The Ghost of Ouderburg Castle

This story contains themes of erotic horror and non-consensual sexual intercourse. If you find this type of content distasteful, or if you believe it may cause you distress, please reconsider reading this story.

All characters in this story who engage in sexual activity are at least 18 years old.

*

I arrived home after school Thursday afternoon wanting nothing more in the entire world than to get my bra off. The da-...darn, darn, darn...wire of the thing had been digging into my boobs all day, and I was about to go out of my mind with the aching discomfort of it.

Unfortunately, as I came in the back door into the kitchen, Mom and Dad were waiting for me, both grinning like maniacs, a package wrapped like a present sitting in the middle of the table in front of them.

"Happy birthday, Merrie!" Mom said, chipper as a squirrel.

"It's not my birthday," I growled, closing the door behind me.

"Well, then," Dad said, "happy Halloween!"

"Ugh," I said. My parents were lifelong, diehard Halloween freaks...er, enthusiasts...and never failed to behave like idiots at this time of year.

"Go ahead," Mom said, "open it."

I sighed and set my bag down with a thunk, then sat across the table from them, almost wincing when the movement made my boobs jostle and the wire dig deeper into my tit flesh. I pulled the package over to me and tore off the paper as they grinned like lunatics at me. It was a camera: a very expensive digital camera, the latest thing. I groaned.

"Mom, Dad, I don't need this. I told you, my phone camera is just fine. I only take pictures for Insta, anyway. What am I going to do, carry this around, looking like a nerd?"

"Well," Mom said, looking a little nonplussed, "you could stand to find another extracurricular interest, after..." Dad must have kicked her under the table because she started, then said, "...uh, anyway, this weekend you're going to be a tourist, so it will look perfectly normal. Not 'nerdy' at all."

I sighed again and resisted—for the millionth time today—the urge to pull at the underwire of my dam-...darn...bra. "Tourist?" I asked, rising reluctantly to the bait.

"That's right," Mom exclaimed, returned to her beaming smile. "We're going to Belgium!" She threw up her hands in an expression of such joyous exuberance that I just wanted to sla-...hug her.

I rubbed at my forehead. "Belgium. Why Belgium? How...I have school...."

"We've arranged to take you out of classes tomorrow and Monday," Dad said. "Your teachers all said you could make up the work easily. You're still doing great academically, even without..." this time, Mom must have kicked him, because he continued, "...er, anyway, Belgium because, did you know, there's a city there called Ostend where they celebrate Halloween all October? All month long!" He spread his hands and grinned broadly, as if he expected me to jump up and cheer at the news.

"Okay," I said tiredly.

"We've, uh, been talking online to some people who are throwing parties there this weekend," Mom said, throwing a glance at Dad. Why was she blushing?

Dad returned her look with an odd smile I couldn't interpret. "But here's the part you're going to like," he told me, "we've booked rooms in a castle!"

"That's why we got you the camera," Mom said. "You're going to want to take lots of pictures of this place. It's amazing!" She opened a web page on her phone and showed me a picture of a dark pink fairytale castle situated in the center of a small lake with an arched stone bridge connecting it to a larger building of the same pink stone on the other side of the...moat, I supposed. 'Kasteel ten Ouderburg,' the title read, 'Ouderburg Castle.'

"But there's more," Dad said in an infomercial tone, "it's haunted!"

"Maybe you can get a picture of the ghost!" Mom chirped eagerly.

"Ohhh," I groaned, unwilling to embark on a conversation about the feasibility of ghost photography, "okay."

I stood and picked up the box containing the ridiculously expensive camera and its myriad accessories. The instruction manual was practically as thick as my AP History textbook. "Fine, I guess I'd better figure out how to work this thing, then." I turned to head upstairs, then paused. "What time do we leave?"

"First thing in the morning," Dad said, "early. Be ready to leave for the airport at 5 a.m."

"Urgh," I groaned, then turned to go. At least I would get a few hours rest without this fu-...darned...torture device strapped around my chest.

I shut my bedroom door behind me, and, ten seconds later, stripped the bra off and threw it across the room. My tits sighed with relief, swelling to their full, enormous size once freed of the constriction. I stared in the mirror at the da-...darned...things that had ruined my life.

