steps, his stun gun in one hand, his rope in the other. Just for good luck, he had his scythe hooked in the back of his belt - not that he intended on using it right away. It was more about the image. After all, weren't ghosts supposed to carry scythes around?

He heard footsteps from inside, clomping down the stairs. "Come to papa, bitch," he whispered, spitting into the air on the letter 'B'. He braced himself next to the door, out of her line of sight, so that he could use the stun gun before she even knew what hit her.

The door opened.