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The Tortured Spirit of Lover's...


The Tortured Spirit of Lover's Mountain

The old black woman quickly wrung the rooster's neck, and then slit open the belly. The heart still throbbed as she spilled the entrails onto the floor of the cabin that housed her altar. Light from the many smoking candles lit the glistening, gruesome mass of ropy intestines and dark organs as she stirred through them with a wrinkled finger. "Ah, the time is right," she muttered to no one in particular. "Tomorrow, she will feed tomorrow." She to the side and said aloud, "It is time. Do you have the charm?" The young woman sitting beside her nodded, then rose and left the dark cabin. The old woman turned back to stare into the flames that licked at the logs of the cooking fire. "Mambo Jeannette must live a while longer," thought the old woman. "I must live until the young one learns to read the sign and how to make the spell." She threw the entrails into the fire and began plucking the rooster for a chicken stew.

The forty year old business man from Florida was on a working vacation in Haiti, and thought himself lucky when the stunning, copper-skinned young woman walked into the bar. She was unlike many of the Haitian women; her fine features and light copper shaded skin whispered of an intimate liaison between a plantation owner and one of her slave ancestors. Her black hair, probably straightened somewhat, he guessed, hung in shimmering, rippling waves over her shoulders. His eyes absorbed her sensuous, feminine grace as she walked toward his table, and he noticed that her rounded hips swayed in the loose, comfortable motion that seemed common to the women of the island.

She was wearing a short skirt and an open blouse that displayed the ripe mounds of her breasts, and he was sure that if she bent over very far, he'd catch a glimpse of the nipples that stood out proudly against the thin material. As if he had willed it, simply by thinking it, she stopped, bent down and fiddled with her sandal, and the blouse gaped open to reveal large, firm breasts topped with dark brown nipples that cried out to be fondled. The dress rode high enough up a smooth thigh that he caught a glimpse of tiny white lace panties that contrasted nicely with her coppery skin. He realized he was staring when she looked up, caught his eye, and smiled. She finished with the sandal, and walked to his table.

"Hi, I haven't seen you here before, have I?"

"No, this is my first time on the island. I'm vacationing here, from Florida. You know, in the US?"

"Oh, I know of America; I even know Florida. I was born in Miami. I came back to Haiti a couple of years ago when my aunt got sick, and I loved the country, so I stayed. I guess my roots were here, all along, but I had to come back to know that."

He had earlier decided from her display as she fixed her sandal that she was probably a prostitute, but now, he thought perhaps not. If she was looking for money, the pitch would come soon enough, and since she was beautiful, and he was alone, he asked her to sit down. He ordered her a drink and another for himself.

She sipped her drink, flashed him a gleaming smile and asked, "So how is your vacation going?"

"Well, rather slow, but that's OK. The country is beautiful, but I guess I should've taken a commercial tour. I'm just roaming around by myself, and I really don't know where things are. I'm having a good time though, just relaxing."

"Relaxing from what, if I may ask?"

"I own a business that imports merchandise from the Carribean and South America. I resell to discount stores throughout the US. I had hoped to run across some new stuff on this trip, but so far, I haven't seen much that's different from what we already have."

"I see. " She sipped her drink and paused for a moment in thought. "Well, I can't help you much with your business, but I could show you some interesting sights, old plantation houses and such, if you're willing to drive up the coast. My cousin lives in Bale-de-Henne, and I want to see her anyway. If you drive me up, we can look at some things that aren't on any tour. Only the residents know about them, and they don't want tourists tromping all over the place. You'll be all right with me, though, and I know a great little place in for dinner. What do you think?"

The thought that she might be attracted to him crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it as wishful thinking. He hadn't been with a woman in the six months since his divorce. This girl was beautiful and sensuous, but was so much younger than he. Probably she did just want a ride, and someone to have dinner with, and that would be it.

"I can give you a ride, but I don't know about dinner. I uhh...well are you asking for dinner company or...well, I really don't know how to ask this.

