The Weeping Thing Ch. 02

Chapter Two

Margaret

It was all such a wicked illusion, thought Margaret, as her breath started catching in her throat. Had anyone chanced to see her in her present condition, undoubtedly they would have branded her a whore. She was on her bed, nude, with her butt up in the air and her full udders hanging down like obscene pendulums of flesh.

For that last few minutes, Margaret's eyes had been closed. This way, she was able to see herself not as she was at present, but as she had been in the past. Her body had never been lean and sexy, like the bodies of the celebrities she sometimes saw on TV. However, it had been curvy, warm, and alluring enough to attract her husband. He had been a handsome man with dusty brown hair and a matching mustache, by the name of Robert Caldwell. She'd married Mr. Caldwell while he was still off playing army-man in the early nineties, serving multiple tours in places as exotic as Kuwait and Iraq. That was well before the current mess in the Middle East had started up. Margaret had been twenty-eight then, while her Robert had been twenty-six.

Robert had only been a diesel mechanic and not a soldier. He was always out somewhere in the desert, trying to keep the sand from getting too far into the working parts of a Humvee's innards, or piecing together axles and such when those trucks had gotten stuck in rough terrain. The fact that he was a non-combatant did not stop her Robert from getting blown up by an IED, an Improvised Explosive Device. The device had ripped through the inside of the lightly armored personnel truck her husband had been sitting in. It was concealed within a case of MREs (Meals, Ready To Eat), and added to a stockpile of supplies that Robert's squad was requested to load and transport. The IED had taken out her Robert, and everyone else unlucky enough to be on board the vehicle that day.

The moment the news of her husband's death reached her was the moment Margaret's world had turned upside down. The person she had once been disappeared. Gone was her carefree attitude, her optimistic sense that there was always a silver lining behind every gray cloud and a rainbow after every big storm. Gone were her days of joking around and smiling, of heading out to catch a movie, of taking in a nice dinner at a restaurant, or even of going out for a jog or a bicycle ride. The new Margaret was angry, bitter, and disappointed. For many years now, she had been this way.

Margaret well knew that her Robert was long gone, and that the impostor who slid onto the bed behind her was nothing more than some devious entity pretending to be him. Yet, when she closed her eyes she saw her self as she'd been twenty-two years before, a little on the chubby side, with hair bright and blonde, bouncy and curly. As for the thing behind Margaret, when her eyes were shut, she was entirely convinced that it was her husband come back from the dead. The entity breathed and moved like her Robert. It reached out and held her ass like Robert had, many years before. It teased the open flower of her sex like Robert would, before he penetrated her and made love to her exactly like Robert would.

And that's what Margaret would do; she would make love to that strange weeping-thing-turned-Robert that she'd found in Donald's bedroom. The woman would feel that hard cock of his invading her from behind; feel his hands groping at the swells of her ass. That was at first, before those strong and perfect hands went over and cupped and held her full breasts. In that intense moment of ecstasy, Margaret found herself pushing back to meet Robert's thrusts, becoming even more excited when she heard their flesh smack together. Only sluts made love that way, she reminded herself. For a few fleeting moments, she would allow herself to be one. For her one true love, Robert, she would have done anything.

Margaret heard the weeping thing's moans and felt its shudders around her and within her. These motions were exactly like her Robert would have made them. When her husband could no longer hold himself back, Robert would wrap his arms around her waist and embrace her, until the last of his sexual contractions had passed.

This too, the weeping thing did for her. Behind her, she could hear it breathing hard. She could feel its sweat moistening up the back of her thighs. She felt the last of its tender kisses as they were planted on her back.

Margaret fell forward on her bed, panting from her exertion. While her Robert would have stayed with her and cuddled, the weeping thing was no such beast. Like a thief, it fled back into Donald's room, until such time as she felt the need to go over there and draw it out again.

"Margo..." The weeping thing had said to her, using Robert's fading voice before it quickly disappeared past her open door.

That's what her Robert had called her, back when he was alive. Margo; after that actress in those old Superman movies. Nobody had referred to her that way in ages.

