Welcome to Hart House Pt. 04

The spooky season always brings me back to this little, sexy ghost story. Unfortunately, it will be published after Halloween but, I think it still stands as something worth reading. I hope you like this installment. I think I am finally getting close to the end of it.

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Pt 4.

I didn't know what time of day it was but I was hungry. I headed into the kitchen and looked in sheepishly. I did not want to have another encounter with Tracy. She was not there but there was a plate on the stove with foil over it. I pulled the foil back and was greeted with the smell of roast beef and mashed potatoes. I wondered idly where the food came from and then decided I'd rather not know.

I quietly ate the meal alone in that kitchen and wondered where the library would be. The attic was obviously upstairs somewhere but the library? Behind a locked door? I had not examined all the main floor rooms. Maybe one of those?

I pushed the plate aside and stood, thinking I would go explore, but suddenly I felt extremely tired. The storm made it impossible to tell if it was afternoon or evening. I started walking back to my room. Maybe a nap would help me. Each step I took down that hall seemed to sap a measure of strength from me, and by the time I made it to the door of my room, I was leaning against the wall, only keeping upright through sheer force of will.

I managed to open the door and staggered towards the four post bed and fell on it without bothering to remove my clothes. Lost in the bone deep tiredness I immediately fell into a deep well of sleep.

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I was in my old house, the one my wife and I were leaving behind to start anew on the west coast. There were boxes piled up and the furniture was all in the wrong places, ready for movers to grab it and load it into a truck.

I wandered room to room, calling out my wife's name. There was no response. I walked through the living room and down the hall towards the bedroom. My voice seemed to echo off of the walls in my silent home.

I came to the door of our bedroom. It was open just a crack and I pushed on it, wincing at the squeal of un-oiled hinges as it swung open. My wife was standing there, looking out the window, her back to me.

"Rachel," I said, for some reason being very happy to see her. It felt like it had been a long time and I just wanted to see her face. For her to turn to look at me.

She did not, however, respond. I frowned.

"Rachel," I said. "It's me. I've been..." I paused. Where had I been? It felt like I had been far away but that made no sense.

Rachel continued to stare out the window and I began to cross the room to her, but paused when I heard the door of the bedroom open behind me.

I spun, and saw a woman standing there, naked. It was Annabelle and my memory came flooding back into my mind. How I had been trapped in some kind of haunted house, fucking women who seemed to be trapped there, including what seemed to be a ghost named Elisabeth Hart, mistress of the house. I remembered Nicholas, the creepy old man who claimed to be the butler but held some kind of power over the place.

"Hello, Mr. Drew," Annabelle said in her slightly husky, vaguely accented voice. It sounded slightly French, slightly Eastern European. I had been unable to place it.

Annabelle was wearing her slutty maid uniform, the bunched skirt barely covering her ass, her long legs in fishnet stockings. The top was a corset which caused her ample breasts to almost fall out of the flimsy white material. Her gorgeous face was smiling at me, her plump lips crimson, dark makeup around her eyes. Her black hair done up, with a small bonnet on top. To my dismay, my body reacted and I began to get hard for this woman in the same room as my wife.

"What the fuck," I said and spun to look at my wife. "How am I here? Why are you here, what is happening?"

Annabelle said nothing but crossed towards me and, before I could react, wrapped her arms around me, turning her face up, as if for a kiss.

"Fuck," I said, trying to step back but she held on, pinning her perfect body agaiant mine. "It's not what it looks like, Rachel," I said. "I didn't have a choice!"

Rachel continued to ignore me, facing the window. I tried to step away from Annabelle but the back of my legs hit the edge of the bed and I fell backwards onto the soft sheets.

Annabelle was fast as a viper, on her knees between my legs before I even registered that I had fallen. I opened my mouth to say stop but somehow my pants were already open and my cock disappeared into her open mouth, the wet warmth engulfing it.

I groaned as Annabelle shoved me into her throat and held me there, her tongue massaging the underside of my 7.5 inch shaft.

"Rachel," I said, weakly, to my wife's turned back, "it's not what it looks like."

My wife finally, slowly turned and my eyes widened. Her hair was exactly how I remembered it. Dark, long and wavy. Her body was the same, lithe, with smallish breasts. But her face ....