Last summer, my breasts had exploded, suddenly growing from a 32B to some indescribable bra size that was not carried in any store in town. I was entirely sure of that, because I had tried every bra from every department store and clothing boutique, and nothing worked. Either the strap was too long to fit snugly around my slender torso, or the cups were too small, so the underwires tormented my tender tit flesh.

To make matters worse, my new boobs were incredibly sensitive. I'd always thought bigger tits would be less delicate, but mine felt nine times more sensitive than they had back when they had been normal, manageable breasts. Especially my nipples, which had always been small and sensitive, but were now large and far more sensitive.

To make matters even worse than that, I couldn't run or jump anymore without my big, fat tits sending spikes of pain jabbing through my chest and aching intolerably after only a few minutes of exercise. That had gotten me cut from this year's school track team, and driven a stake through the heart of my hopes for an athletic scholarship to college.

And, if all that wasn't enough, people kept staring at them—both girls and guys—all the time. No one ever looked me in the face anymore: just goggled at my breasts. I felt as if I'd ceased to exist, and the only thing left of me were two gigantic, aching tits.

I massaged them lightly, relieved beyond belief that I could spend a few paltry hours without the bra torturing them. With a long, heartfelt sigh, I lay on my bed in just my panties and called Sally.

"Belgium!" she cried, after I gave her the news, "for Halloween? You're so lucky!"

"Yeah," I said, "lucky. So, this means you don't need to ask Gene about the party. I won't be able to make it anyway." After much earnest persuasion, I had finally convinced Sally, my best friend and across-the-street neighbor, to sweet-talk her hunky jock boyfriend, Gene, into getting his teammate, Dale, to ask me to the football team's Halloween party Saturday night.

"Ah, about that," Sally said, and I winced at her tone. "I, uh, already asked Gene about it."

"And?"

"Dale already asked someone else," Sally said, "Angelica Norman. Sorry."

Angelica Norman, head cheerleader, of course, so spoiled for choice that she could dump the star running back—already on the radar of more than one NFL scout—to hog the quarterback, who also happened to have been my secret crush since junior high. And, as the icing on the cake, now everyone would know I'd made a play for the team leader, only to get sacked for a loss of yards. Angelica, that bi-...very unpleasant person...would be rubbing my face in it for the rest of forever.

Suddenly, I was glad to be ghost hunting in Belgium this weekend.

#####

Marc spotted the willowy young American girl the instant she walked into the lobby with her parents. Pale blonde shoulder-length hair framed a lovely face with wide, blue eyes that seemed as brilliant as sapphires. They caught his attention at first, but then he saw her magnificent breasts, swelling beneath a pale pink sweater, and his breath caught. So high and firm they seemed to float a few millimeters ahead of her, he was sure they weren't really as big as they seemed, but on her slender frame they looked...extraordinary. They couldn't possibly be fake, could they? She couldn't be a day over eighteen! Surely even American girls didn't get them done so young, did they?

"Ahem," he said, dragging his attention away from the twin wonders as the family stepped up to the desk. "How can I help you?"

"Hey, Dutch Stephens, how are ya today?" said the man, sticking his hand over the counter. He was a tall, gaunt fellow, with dark hair and deepset eyes. He didn't look even slightly related to his gorgeous daughter. Marc shook his hand, smiling.

"Bonjour, Monseur Stephens, I am Marc Roosten, son of this establishment's proprietor, and pleased to be your concierge during your stay." He turned to the woman and offered his hand. "Enchanté, Madame Stephens."

"Frankie," the woman simpered, taking his hand limply. Short, slightly plump, with hair of a neutral brown, she hardly resembled her daughter any more than her husband did.

"And you, mademoiselle?" said Marc, offering his hand to the nymph and giving her his most genial grin. Just for an instant, despite his best effort, his gaze dropped to her bosom. Immediately, he yanked his eyes upward, focusing on her amazing eyes, but the damage was done. She frowned, and held her camera in front of her chest, shifting a step behind her mother.

"Our little girl, Merrie," said Dutch. "We're expecting you all to take good care of her this weekend while we're out and about." He threw an arm around his wife's shoulder and gave her a squeeze, eliciting an inexplicable giggle.

"Very good," said Marc, withdrawing his hand. "Ah, however," he said, looking down at his computer monitor, "there has been a small issue with your daughter's room."

"A problem?" said Dutch, as if he'd never heard of such a thing.