Margaret lay on her bed for several minutes, refusing to open her eyes and ruin the illusion. She was still twenty-eight, still young and happy, still very much in love with her Robert and he with her. Still...

The woman's thoughts stopped, as she felt the weeping thing's expulsions seeping from her body, for it had its own seed just as a man does. The sheets will have to be washed, she thought. She would have to use up even more of the laundry detergent, unless she got her body off the bed in a hurry. This is when Margaret finally opened her eyes and slid off the mattress. As she got to her feet, she made the mistake of looking into the large mirrors that made up her closet doors.

Margaret saw herself as she really was, old and wrinkled and discolored and bloated. She had become a waste of a woman with arthritis, diabetes, and high blood pressure afflicting her. A woman who had to inject her belly with insulin once a day to make sure her blood-sugar didn't get too bad. She would be better off dead, she thought. She'd been telling herself that same thing for over twenty years, ever since she'd lost her Robert.

The old woman's face tightened into a mask of pain. She took a seat on the edge of the bed and began to cry. She no longer cared about the expulsion leaking from her body and oozing down to stain the sheets.

Some time later, Margaret found herself sitting in the small corner reserved for an even smaller dining table with four white and wooden chairs. She was drinking warm Jasmine tea. The woman tried to convince herself that her life had changed ever since she'd discovered the weeping thing in her old renter's bedroom, but really it hadn't. Margaret was still the same old Margaret, who had to go to the doctor at least once a week to get something or other checked. Who had nothing better to look forward to, other than TV sitcoms and talk shows that seemed to be getting stupider with each and every passing season.

Well, her renter was gone now, so that had changed. Oh, the police had come by when she'd called them. They'd taken a look at Donald's things and checked whatever it is that cops checked on occasions such as that. Donald had been missing from work for a couple of days by then. One of the detectives had even confided to Margaret that some of Donald's coworkers had mentioned that he had been seeing someone new. So far, nobody had a clue as to who that person was.

Margaret had given the police her own suspicions. Donald had been eating a hell of a lot more food lately, and he sure wasn't showing where all that food was going on his waist. Donald had a girl on the side, she was convinced of it, and he was taking all that extra food to her!

She caught the detective rolling his eyes at one of the other cops, right after she said that. Because they didn't believe her, Margaret started nagging for them to leave her house. They would not budge an inch for her, not until their so-called investigation was over.

In the end, the cops finally did leave. Somehow, over the next couple of days they managed to get in touch with Donald's next of kin. These relatives had called her. In no casual terms, his family requested that Margaret ship Donald's things to them, at her expense and over a distance of several states. That phone call had very quickly gotten ugly.

"Well, screw you!" Margaret had screamed into her phone. "If you aren't going to pay for the shipping costs, then Donald's shit isn't going anywhere! And you'd better be good and quick to come and grab it, before I go and donate it somewhere! Goodbye!"

Margaret had slammed the phone down on its cradle, still fuming as she stood up and began pacing back and forth in the small living room. Only after her anger had begun to subside did she begin to hear the weeping thing. She'd heard that weeping a few times before, but she'd never been able to locate its source. It seemed to be coming from a certain room sometimes, but she could find nothing in that room once she'd gone over and poked around inside of it. The weeping seemed to be coming from the entire house at times, or from the ceiling above, or from the space below the house, or even from outside the house. In the end, the old woman had just taken it as another sign of her growing old, or getting crazier.

She remembered that day, when her neighbor Jenny had come over with some wine coolers. Four were for Jenny and four for Margaret. They'd split the flavors, with each of the old girls getting two Blackberry and two Tropical Blend.

"More like Tropical Piss, if you ask me!" Margaret had joked.

Both her and Jenny had busted up laughing when she'd said that. Jenny had even spit out a wet spray of the mild alcohol all over the couch. The two fussy old women were soon in a frenzy to get the mess cleaned up, before it set into the cushions and left a stain.

Such was the life of two old bags such as they were, Margaret lamented.

Jenny had spent that night on the couch, since three and a half wine coolers were enough to get the woman tipsy, while Margaret managed to finish off all four of hers.

