The Unhallowed

Good for him.

"Why don't you shoot Cass a text, see how late they're running," I told Jake between sips of some drink I'd never heard of. Something that tasted like apples, smelled like maple syrup, had the kick of a mule, and had come in a sugar-rimmed martini glass.

He pulled out his phone, swiped the screen, grunted. "No reception."

Okay, that was a step in the wrong direction. A lack of cell phone services was right up there with dogs barking at nothing when it came to Warning Signs the Teens Shouldn't Have Ignored and thus They Actually Kinda Deserve to Die.

Hotels often block the wifi in certain areas, though. Conference rooms and whatnot. Organizers ask them to so people actually pay some attention to the event.

At least, I'm pretty sure I read something about that once. And not on one of those vaccines-turn-you-into-a-reptile sites either. I don't think.

One thing I was sure about was that if my mother and my sister didn't show up soon, and that didn't cause me to reconsider the Gaiman theory in favor of something a lot darker, I'd be an idiot. Even more of an idiot than you have to be to voluntarily spend the night in a place called The Unhallowed less than two weeks before All Hallow's Eve.

When my mom had first mentioned it, I'd snickered, thinking someone was trying way too hard to attract horrorheads like me and my dad. Now, I found myself wondering if It's In the Damn Name belonged on the same list as No Signal and Animals Sense it First.

Just when I was about to say some of this aloud, the door opposite us opened again and two more women joined what was starting to look like an actual cocktail hour. I mean, yeah, the costumed bartenders slinging fancy drinks and buffet table loaded with savories that someone had gone to commendable lengths to Halloweenify---from spinach dip served in a bread cauldron to puff pastry shaped like intestines and some kind of finger food that looked like actual fingers---already did that. A ballroom that's close to empty is one of the saddest sights imaginable, though. So whether the newcomers were Cass and Mom or not, they still breathed some life into the party, still loosened the knot between my shoulder blades.

Looked damned good doing it too.

Shouldn't have thought that, I know, not when the odds were that one of them was my mother and the other my sister. Yet think it I did. And you'd have done the same.

The curvier one, who I refused to think of as heavy, let alone apply a word that started with F, wore a bunny costume. No bowtie, no cuffs, nothing to tie her to Mr. Heffner; just a sequined silk teddy, hot pink, headband with floppy ears, also pink, this time trimmed with white fur, no tights or stockings, somewhat disappointingly, and pink heels that had the cutest little puffs of cotton near the toes. Presumably there was another ball of cotton around back, though she hadn't granted us the pleasure of a rear view yet.

Wow. Double wow. Maybe a third wow.

Most men would say she was too thick. Most men are idiots. Her arms were not as willowy as they could have been, her cheeks could possibly be described as puffy, and no one would expect to find prominent hip bones, defined abs, or Venus dimples waiting for them if they were lucky enough to get her out of that teddy; all the same, her stomach was flat, her waist a lot narrower than her hips, and the contours of her body called to mind an hourglass. So she was carrying a little more weight than other women in the room; most of the difference came from places where it was most welcome. Her hips, her thighs, presumably her ass, definitely her tits. The she-devil's were not small, yet the bunny's almost made them appear to be. Hers were the size of her head, maybe even bigger.

I know, I know, that sort of thing shouldn't matter as much as her personality, what sort of person she is deep down, whether she's my freaking mother. Can anyone honestly say looks don't matter to them, though? I've met a lot of people, male and female alike, straight and gay, who swear they don't have a type; I've met precious few whose behavior does not betray a pattern. It is what it is. No sense fighting it. There's a part of me that wants to criticize guys who only go for stick figures, accuse them of contributing to our cultural obsession with thinness and the epidemic of eating disorders, but I've never once dated a girl whose bra wasn't at least a D cup. Different kind of problematic, that's all.

And not something I can change.

Have I tried? Yes, actually. There was this girl in high school who ticked most of my boxes, smart, funny, dark hair, brown eyes, pretty face, but flat as a board. I enjoyed talking to her, flirting with her, even went on a few dates with her. At least, I think they qualified as dates. Never went further than that, though. Mutual decision, I'd say, but was her lack of interest a response to my lack of interest? And would I have been more interested if her bust had been bigger? I'm pretty sure I know the answers to those questions. I'm not remotely proud of them, but I think I know what they are. And anyone out there who says they can't tell a similar story---if not about cup size, then height or weight, skin color, something---they're lying. To themselves as much anyone else.