Her face was not there. Instead it was a vague blur, a flesh colored, unformed shape.

"What have you done to her face?" I asked.

Annabelle pulled my cock out of her mouth and stroked it with her soft hand beside her cheek.

"We have done nothing. This is not real. Just a dream. It is your memory that is failing you, Drew," she said before sucking me in once more.

Rachel walked towards the bed and sat on the edge, beside where I was leaned back, receiving a blowjob from Annabelle. I could not look away from the smeared mockery where her pretty face should have been. She was pretty, wasn't she? I was sure she was, though I could not form the features.

"No," I said, feeling tears forming in the corners of my eyes. "Don't take her from me! Leave me her face!"

I truly felt the loss, the despair of losing my memories, but something had changed in me over the last however long it had been at Hart House. Days? Weeks? Who could know? The form of my wife was beside me but I still found myself gripping the back of Annabelle's head and thrusting into her mouth, savoring the feeling of her expert fellatio.

Annabelle pulled me out of her mouth and stood, gripping the collar of her top and pulling it down, her perfect breasts spilling out. They were large but pert, with dark nipples. She climbed onto the bed and straddled my legs, hovering above my raging erection.

She gripped my cock, the thick shaft filling her small hand, stroking it so that the foreskin slid back and forth over the purple head, the bulbous end brushing the lips of her pussy.

"Fuuuuuck," I groaned as she slowly sank onto me, taking me inside of her.

"It will all fade away, Drew," she said. "All of it. Your wife, your life. All your memories. The house eats them. I don't remember my parents. I think they loved me."

Annabelle began to ride me, rising and lowering herself, and I watched my cock move inside her shaved pussy. I looked over at my faceless wife, who just sat on the edge of the bed, not moving, empty face looking away from me.

"All we can do," Annabelle continued, "is take what joy we can. Enjoy any pleasures that might be offered to us. I don't know if my parents truly loved me but I like to imagine they did. Will you love me? If only for this moment?"

I groaned once more, feeling lost and broken. I grabbed Annabelle's hips and thrust up with my hips while I pulled hers against me.

"Fuck it," I said, looking away from the imperfect form of my wife to the crystal clear one of Annabelle above me. Her face, in contrast to my wife's, looked high definition. I could see every feature. Her dark eyes which caught the light in the room. The way she was biting her plump lower lip. The blush that spread across her chest and her perfect breasts.

I shifted, rolling both of us over, away from where my wife was sitting, keeping my cock deep inside her.

"Yes," I said. "If only for this moment."

I began to thrust, slamming myself into her again and again, making the old metal bed squeak as I fucked the maid.

"Yes!" Annabelle cried out. "Yes, Mr. Drew! Fuck me!"

I was grunting as I fucked her, our bodies slapping together. My back arched each time I bottomed out, and I put my hand around her throat, holding her down by it. Annabelle reached between us with one hand and rubbed her clit furiously while I fucked her. Her other hand went to her breast and pinched and tugged at her nipple.

"Gonna cum," I grunted after a moment. "Fuck, gonna cum."

"Cum in me, Mr. Drew!" she cried out. "Fill me!"

I could hold back no longer and groaned as I released, slamming deep into her, spraying cum. Annabelle wrapped her legs around my ass and cried out as she came at the same time.

As I was cumming I looked over at my wife and for the briefest moment I saw her face perfectly clearly. She was looking at me fuck this woman in our bed and her face seemed so sad. Then she was gone. The room was gone. I sank into a pit of black, unable once more to remember my wife's face.

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I woke up in the four post bed that had become mine at Hart House. I was naked, on my back, on top of crumpled sheets. Annabelle, also naked, lay with me, body pressed against mine, face against my neck. I could feel her breathing against my skin and, for a few moments, let myself enjoy the feeling.

"Annabelle," I said after a minute or so had passed.

"Yes," she said immediately. She had not, it seemed, been sleeping.

"Will I lose everything? All my memories?"

"Yes, Mr. Drew," she said. "I'm sorry but this is how it will be. It will start slow. It already has, I believe. Then much faster. It will be like attempting to hold onto a fist full of sand. And like a fist full of sand, a few grains will remain in your hand. Memories of memories, knowledge that you should know more. Those are the worst. It would be kinder if everything was stripped from us. But there is little kind about this house."

