The Ghost of the Hour

Emma wondered, as Saturday night approached her personal witching hour of eleven, if her friends and family weren't right-- maybe she did need "professional help."

What was it about eleven o'clock on a Saturday night? Why did she keep checking the time? And-- worst of all-- why did the approach of that hour begin to make her feel more and more aroused?

Emma was thirty-seven and officially "separated." "Separated" was apparently what they called it when your husband of twelve years announced he was in love with someone else-- while bringing out his already packed suitcase.

Her first reaction was "really? When did you ever find the time?" Tim was always working, which included: meetings, business trips, power lunches and golf outings. Emma genuinely wondered how he had managed to squeeze any additional pussy into his packed calendar.

Tim had apparently been planning his departure from their marriage for a while. They would sell the house, he informed her, which was worth a fortune, he claimed, and split the profits fifty/fifty-- right away, long before any official papers were filed.

She shouldn't have done it-- and her ever helpful friends all agreed. But the unexpected infusion of cash into her bank account from her half of the house sale, opened up all kinds of possibilities.

Her grandmother's house was sitting empty and neglected. It was not officially up for sale according to all of the unofficial websites. However...

So many memories! Fresh-baked cookies, curled up with Grandma gaping at impossibly old photos.

("They didn't have cell phones back then??")

Grandpa died when she was only twelve. Emma became Grandma Jennie's sole source of comfort, her unofficial therapist, and her very best friend.

Jennie died when Emma was twenty-five and she was inconsolable for weeks.

Tim didn't get it, even back then: "Well... how old was she??"

Should've been a sign of things to come.

Emma bought the old house for a song. The place was a wreck but she had the money. There was just something about being back in that house; it was as if time was only an illusion. She kept expecting to see Jennie peeking in on her:

"How are you doing, love girl?"

But now it was getting closer to eleven. Emma took a shower, fixed her hair, put on minimal makeup... he hated too much makeup.

By 10:57 pm she was naked under a sheet and a blanket. She felt a warmth in the room-- the people who talked about "cold spots"? -- Jack was anything but cold!

She turned to her right to avoid seeing him materializing... that was creepy. Bones, blood vessels, then finally skin and hair.

The bed sagged comfortably next to her. She turned:

"Jack!!"

"Emma! It's still you!" The grinning, dark-haired broad-shouldered man reminded her of a young Tom Selleck-- down to the mustache. Except, Tom Selleck was still kicking it as the longest-lasting fictional NYC police commish. Jack was quite dead.

They snuggled up as usual. "As usual?": this was only their third time, their third hour together. She felt his beautiful, pleasantly hard penis press up against her belly; it felt as if it belonged there-- until it was time to aim for her belly from the inside.

"Did you... look into me... on your light-up number box?"

She smiled and shook her head. Jack died in 1933 and refused to accept that her iPhone was actually a telephone.

"I can't," she playfully punched his arm. "You use your powers to make me forget."

He got so serious. "I don't have any powers. Whoever took pity on me, while I'm under this curse, they make you forget."

Jack had "materialized" eight times since he was shot by his crazed lover in this very room. Each time, he appeared in the bed of a woman who was exceptionally lonely or in despair.

His curse was that he loved women unconditionally. He was a 'ladies man' (more a womanizer) in life and that had led to his death. In death, women seemed to be able to summon him out of their loneliness. He was no sex god, but his love nearly always had an unconscious effect on each new lover's psyche.

His first lover was here to commit suicide in 1939, after the house briefly became an inn. That one, Emma was able to find on Wikipedia. She became one of the first full female professors in Applied Mathematics and wrote one of the standard textbooks.

Then there was a young war widow in '43; a neglected housewife in '55-- and then, Grandma Jennie.

In 1957 or '58-- Jack wasn't sure-- Grandpa Sam temporarily ran off with another woman.

"How many times did you... visit her?" Emma had asked in disbelief.

"Twice-- a week apart. And then I went to sleep and woke up in a different bed with a different woman. It was suddenly 1989... I think. I always fall in love with them-- I did it when I was alive, and I'm still fu-- I'm still doing it!

It's when they say 'I love you' back; that's when I know I'll never see them again-- and they'll never remember me. That's the curse-- I've only lived eight hours after Katherine shot me-- but ninety years and six women later..." he just sighed.

Emma touched his face, his shoulder, his chest-- she loved these gentle touches.

"Did you dream about anything else-- while you were 'asleep?'"

He grimaced. "I remembered more about what Katherine said after we wrestled for her gun-- and she shot me; while I was dying."

"What?"

"She said: 'I'd love to send you straight to hell, but that's too good for you! Let's see if you can keep up your nonsense after you're dead.'"

He paused. "And then she got out an old book and was reciting something:

'Thou art not fallen to me, your servant

Thou art exalted above all.