Anyway, point is, the woman in the bunny costume could not have appealed to me more. I understand that some men would not react the same way, would only find her moderately attractive, or even convince themselves that she was devoid of sex appeal, no matter how objectively wrong that would make them; I understand, and that means about as much to me as who got voted off the island on the last episode of Big Brother's Masked Talent. Everything I look for, in full knowledge of how shallow that makes me, was on display: big breasts, a proportionate lower body, pale skin, dark hair, brown eyes. Full lips too. Tiny feet. Sexy shoes. Shiny shoes. A way of carrying herself that simultaneously conveyed confidence and modestly, like she would never demand attention yet knew she'd get it all the same, would neither shy away from conversation nor feign interest if you couldn't hold up your end for fear that no one else would talk to her.

Was I trying to extract too much information from what little had been provided? Her outfit and her body language, which I'd observed for all of ten seconds? Maybe. Probably. My heart was ready to burst, though. As were other organs. I both wanted her to approach and didn't, wanted to know more about her yet feared I already knew a lot. And I was forced to admit, if not for the first time then for the first time with such clarity, that one woman possessed all the qualities that mattered---the ones I was supposed to care about.

That woman was my mother.

An equally awkward realization was that Cass did too, if not to the same degree. She was not as mature, as giving, as intellectually curious, as our mother. She was some or all of those things to at least a somewhat greater degree than either of my ex-girlfriends, though.

And her outfit was quite possibly the best one I'd seen so far. She didn't fill it out the way the bunny did hers, which was my eyes had gravitated elsewhere, but the French maid is a classic for a reason. Black mini dress trimmed with white lace, an attached apron, more lace found in headpiece, collar, and cuffs, the sexiest of stockings, thigh-high fishnets, a nice shiny pair of pumps, and, of course, a black feather duster. There's just no topping that. Perfect combination of classy and racy, more likely to be found in a strip club than a penthouse apartment, in that particular form anyway, yet still calling to mind the latter. If the woman in that outfit was Cass, I'd never look at my sister the same way again.

I didn't want to think such thoughts. Were it remotely possible to unthink them, I would. Yet there they were. As I watched the woman approach, looked them up and down, took in the details of their outfits and their physiques, I found myself falling for them hard. One harder than the other, perhaps, but more than was appropriate both cases.

Again, I asked the bearded man in the sky to spare me. To have the bunny and the maid walk right past us and embrace a couple of guys I hadn't even realized had entered the ballroom. A werewolf and a clown, a cop and Frankenstein's monster, whatever. Whoever. For them to be lesbians, not accompanied by or interested in any menfolk. Something, anything, other than what the cold pit in my stomach told me was very likely the truth.

"Couldn't find someone a little bonier to wear that?" the maid asked, whipping the tips of her fingers against my abdomen. She'd done that before, many times, but encountered brick as a result. Had never looked up at me with wide eyes and an expression that was not quite as neutral as she'd perhaps meant for it to be. Nor had her breathing visibly quickened, as indicated by the flare of her nostrils and rise and fall of her considerable chest.

Jake snorted. "Drawn at random, same as yours."

"Sweetie, nothing about me is random," said the maid, who I was still hoping would somehow prove to not be Cass. "Might seem that way to you, but it's not."

The bunny rolled her eyes. "If we'd had our pick, I'd have gone with the witch." She glanced down at herself, as if noticing for the first time just how much was on display. "Probably comes with a skirt that doesn't reach the hips, never mind the ankles, though."

Sure enough, the other guests were starting to trickle in, and the one with the pointy cap was indeed wearing a black dress that barely covered her bottom. That wouldn't cover it if she went up on tiptoes for whatever reason. Granted, that high collar would not have put a deep fissure on display the way my mom's teddy, which was stiff enough to be a corset, did. Would not have left a canyon open for unsuspecting men to fall into. I'm sure she'd have appreciated that, even if her legs were every bit as exposed as they currently were. Genuine modestly did not appear to be an option, though. Just partial approximations thereof.