"Where is the mistress?" I asked. "Where is Elisabeth Hart?"

"I cannot tell you Mr. Drew," Annabelle said. "I am not capable of it. I am sorry."

"That's ok," I said. "I understand." I did. She was bound by this fucking house, just as I was, but worse. I wondered how long she had been there, trapped by this place and that disgusting old man, Nicholas.

"Can you tell me where the attic is? Or the library?"

Annabelle looked into my eyes and smiled.

"The library is on the main floor but the door is locked. I suppose Mr, Nicholas has the key. The attic..." Annabelle stopped speaking and made a face. "I cannot tell you, it seems. But..." She turned her face towards the ceiling and looked meaningfully upwards.

I nodded. Of course it was up. I would just have to explore.

Annabelle ran her hand down my bare stomach, brushing her fingertips through my trimmed pubic hair, and across my flaccid cock. It began to respond immediately.

I was tempted. I almost pulled her against me. It would have been so easy to allow myself to give into pleasure. To stay there and fuck over and over again as my memories, my self, faded away.

I groaned and rolled away from the beautiful naked woman in my bed and looked around for my clothes, finding them discarded on the floor. I scooped them up and dressed quickly while Annabelle pouted and watched.

"Thank you, Annabelle," I said. "But not right now."

She sighed and rolled onto her back.

"That is fine, Mr. Drew. I have to clean your room and make preparations anyhow."

I paused and looked at her, eyebrow raised.

"Another thing I cannot tell you, Mr. Drew," she said apologetically.

"Ok," I said, and went to the door that led to the hall.

The bedrooms were on the second floor of the old house, doors opening off of the long, wide hallway that ran the length of the house. I walked to the end with the large staircase that led down to the foyer and descended.

I had been in the kitchen at the far end, and in Nicholas's study which was also at that end, but had not explored the rest of the house.

I began to try the doors. The first one in the hall led into a drawing room. There was no dust, a credit to Annabelle's skills I supposed, but the furniture was covered in drop cloths. Under the white canvases I could see chairs, settes and couches radiate out from a large, currently cold fireplace. There was a large piano against one wall and a bar against the other.

Another across the hall was a long dining room, dominated by a long table carved from one solid tree trunk. I guessed that at one time groups of up to thirty people sat around this table, eating in opulence.

Ornate candelabras ran down the center and there were settings in front of every chair. I closed the door and went further down the hall.

The next door was on the same side as the drawing room and I reached out and tried the cut crystal door handle but it did not give. I rattled it and confirmed. It was locked.

Was this the library? I wondered what was behind that door. What the house, or Nicholas, was hiding in there. I looked at the door. It seemed to be made of a solid wood and I doubted that I would be able to kick it open.

"Can I help you?" an oily voice came from behind me making me jump and spin. Nicholas was standing very close behind me. I had not heard him approach.

"Jesus, man, don't sneak up on a guy," I said.

"My apologies, Mr. Drew. This house is a quiet one, and I guess that inclines me to step softly," Nicholas said, a smug smile on his lips. I had a flash of memory of his leering face the first night I had been there. He had been fucking Annabelle from behind while I used her mouth. The thought that I had shared that moment with him disgusted me.

"What's in here?" I asked, gesturing to the door. "Why is it locked?"

He looked over my shoulder.

"Why, that would be the library, sir," he said, the same smile on his face. "Is it locked?"

"Yes," I said and rattled the door handle to illustrate the statement. "Why would you lock the library?"

"Oh," he said, shrugging. "We have always locked that door. This house is full of women. You know how much trouble a woman can get into with a bit of knowledge. It's best to keep that shut, don't you think?"

I shook my head in disgust, but ignored the remark.

"Well," I said. "I'm not a woman, am I? Can I get in here?"

"Yes," Nicholas said. "You have very much proven yourself not to be a woman. From what I hear you have been leaving all the woman very clear as to your... virility. Even that old dyke, Pat!"

I remembered my previous day's encounter with Pat, the groundskeeper. She was clearly a lesbian but even she was unable to avoid the influence of the house and had fucked me in her shed.

"I don't suppose that there is any harm in allowing you into the library, good chap," he continued. "But I'm not sure where the key is. I'll have to dig around a bit in my office. Why don't I do that and I'll let you know when I've found it?"