"Only a little, er, plumbing issue. Nothing to worry about. We would be delighted to upgrade her to one of the premium rooms in the castle proper," Mark said, "with apologies for the inconvenience."

"You hear that, honey?" Dutch said. "You get to stay up in the castle itself!"

"Just think of all the great pictures you can take," enthused her mother.

Marc could barely see one of the girl's vivid blue eyes over Frankie's shoulder, so he addressed it, trying for a soothing tone. "It's in the southeast tower. The view of the countryside is really spectacular from up there." The eye vanished behind the mother's head.

"Why don't you show us there first, then," Dutch said. "We can all get a look at the view, then you can show us to our room, eh?"

Marc led them to the room, explaining some of the history of the castle as they crossed the bridge and entered Ouderburg Castle. Among other things, he told them that Merrie's room had once belonged to the Duchesse of Bruges. He didn't mention that his own room, just next door, had belonged to the Duchesse's steward and spymaster, or that the wall was perforated by several well-concealed peepholes, so that her steward could keep tabs on her more 'intimate' diplomatic efforts.

The room really was every bit as nice as Marc had suggested, and, after her parents had admired the view, and the furnishings, and the size of it for a while, even Merrie seemed to warm slightly, though she still tended to hold things up in front of her—or stand behind objects or people—any time Marc looked in her direction.

The sun was getting low in the sky when Merrie's parents took their leave. Frankie hugged her daughter, and kissed her cheek. "Remember I told you," she said, "that there were some parties we wanted to attend while we were here?"

"Yeah," said Merrie, giving her father a glance. Dutch said nothing, but wore a peculiar smile. Frankie's cheeks were flushed.

"One of them is tonight," Frankie said. "We'll...probably be out...very late."

"You mean, you're not going to be here?" Merrie asked, "I mean, even in the other building?"

"Well," said Dutch, in a reasonable sort of tone, "it's not like you'd be seeing us before morning, anyway, and I'm sure we'll be back by then ... maybe...probably, heh, of course, probably."

A sort of awkward silence ensued, then Marc—perhaps foolishly—interjected, "There is room service at all hours, Mademoiselle, and Castle Ouderburg employs an excellent chef. I could take your order now?"

"Great idea!" exclaimed Dutch. "What's good after hours here, Marc?"

"Ah, I particularly enjoy the chicken salad sandwich," Marc said. "There is a menu on our website, if you prefer something else, or I could bring a printed menu up to your room."

"No," said Merrie quickly, "chicken salad sandwich will be fine, with some chips and a bottle of water, please. Could you...have them just leave it outside? I'd like a shower, and I don't want to have to listen for someone to knock."

"Of course," Marc said, with a broad smile. He tried not to let it turn into a leer, given that one of his peepholes showed an excellent view of Merrie's bathroom. "I'll bring it up myself and leave the cart outside your door."

The girl hugged her parents, who assured her that they would see her in the morning. Marc harbored doubts about that, however, as he had guessed the sort of Halloween party they planned to attend. That sort of 'adults-only' event often lasted all night and into the next day.

It was near dark when Marc led the Stephens' to their room in the larger building across the well-lighted bridge. The night air was brisk and fresh, and the couple was excited, frequently touching one another and laughing softly together. Yes, these two were winding up for a long night of very 'adult' Halloween fun, all right.

He arranged to have a car pick them up in an hour, and explained how to call for it to bring them back when they were ready the following morning. Leaving them to get into their costumes, he hurried to the kitchen and help the staff cook on duty prepare a light meal for Merrie, then took it swiftly up to her room.

Marc's father, Jan, had been caretaker of Ouderburg Castle for decades, and Marc had grown up exploring it. He knew more about it than anyone—having spent his childhood exploring its secrets—and was able to move quickly through the old servant's corridors, as well as other, less conventional, routes. He left Merrie's meal outside her door, then went to his own room next door, relieved that he could still hear the shower running.

Stepping atop a table, and making sure no lights were on in his room, Marc carefully uncovered the peephole, sliding an inconspicuous brass decoration to one side. He put his eye to the hole, and was rewarded with a good view of Merrie's bathroom. The glass shower door was foggy, but he could see her blurry figure silhouetted against the dark blue tiles of the shower's wall. He could clearly make out her slim figure, long legs and generous bust. Excited, he touched himself through his pants and found his cock eagerly erect.