"Are you the playmate of the month?" my dad asked my mom. Because he's smooth like that. She made no attempt to stop his hands from settling atop her hips, though. Lucky bastard. "Where can I buy a calendar that's all Octobers?"

There was that fingertip thing again. I'd never realized my sister had gotten that from our mom. "Same place I'd go to buy a bottle of Henry Goldbeard rum, I imagine."

"Henry Goldbeard?" Cass and I said in unison.

"Shh," both our parents said moments before their lips touched.

"Gross," one of us said, turning away.

Only for her own husband to step close, tilt her chin, and initiate a far more passionate kiss. The kind I felt guilty being in close proximity to, whether I watched it or not.

And watch I did. Only out of the corner of my eye, and I was no less ashamed of that than I should have been, but nonetheless I failed where countless times before I had succeeded. My heart beat faster with each passing second, fueled by a mixture of jealousy, arousal, and disbelief, given how chaste the other kiss was in comparison, and the aching throb between my legs made me wish yet again there was a waistband to tuck myself into.

The prospect of my sister realizing she was responsible, in whole or in part, for the distortion in my costume hit me and my head spun, knees wobbled, and I downed the rest of my drink in hopes of alleviating symptoms I knew that would only exacerbate. By the time Jake decided to see if he could get away with squeezing her ass, I decided it was time for another drink. The polite thing to do would have been to ask my mother and my sister what they wanted, of course, but I couldn't stand there a moment longer.

Besides, women love surprises. Just because I hadn't thought to ask didn't mean I had to return empty handed. Might as well fix a plate of stuff to nibble on while I was at it.

"Hey, so how's that work?" the cowboy asked while I waited for a round of drinks. "Ain't great at math, but that looks like an odd number over there." One half of his stubbly face turned up. "Well, it's even now, with you standing here. So are you the fifth wheel?"

"What's it to you?" I asked, rather pointedly eyeolating the demoness. "Tired of sucking her horns? Jerking that barbed tail?"

He rested a hand on the pommel of his fake gun, swayed his hips. "Just wondering which little lady's gonna have herself a threesome later. Assuming that's your role."

"Whole idea's to mix things up, isn't it?" I ventured, hoping my new friend could not hear the heavy thumps coming from inside my chest. "That's why we're here?"

A slow nod. "Not with the other guests."

Then who?

I could tell he wanted to laugh at me. That he managed not to probably counted for something. Not much, though. "The, uh, ghosts. If that's what they really are."

So my parents had brought me and my sister to a swingers resort, as I'd suspected. Whether they'd done it knowingly or not was almost immaterial at that point. We were here now and the fun was already starting, was far enough along to make things awkward. If Cass and I were a little younger, this weekend would traumatize us for life. Might anyway.

All of which seemed like minor details compared to the bomb my cowboy friend had just dropped. People came here to have sex with ghosts, to watch their spouses do so.

Did that make them necrophiliacs? Necrovoyeurs? Necrocuckolds?

Probably not. Close enough to weird me the fuck out, though.

"If that's what they really are?" I finally managed.

He tipped his hat at me, a true cowboy farewell, then returned to Ms. Red. The kiss she gave him, the way her hot body pressed against his, the familiarity of his hand on her round butt, all suggested the fire was still burning bright.

That was a small-minded way to think about things, though. I had no practical experience with such things but had read a bit about them. About all sorts of things I'd never tried and probably didn't want to. Guess that makes me sound like a perv, though if I told you how much time I've spent reading about paganism, about historic trade routes and modern monetary theory, about all sorts of esoterica, you might just think I'm a dork who needs to get out more. Both are probably true. Anyway, I knew enough to know there didn't have to be anything wrong with a relationship for one or both partners to want to open it up. Just couldn't help looking at those two, at the other couples in the ballroom---and they did mostly seem to be couples---without wondering what what their story was.

"How long've you worked here?" I asked one of the bartenders. When he held up three fingers, which I took to mean three Octobers, given the establishment's nature, I said, "Are you allowed to say anything? Is what we're hoping will happen gonna happen?"