Margaret had lain down on her bed. That was the first night she had dreamt of her Robert in many, many years. Robert had been standing beside the bed, watching her. Margaret was no longer a beaten old woman. She had been young again.

Robert was smiling down at her, and she smiling back up at him. He made that cute nudge with his head that meant he wanted her to slide over on the mattress to make room for him. Margaret had not moved over; instead, she'd spread her legs giddily and invited him to her.

And Robert had come to her and made love to her. Margaret caught his manly scent and felt his perspiration against her skin. It all felt so wonderful and real, as if she'd gone back in time and had gotten the chance to sleep with Robert once more.

That night, Margaret had woken up at just past three in the morning. Her insides felt warm and moist, and fuller than she'd remembered feeling in such a long time. She must have cum a gallon, Margaret assumed, thanks to her unexpected dream that night. As quietly as she could and so as not to disturb Jenny, she ambled her way to the bathroom to clean herself up.

The next morning, Jenny made a strange statement while Margaret prepared bagels and coffee for them both.

"Who was that man, who was walking around the house last night?" She asked.

"What man?"

"You know, the man who came out of your second bedroom." Jenny elaborated. "I think he was walking around naked."

"What did he look like?" Margaret wondered. "It wasn't Donald, was it? He hasn't come back, has he?"

"Oh, no, this was not Donald. I remember exactly what he looked like. This man didn't look anything like Donald. He was good looking!"

Margaret smirked at this last comment. She thought back to when she'd first let Donald move in with her, and to when Jenny had gotten her first look at him. Jenny had pulled her aside and called Donald a two-bagger. When Margaret asked her what that was, Jenny had explained:

'You know, a two-bagger. One bag goes over his head, and the other bag goes over your head, in case his bag breaks.'

Since Margaret still had a few minutes to go before the coffee was ready, she shuffled her way over to the second bedroom. Jenny followed her, just in case whomever she'd seen was still in there, and hopefully still naked.

They found nothing except for an empty room, and several large and taped-up boxes that contained all of Donald's belongings.

"Well, if you see him again," Margaret quipped. "You be sure to give him directions into my room."

"Oh, no, I'm getting him first." Jenny countered. "Now, tell me who he is before I start calling you a cradle-robber. Did he already leave for work, and if so, when will he be back?"

"Describe him for me."

"Oh, it was too dark! I can tell you he had brown hair and a mustache. I think he had some kind of tattoo on one of his shoulders, but I couldn't see that very well. It was the left shoulder, I think. He looked like he had a nice build." Jenny shrugged. "That's about all I remember, anyway."

Margaret thought back to her image of Robert, from the previous night. Her deceased husband had a tattoo of an eagle superimposed over a United States flag, on his left shoulder. Below the eagle's talons, was a white ribbon with the words Duty, Honor, Courage written on it. Underneath the image was written U.S. Army.

"So, who is he?" Jenny persisted.

Deflecting the question, Margaret replied. "I'll tell you later. You bringing more wine coolers tonight?"

Jenny smiled back. "If I get to see that guy naked again, I will."

"I'm not making any promises. You just bring the alcohol."

Jenny brought not eight, but twelve wine coolers that night. The extra four-pack was for the naked stranger she'd seen. Much of that evening's conversation centered on Jenny trying to pry the stranger's identity out of Margaret's mouth.

Eventually, Margaret relented and did make an admission of sorts. She hadn't said the truth about it, though. Margaret knew Jenny well enough that the other woman would become upset if she kept denying that a man was staying over. So, she lied in order to keep the peace between them.

"Oh, fine, I'll tell you. It's just some carpenter guy that's in town for a few days doing some job or other. His name is Jack. He's only staying here because he doesn't want to pay a couple of hundred bucks a week to stay in a motel. I found out about him after I placed an ad for short-term roommates."

"Well, where's his truck?" Jenny asked. "How come I haven't seen this guy's truck parked out on the street?"

"He doesn't have a truck. He takes the bus back and forth just like Donald used to."

"Then where does he keep all his tools? Don't carpenters carry around a bunch of tools?"