I did not hold out much hope he would do as he said. I felt so tired. I leaned against the wall beside the library door.

"Why don't you just let me leave?" I asked. "Please just let me leave."

"What have these silly women been telling you?" Nicholas asked with a dangerous glint to his eyes. "You are not a prisoner here, Drew. Have I ever stopped you from leaving? I believe I have even tried to aid your attempts, no? If you are tired of our hospitality, just leave!"

"I've fucking tried!" My sudden shout echoed down the quiet halls of Hart House. "This fucking storm doesn't stop!"

"Are you implying that I control the weather?" Nicholas asked, and his voice sounded like he wanted to laugh. I wanted to break his neck at that point.

"I'm afraid that you are getting a bit ridiculous now, my friend. Why don't you go find Tracy. Take some of this aggression out on her. You know that she loves it. I'll find that key, and when the storm stops you can be on your way."

He began to walk away from me, but spoke over his shoulder.

"I'm a bit busy at the moment making some preparations. We will talk soon."

I watched him walk away and enter his office and sighed. I turned and walked back to the stairwell, heading upstairs. I had no illusions that that creepy old fuck was going to find that key and help me in any way. I decided to see if I could find the attic.

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The second floor was where I was staying, as well as several other rooms that I assumed were also bedrooms. I had not attempted to go to the third floor and paused at the bottom of the flight that led upwards.

The house was gloomy, but distorted light came in the windows, making me believe that it was still daytime. Still, I thought it best to bring some light so I grabbed an oil lantern and lit it, carrying it with me.

I felt a kind of dread as I gazed up the staircase. The steps here were polished dark wood, without the deep red carpet of the lower ones. I took a deep breath and began to climb.

The staircase ended at a landing with one door at the end of the small vestibule. I looked around and saw a portrait on the wall. It was a large painting of a scowling old man. He was seated in an ornate chair, almost a throne, wearing a severe black Victorian style suit. His bright blue eyes glowered at me from beneath bushy white eyebrows.

I approached it and saw that there was a small brass plaque beneath the painting.

Anthony Hart, it read. I somehow knew that this was the man who had built this accursed house. I instantly hated him.

I crossed to the only door and tried the cut crystal knob. I was not surprised to find it locked. This must be the master suite, I decided. Emily Hart's room. Probably once belonging to Anthony Hart.

I looked around, then up at the ceiling. I saw a small rope dangling from a frame with a small wooden peg tied to it. I reached up and grasped it, tugging down, wincing as old hinges screeched in the silent house.

A ladder fell out and unfolded. I had found the attic. I looked around and then mounted the rings and climbed up. It was dark and I was glad I brought the lantern.

The attic ran the length of the house, the ceiling high enough down the center to stand upright, and low at the sides so I would have to stoop.

It looked like you might expect an attic of an ancient old house to look. It was cluttered with the discarded items of generations. Old travel cases in relatively neat stacks. A dress form clad in a mouldering old gown. Knickknacks and furniture covered in canvas drop cloths. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, including the floor. I left a track in it as I walked down the center pathway, looking back and forth for anything that could help me.

I had no idea what I might be looking for so I began to open trunks and boxes. I found old clothing, dusty books. In one I found what seemed to be a preserved calf's head, bisected, floating in formaldehyde. I shuddered and placed it back where I found it.

"What am I looking for?" I asked myself, muttering under my breath.

"Me, I suppose," a woman's voice said behind me making me spin. I lost my balance and fell backwards, luckily landing on a drop cloth covered couch that was tucked away.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" I exclaimed, seeing who had somehow joined me.

Standing between me and the ladder leading down was the semi transparent form of the ghost woman I had fucked several times since I had arrived at Hart House.

I could still see through her, just able to make out the ladder leading down to the floors below, but she seemed more substantial than any other encounter I had had with her.

Her hair was long, and tinted dark, as if it would be black if she was solid. Her face was oval, and her eyes shone brightly from her ghostly face. She was nude, and while I could not make out details, she was lithe, with substantial breasts, perky with youth. Her hips were not too wide, but looked enticing to grip and I felt a sudden desire, a need to spin her around, grip those hips while I drove myself into her.