"God, I'm sorry. I tend to be very open; some people call it rude, but I say what I think. I'm only looking for a ride. I thought I might repay you by showing you some places known only to the locals. Since you're not wearing a ring, I figured you weren't married, and I thought you might enjoy some company for dinner. If you're worried about it, don't be. I don't bite. She giggled. "That is unless you want me to."

"That makes me feel better, I think. I just..., well, I wondered why a pretty little thing like you would want to have dinner with an old guy like me." He stood up dropped enough cash on the table to cover the tab. "I don't have anything better to do today, and I have a car outside. Are you ready to leave, or do you need to get something first?"

"No, I'm ready now, and you're not old. You're older than I am, but you're not old. By the way, my name's Jesse."

"Well, hello Jesse, I'm Dave, Dave Marshall."

She sat, relaxed, in the rented sedan as he drove along the coast road to Bale-de-Henne and told him about her life in Miami and how she lived today. Occasionally, she would shift positions in her seat, and the already short skirt had ridden high up her slender, golden thighs to reveal the rounded, small patch of white at their juncture. He hoped the dress would rise higher; he willed it to rise higher, but to no avail. She didn't seem to notice, and he was not about to spoil this lovely view by saying anything.

He passed a small sign with the wording hand painted in French, and she said, "Now there's a place no tour ever visits."

"I don't read French. What does the sign say?"

"It's not a site recognized by the government; that's why the sign is hand painted. It marks the trail for the locals, and points the way to an old grave on the hill. The grave is said to hold a woman who had strong sexual desires when alive. Her spirit is supposed to give that desire to any woman who touches the headstone. Of course, that's just an old Voudou legend, and no one takes it seriously except the young men who take their dates there in hopes of seducing them. They call it "Lover's Mound," and that's what the sign says. Graves just give me the creeps, so I've never been there before. The view of the sea is supposed to be nice, though. Would you like to see it? We have time for a quick look."

He parked the car on the roadside, and they started up the path. At the top of the hill was a clearing, evidently maintained by someone, because the native plants would have taken over any spot of bare ground unless continually cut away. The grave stood in the center, but instead of the small stone cross he was expecting, a stone structure with a large, cracked, flat stone top stood before a huge headstone. The headstone was so weathered and moss covered that the name was difficult to make out, but he thought he could read "ANG L E" and the date 1816. There was also an intricate carving above the name. He looked for Jesse to ask her what she thought and saw that she was looking through an opening in the trees. He joined her and saw the panorama of the beach below, the rolling swell of the ocean stretching away, and the infinitely distant horizon.

"You were right, the view is spectacular. It's just the kind of place I used to take my high-school girlfriends. They loved the view, and would get more, shall we say..., agreeable. I never got any of them past the kissing and feeling stage, though." He laughed. "Their mother's had already warned them about men."

She laughed with him. "Mothers must be the same everywhere, then, because mine warned me about the same thing when I was twelve, and even though I'm twenty-two, she still does it in every letter. She says men only want to sleep with every woman they see. That's why the boys bring their girls here." Her voice became deep and ominous. "The powerful spirit that lives here can take away the girl's ability to resist, and will give her desire that can be satisfied only by a man between her thighs." She laughed again. "That's the local legend some people believe, including my aunt. She's never been off the island, or even to school for that matter, and like a lot of the old people, really believes the legend. She's the other reason I've never come here. She'd be worried silly if she ever found out." She looked at him with her eyes full of innocence, her hands went to her breasts in mock fear, and she said in a quavering voice, "Oh, Mr. Marshall, you're not going to rip off my clothes and have your way with me, are you?" Then the smile beamed at him again, and she giggled.

As she had clasped her hands to her breasts, she had inadvertently pulled open the top, and the sight of the full, gentle curves made the prospect inviting, but he knew now that she was just teasing. He decided to play her game for a while.

"Well, you know, every legend is based on some actual event. Maybe this place is special, after all. What would you do if it were?"

"If what my aunt says is true, I would be powerless to resist you, but I think one has to believe in the legend for it to have power. Since I don't, I don't think anything would happen..., at least nothing that I didn't want to happen."

Now he wasn't sure she was teasing, but decided that, while it was a nice fantasy, it probably should remain just a story to take back to his office in Florida.