"Well, how should I know?" Margaret scolded. "All I know is that I'm charging him half of what he would have paid for a motel. Anything else, you can ask him when you see him."

Margaret was hoping that would have been the end of that conversation, and luckily, it had been for a little while.

Since Margaret wasn't much of a drinker, she had gotten good and drunk after her fifth wine cooler. She was still drunk when she'd lain down on her bed, and even after she'd gone to the bathroom a million times and pissed out a couple of rivers.

The woman had been woken up at half past one the next morning, to the sound of Jenny's moaning coming from the living room. Margaret could also hear the living room couch banging against the wall, as if Jenny was being throttled but good. The old woman sat up, trying to knock the cobwebs out of her head. She was intending to head over to the living room to observe the scene for herself, but a second later she put a stop to that idea. The last thing Margaret wanted to do was to walk in on Jenny while she was having a wet dream and frigging herself frantic over whichever young stud she was dreaming of. No way, no how did she want to end up with the image of Jenny, with her legs splayed open on her couch and her fingers embedded halfway into her pussy, to be ingrained into her head for the rest of her life.

Instead, Margaret sighed and lay back down. After a few moments, Jenny must have gotten to wherever she needed to be, as her moaning finally began to subside and everything went back normal.

All bedlam broke loose the next morning, when Jenny got up and waltzed her way into Margaret's bedroom. Jenny wanted to wake her friend up and tell her about the wild sex she'd had with that carpenter guy the night before. While she gabbed, and while Margaret struggled in irritation to rouse her body up, Jenny strutted about the room excitedly. Jenny started taking in this and that item in Margaret's bedroom, until she came to the little curio cabinet that contained a few old pictures of Robert.

"Who is this guy?" Jenny pointed, as Margaret had hardly ever allowed her friend into her private bedroom before.

Margaret never told Jenny what Robert looked like. When Margaret had mentioned that it was her deceased husband, Jenny hit the roof, screaming about how the guy she'd slept with had looked exactly the way Robert had in one of those pictures. Even down to the tattoo! Before Margaret could stop her, Jenny had run out of the room. Only seconds later, Jenny had collected her keys and coat. She'd run out of the house without even bothering to close the front door.

Well, you can imagine that the grogginess soon left Margaret's head. Although she tried to call Jenny right away, her friend simply refused to answer the phone. Margaret said to hell with it all, before she went back to sleep.

The old woman had things to do that day. Thanks to the alcohol and to being awakened twice during the night, she woke up late and went into a rush to get everything done. It wasn't until later in the afternoon that she thought to call Jenny again. Instead, Margaret got Jenny's answering machine.

"I only took the guy in because he looks like Robert." Margaret continued to lie. "And that tattoo does look a little bit like Robert's, but if you look closely enough you'll see that it's not the same thing. It's not even the same shape!"

Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to make up that she had a new renter in the house, since she'd only done it to get Jenny off her back. Thanks to that, Jenny had gone and gotten upset at her anyway.

Well, what's done was done, Margaret decided, before she went on with her evening in the usual way; by watching TV and eating whatever crap she had in the fridge. She'd gone to bed at her usual time of nine o'clock, because she never had anything better to do. Margaret was soon dozing off into la-la land.

Her Robert had come to her that night. He made love to her again, and she hadn't even been drunk to imagine it all. She'd been wide-awake and frightened at first, when he'd shown up at the side of her bed. After Margaret had closed her eyes, she imagined that Robert was still there, but she wasn't the old and crusty Margaret that she had presently become. Instead, she was the much younger and more vibrant blonde that had been very much in love with her husband. The woman she had been in the distant past, the woman she'd thought she would never be again.

Robert was humming in his old and happy way, as he slid into the bed next to her. Margaret had been so desperate for some sign of her husband's return, any sign at all, that she was willing to accept even a ghostly version of him. She kept her eyes shut, as Robert started caressing her arm and side, and later when he'd moved on to her breasts. The woman kept still as he parted her legs and moved in close to her splayed middle. She nearly cried out, as Robert's form had lain on top of her, his cock piercing her fully, while his hands reassuringly held her at the shoulders.