When Merrie stepped out of the shower, toweling herself off, Marc had to resist the urge to open his pants and rub one out, right then and there. He didn't do it, though, because he had high hopes for later, after she fell asleep.

#####

After my shower, I put on a soft white terrycloth robe and cautiously cracked the entryway door, peering out to see the room service cart in the hallway outside. I was still very nervous that Mom and Dad had left me here by myself in this strange place, and I didn't want to encounter the creepy concierge guy again tonight.

Marc had seemed professional enough, and not bad looking, except for the ridiculous hair style: short in front and a little long in back, like it wanted to be a mullet, but wasn't quite sure it dared. But, while he hadn't said anything inappropriate, Marc's eyes always seemed to be seeking out a look at my body I didn't want him to have, especially my tits.

I pulled the cart inside and ate my meal, slowly beginning to relax, now that I was alone. When I'd finished, I wandered around the eclectically decorated room, looking at the various antique items, taking pictures of the more interesting ones, and enjoying the way the fluffy terrycloth teased my nipples as my breasts swayed and jiggled beneath the robe.

After an hour or so, the jet lag began to catch up with me. While it was only a little after 7 p.m., it felt to me like one in the morning, and, now that I had begun to relax a little, I started to yawn. Digging in my luggage I found a short, light nightgown and changed into it, pulling on a pair of lacy white panties underneath it. Sighing, I lay back and enjoyed the silky feel of the nightie against my nipples. The room was warm, so I didn't bother pulling up the sheet, and soon I drifted off to sleep.

I woke to the sensation of something heavy on my chest. I opened my eyes. Moonlight streamed into the room from the window, but I couldn't make out whatever it was on top of me. I sat up...rather, I tried to sit up, but I didn't move.

I tried to raise my hand to feel if something was there, but my arm wouldn't move. I tried to turn my head, but nothing happened. Panic flared through me, and I struggled to move any part of my body, but nothing worked. I lay as still as a corpse, staring at the ornate ceiling. My eyes were open, but I couldn't move them, or even close them again, though they blinked autonomically every few seconds.

Minutes passed, and my panic began to still, a little. I'd heard about this, I recalled: sleep paralysis. It was a condition in which you were awake, but your body was still influenced by the normal paralysis that keeps you from falling out of your bed every time your sleep becomes restless. I thought it might be the result of stress—I'd certainly had plenty of that lately—and remembered that it would pass after a little while.

As I lay there, waiting for it to go away, I began to notice a vague shadow atop my breastbone, about the size and shape of a large owl. Slowly, the form became clearer, and I saw it was not really very birdlike after all, but more like an elf, or a goblin, with pointy ears and rounded shoulders. It was squatting on my sternum, between my breasts, looking right at my face. Then, it shifted, and grinned, showing a mouthful of pointy teeth.

I would have screamed, if I could have moved at all. My heart pounded and my mind gibbered with terror, but my body remained as still as death. The creature's mouth moved, as if it were talking. I thought I could hear a breathy whisper, and I listened hard, trying to hear over the thumping of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears.

"There she is," murmured the voice, as faint as a breeze in the forest. "My, aren't you a lovely one? We can have great fun together, you and I, great fun indeed." The creature leered and gave a nasty snigger, then put its small hand on my breast. The hand passed through my nightgown as if it were made of smoke, but when it touched my flesh, it felt just as real as my own hand, its stubby fingers rough against my tit. Casually, the creature stroked my nipple, which sprang to instant stiffness beneath its calloused palm. Again, I tried to scream, to leap up and flee, but, again, I remained as still as any sleeper. My eyes remained open, fixed in one direction; my chest rose and fell with slow, unhurried breaths, and my mind shrieked in terror.

"Shh, calm down, little one," the goblin whispered, his form solidifying further. "Tonight's fun has not yet even begun." I wondered why he felt so heavy, sitting on my chest, when he didn't appear much larger than a house cat.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he murmured, voice like the trickle of a rivulet in the woods. "I am Deattán, Mære of the Sámi. I am what you would call a Nightmare."

Deattán continued to fondle my nipples for a few minutes as I lay still, my breath even, my heart trying to tear itself from my chest. Then, he glanced over his shoulder toward the corner of the room. He grinned and said, "Aha! I believe tonight's fun is about to begin!" Slowly, he faded from sight, though his weight remained on my chest: the only thing left of him, like the Cheshire Cat's smile.