"Well, don't worry. You're young enough to be my daughter, and I don't think I could feel right about that. You're a very beautiful woman, though, so if I were you, I wouldn't bring any young men up here. They might see things differently."

The smile hit him again, and he almost changed his mind.

"Thank you for the compliment, and I'll keep that in mind. As for our ages, people on the island are not so concerned about that as people in America, but I understand. I grew up there, remember?" She took his hand, and led him toward the headstone. "Now what did you want to show me?"

"The date says 1816 and there's a name - Angel something, I think. I can't really make out much more than that for all the moss and weathering. There's a nice carving at the top too; I wondered if you'd know if it means anything." They stopped before the large monolith of rough-cut stone. "It must have taken a real effort to get all this rock up here with what they had in those days. This woman must have been rich, or very famous in some way."

He knelt at the headstone, and brushed at the lettering to remove some of the moss that had accumulated over the years. He saw the full name, Angelique DuQuoins. He started to ask Jesse if she knew the significance of the carving, when he felt her hand on his shoulder.

She was leaning on the headstone, obviously in some sort of distress. Her eyes were glazed when he looked up at her, and her breath came in short gasps. He stood up and turned her to face him.

"Jesse, are you OK? You look like you're having trouble breathing."

"No, it's all right. I just feel...funny, that's all." She started to slump, and he instinctively reached for her. She caught herself on his shoulders, and as she sagged into him, her breasts crushed through his polo shirt. Her nipples felt rock-hard against his chest, and with each breath, it felt as if they bored deeper. As her strength returned, she straightened, and in the process, dragged her erect nipples up his chest. She looked up to his face, kissed him passionately, and her dark eyes glowed with an inner fire as she gently pushed him away.

She locked her gleaming eyes to his after she pulled the shirt over her head; it was then he noticed the intricately carved pendant that hung between her heaving breasts by a simple, leather cord. His thought the pendant to be a match to that carved on the headstone, but could not tear his eyes from hers to make the comparison. Jesse's heavy breasts bobbed as she threw the shirt to the ground, and reached for the button on the skirt. He stood, mouth agape, as she dropped the skirt to the ground, and rolled the white thong panties down her thighs. She slipped her fingers through the dark bush of hair below her belly, stroked slowly and sensuously, and then lifted them to her nostrils and inhaled deeply. Letting the breath out slowly, she touched the fingertips to his upper lip, and he caught the scent of her sex.

She pushed him down on the flat stone top of the grave and straddled his legs as she knelt over him. Her fingers quickly unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, and she pulled them down to his knees with one stroke. She nearly tore his shorts from his body as she pulled them down his legs, and then grasped his organ and began to slowly stroke. Her other hand pulled up his shirt to rub his chest, then returned to rub her swollen nipples and squeeze the tips of her breasts. She took a nipple between her fingers, rolled it and then pulled hard. As her breast stretched into a long cone, she moaned deeply and her head lolled to one side.

She dropped to take him in her mouth, and her lips and tongue raised him to an erect state larger and harder than he had known since he was a teenager. When she took him deeply into her throat, it was his turn to groan. She slipped him in and out of her full lips, sucking hard and raking his shaft gently with her teeth, then slid her wet tongue over the head and down to concentrate on the sensitive spot just below. He was rapidly beginning to lose control and began to thrust against her. She stopped and raised over him. Her inner lips fluttered as her fingers rubbed them furiously. Clear, viscous fluid coated her hand, and she rubbed it on the head of his member before returning it to massage her clitoris in quick, circular motions. She moaned softly and moved the hand to her mouth, licked two fingers, and then offered two to him. The taste was intoxicating, and his mind began to reel with the need for release. With the sinuous motions of a cat, she positioned her opening over his shaft, spread herself wide with her fingers, and sank down over his length.

The sensation was exquisite as her wet passage grasped his shaft, and when she began to ride him, he thought he would explode immediately. She seemed to sense this, and slowed her rhythm until his excitement subsided somewhat. As she rocked herself against his body, her fingers pulled at her nipples and rubbed her grossly swollen clitoris, and she soon resumed her deep stroking. She was moaning small sounds that came from deep in her throat in a series of small murmurs, and as he saw her belly begin to ripple, her strokes became faster. He would not be able to hold back much longer, but it seemed as if she would not need him to do so.