The two bartenders looked at each other, went right back to fixing drinks. Only after three glasses sat sweating atop a silver tray did the one lean in and whisper, "It is, but if I were you, I wouldn't be hoping for it. I'd keep my hands to myself. Look, but don't touch."

I raised an eyebrow at him. He stared me dead in the eye, said nothing.

A five spot made its way from my wallet to the tray of drinks.

The bartender took Mr. Lincoln and stuffed him in a jar. "Don't have too much fun," he told me, sounding for all the world like a warning against drunk driving. Even though we were in a hotel and no one besides the staff would be driving anywhere that night.

#

My understanding of cocktail hours is that they last about an hour, maybe two. Cash bar or open, the drinks stop being served when the food is cleared away.

Not so here.

Around nine, the bar and the buffet table were moved from the middle of the room to opposite walls and the latter was cleared off. Only to be covered again with as many platters, piled just as high with food. The only difference was that these were desserts. Ghost-shaped sugar cookies, dead velvet cake, and brownies drizzled with orange frosting and sprinkled with candy corn. The last thing that did was encourage anyone to leave.

Shortly thereafter, a sound system I hadn't noticed before came on, started blasting old-timey stuff, spooky stuff. Monster Mash, Spooky Scary Skeletons, Thriller, you get the idea. We Addamses had no choice but to snap our fingers in time with a certain theme song. Nor was staying off the dance floor an option. Every last one of us, Cass included, had two left feet, but every last one of us also had two to three drinks in our system, in some cases four to five, and we'd have been the only wallflowers.

Let me tell you something, though: dancing with your mother or your sister at a wedding is one thing, at a supernatural swingers spot quite another. Atmosphere's entirely different. Outfits are entirely different. Blood flow's different. I'd never look at Cass the same way again after this weekend, I knew that already, yet neither would I be as tempted to grope her, to grind up on her, to nibble her ear while her husband patiently waited his turn, or did much the same to our mom, the next time we were at a family function. When there's grandparents in the room, little children and friends of friends whose names you should know but don't, you expect uncommon levels of intimacy between brother and sister to get a certain reaction. Not a positive one. In that room, that night, with that crowd? It almost felt like we'd letting everyone down, maybe even spitting in their faces, if we didn't.

"You're, uh, kinda getting into it, aren't ya?" Cass said at one point, thigh rubbing repeatedly against the erection I couldn't hide. Sort of, but not quite, hiding it for me. "Should I be flattered? Or does it do that for just anyone?"

"What do you think?"

Her hand went to the back of my head, nails pressing gently against my scalp, and her breath was hot on my neck. "Just anyone," she whispered so seductively it took me a moment to realize she was steering the conversation in the other direction.

The one I should have wanted her to steer it in.

"You're right," I lied. Was there a single woman in that room who wouldn't have a similar effect on me? No, probably not. Igor's counterpart had seen to that. There were plenty outside the hotel who did nothing for me, though. Plenty who couldn't begin to compete with Cass, even though she was my sister and thus should have occupied the four-billionth-three-hundred-millionth spot on my list. Shouldn't appear anywhere on it, as even putting her name at the bottom acknowledged the possibility.

"Aren't I always?"

"And you don't do that costume justice," I added, though it was another lie. Did I like our mom's figure better? Or the one The Unhallowed had given our mom, however you chose to look at it? Yes, yes I did. Was Cass basically the same woman only younger and thinner, if not so thin as to lack curves? Yes, yes she was. Heck, if she got to keep the costume, she'd be the most attractive woman everywhere she went from now on---as long as our mom wasn't there and hadn't also been allowed to keep her costume. Same eyes, same hair, if a little longer, same porcelain complexion, same plump lips. Similar shape to her body. Less extreme in its proportions, but still an hourglass. "They should have given you a pumpkin."

Genuine hurt flashed across her face and our bodies moved apart. "Damn, Will. First you call me an emotionless Goth, then you call me fat. What's next? Insult my intelligence?"

"No, Cass, I'm sorry," I said, pulling her toward me.

She jerked back. Hands still on my shoulders, leg still between mine, but only until the song ended, I'd wager. And that was only because she didn't want to make a scene.

"Look, the truth is I'm seeing you a new light tonight," I began.