Thou shalt crush the carpenter's son

Under thy cloven hoof

And rule the Earth forever.'"

Emma was silent for a while.

"Wow! Okay, well... your girlfriend was really into some heavy shi-- stuff!"

Jack hated when ladies swore.

He stared. "It is amazing to me that I understand the words of Will Shakespeare more than what you just said!"

They both laughed and cuddled even closer, as if that was possible. Emma had been chilled by those awful words. Katherine had been obviously been more than just a strange, warped woman, whose increasingly bizarre sexual demands-- including requests for pain and bloodletting-- drove Jack to try to leave her-- and led to his death.

"Do you want to?" Jack asked so sweetly.

What a man! Emma thought. Making love, falling in love, and then losing his lover over and over again was his raison d'etre-- the only reason he kept coming back to life.

"I just want you on top of me, and I want to feel you inside me. Crush me inside and out. That's all I need... all I need."

What a look on his face as he climbed on top. His hands expertly roamed downward from her cheeks to her shoulders to her breasts to her tummy to her soft furry mound. He braced himself with one hand, while opening her up with the other.

He slid all the way inside.

Emma felt like crying. She knew it wasn't fair to Jack to keep summoning him. But-- if she declared her love for him, it would be their last time.

"Who do you think... who is interceding for you?"

Jack shook his head. "What do you want me to say, my love? God, the power of goodness... If there is such good out there, then why don't they free me from all this?!"

Emma kept trying to control her tears. She could not keep this up and retain her sanity. She was totally in love with a dead man who was currently filling up not only that space in her body but also the hole in her soul.

"They can take me!" Emma cried out. "They can take me in your place! What the hell is this all about? You fucked too many women in your life?? God or the Devil or whatever is out there-- let this good man go-- take me!"

"No, No, NO!!" Jack started moving uncontrollably on top of her. "Oh god: please don't say you love me THAT much! I don't know what will happen! I'm cursed: look at what I'm doing. I can't stop myself!"

Emma was temporarily incapable of responding. Jack's penis, Jack himself, could not be real flesh, but only some manifestation of flesh. As he frantically thrusted, his penis was shaping itself exactly to the width and to the depth of her vagina-- he was actually beginning to hurt her.

"No, No, NO!" he shouted again and then he filled her. She knew it couldn't be real, this hot, healing liquid warmth that seemed to be permeating her entire body-- not just the depths of her vagina.

Jack finally collapsed on top of her. He raised his head and wiped his eyes.

"What is this?"

Was he kidding?

"Those are tears, Jack. You're crying."

"I see. Then to use your own words 'this really sucks!'"

He kissed her and got out of bed.

"Jack..."

"What?"

"You're out of bed... and you're dressed!"

He looked down at himself.

"Damn. Haven't worn clothes for a while-- it feels good! And I have my old watch!" He held it up to his ear. "Still ticking."

"What's going on... are you leaving me?!" Emma was crying.

"It's almost midnight. So... it's a date! We'll see each other again-- next Saturday at eleven. Oh-- it'll only be a week for me-- fifty-nine years for you." He paused. "You are going to be one gorgeous old lady!

Don't wait for me-- find someone to love-- a lot of someones if you want!"

He cocked his head.

"They're singing a special song... just for me! The likes of me... and I get my own welcoming song!"

He raised his hand to her...

...and he vanished.

Emma gasped. As soon as Jack disappeared, all of his hot liquid inside her disappeared as well. She felt as if someone had punched her down there.

She leapt out of bed and ran to his vanishing point but there was nothing left-- not even his unique scent-- a blend of light manly sweat and very old-fashioned hair gunk.

She knelt on the floor. "Jack, Jack, Jack" she kept repeating. Emma could already feel herself forgetting. She got up unsteadily and searched her night stand for pen and paper.

'Why am I doing this?' she thought. 'It's cold and I'm naked and it's late!'

She dove under the covers shivering. Emma only woke up once. She had a crazy dream in which current-day Tom Selleck was on top of her, pumping away. "You are one gorgeous old lady!" he enthused.

She woke herself up from that one!

The next day she felt so calm and settled. By lunchtime she texted her friend about that dating app. The friend called back in two minutes. Emma had to hold the phone away from her ear-- April was screaming, she was so happy.

Emma finished her first rough draft of "about me" on the app just before supper. She just plunged in and wrote it all at once, stream of consciousness style.

Now, the editing.

'People tell me I'm an even prettier version of Clara Bow,' what the hell?! Where did that come from?!

Delete.

It was still missing something.

Emma took a deep breath, and typed:

"I just want to live my life so that, wherever I go after I'm done, they'll write a special song to welcome me home."

Why did that bring tears to her eyes? Her finger hovered over 'delete.'

"What the hell," she said. And Emma hit 'save and publish.'