"Oh, God, now, now," she cried and he felt a gush of warm fluid around his member as she pumped quickly up and down. Her head rolled back uncontrollably, her eyes were blinking but unseeing, and her only feeling was that centered in her belly and clitoris. As he felt the gush of wet warmth, he exploded, his semen filling her passage and making them both even wetter. She continued to pump on his shaft, experiencing continuous waves of release, and he erupted three more times before he began to grow soft. Still she rode his softening member, and moved from one flood of warm liquid to another, from one shattering orgasm to another, until, when he slipped from between her lips, she finally stopped and smiled down at him.

He was exhausted and closed his eyes as she rubbed her lips and clitoris over his thigh. He felt the combined fluids from their passion seeping over his thighs to fall on the stone underneath and drip through the large cracks. He felt her lean over him, her hands on his shoulders and her still rigid nipples brushing the bare skin of his chest. He felt the kiss she placed on his lips as she tasted herself. He felt cool breezes waft over his arms, legs, and neck as she raised off him.

She spoke, "Mistress Angelique, demon of my ancestors, take this man that you may live and feel the torment of your victims for all time," and watched as the blue-white wispy mist encircled his body. She saw the familiar looks of surprise, then shock, and then pain, and said in a soothing voice, "I'm sorry, but she must eat. The beginning is immense pleasure, but the end, unfortunately, is painful." She frowned when he tried to rise, and placed a finger to her lips when he screamed in agony. "You'll only upset her, and she'll take longer. Besides, there's no one to hear you." She smiled, and then laughed. "By the way, you were very good lover, better than most I've brought to her. I'm sure she will enjoy you." The rapidly shrinking, red-purple mass that had been her lover continued to scream for a while, and then went silent as the mist absorbed the life and soul that had been Dave Marshall.

She stayed by the grave until the body was a mere husk covering bare bones and desiccated tissue. When the mists returned to the small portals hidden under the stone top, she stepped forward and easily picked up what remained of him and his clothing. She carried it a short way to a large hole in a stone outcropping, and dropped it in. For several seconds, there was no sound, and then she heard a quiet "plop." She quickly dressed, walked back down the hill, and turned in the direction of Gonaives, leaving the sedan parked by the side of the road. It would disappear by morning. The local police would ask questions of the hotel manager and the bartender, who both knew of the powers of Mambo Jeanette, and believed in the legend. They would have no information other than that Mr. Marshall had left in his car early one morning and had not been seen since. They would also ask to sell the few possessions left in the hotel room in partial payment for the bill. The police also knew of Mambo Jeanette, and the matter would soon join the mildewed stacks in the room behind the station office.


Elizabeth finished her chores for the day, and smiled with the knowledge that she was to be married, married to John in a month. They would still be simply Elizabeth and John to the mistress and master of the house, for she was a slave employed as a cook in the mistress' household, and he was a slave employed in the cane fields that brought wealth to the master. As slaves, they had no surnames, so on the eighteenth of August, 1816, Elizabeth would not become Elizabeth Martin, or Elizabeth Duncan, or take any other name than the one given her at her birth. This was well known by all the whites on the plantation, and they were comfortable with this arrangement.

The master was a kind fellow who never mistreated his workers, but unfortunately, he was aging, and unable to satisfy his wife, the young mistress of the plantation. She was a native born Haitian of French parents, and her needs would have challenged a satyr. Her husband, shamed by her lust and his inability to satisfy it, largely ignored her after the first year of their marriage. In reprisal, she began to dally with certain of the household slaves, and found their physical strength and stamina more to her liking. She soon exhausted the few male members of the household staff, and began seeking her pleasure with the bodies of the field slaves. On most plantations, it would have meant death for a slave found in the arms of any white woman; to be intimate with the mistress of the plantation would have meant a death received slowly and painfully at the whip of the master himself. This master, however, was so shamed by his impotence that he ignored this conduct as well.

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