The Haunted Sultan (Skeleton Key)

by Gillian Zane

  “Finally, this one sounds interesting, fetishes and family drama,” Owen whispered.

  “Right?” Sierra responded, waiting to hear what the tour guide said next. She happened to glance up at the house and noticed someone standing on the third floor balcony.

  Was he there before? She hadn’t noticed him when they had walked up. But, she was caught up flirting with Owen when they arrived. She looked at the man and touched Cecilia’s shoulder and pointed up to the balcony. Cecilia looked where she was pointing and shrugged.

  It must have been one of the renters. But he looked odd. He stood in the shadows, but it didn’t look right, like it was darker where he stood. He was shirtless, or he wore a tight fitting shirt that was close to his skin color. He also wore loose fitting pants that hung around his legs like a skirt. Then there was the fact that he wasn’t moving. He stood as still as a statue looking down at the tour group, it didn't feel right to Sierra.

  Sierra wondered if there would be a repeat of the suicide house. Nothing like a belligerent resident. Or a random mooning.

  “The Turk was very secretive. He barred the doors and the windows and had armed guards posted at all the entrances and exits. It was said they were scary looking men with scimitars and turbans. In that day, such differences in culture were looked upon with curiosity, but also fear. The Turk was even reported to have his own harem of both men and women and every night it was another celebration, another pursuit of pleasure. The incense burned, the sounds of pleasure drifted out on the night…until one night screams were heard instead of the sounds of Oriental music.”

  The air was suddenly filled with the smell of jasmine and the heady fragrance of incense. It tickled the inside of the Sierra’s nose and filled her stomach with desire. A wind brushed across her back and the touch was sensual, as if a hand had touched her. It sent shivers down her body. Her skin broke out in goose bumps. She inched closer to Owen and he looked down at her, his nostril’s flaring as if the same sensations were affecting him.

  “Did you feel that?” he asked. His eyes were wide in surprise. Sierra nodded quickly, fear trickling into her stomach.

  A scream cut through the night. It ended in a strangled gasp and everyone in the tour froze. A small yelp came from someone in the group.

  Was it a party goer, or did it come from the house? The question was whispered over and over again within the tour group. They all waited for something else to happen. Was it real? Was someone screwing around again?

  The block had gone deathly quiet. Nothing could be heard. They were close to a major street, Rampart, which was always teaming with cars. Not even the sound of traffic could be heard, or the drum of music from a neighborhood bar. Nothing.

  As the quiet permeated the group, unease was evident on everyone’s face. This was unnatural. They should be able to hear something. Anything. Something clattered, shattering the silence as the wind picked up and swirled down the street. It brought with it the smell of jasmine and incense again. It had to be burning somewhere, maybe in the cemetery that lined the other side of Rampart? The air was choked with the smell.

  “Uh…” The tour guy wasn’t looking confident anymore. He took his top hat off and ran his fingers through his long hair.

  The smell of the incense was having a strange effect on Sierra. Her fear was melting away, replaced with desire. The fragrance was addictive and something she had never experienced before. She enjoyed the smell of burning incense, but this was such a different scent from anything she could get at her local head shop. The smell was overpowering, it smelled like sex, silk sheets and sweat.

  She looked down to find her hand had slipped into the hand of the man next to her. Owen. Mr. Yummy. Their fingers were entwined. Had she grabbed his hand, or had he grabbed hers? She didn't know, but she wasn't complaining.

  The heat of his palm traveled up her arm and she shivered. She wanted him to slip his arm around her. She wanted to feel that heat all over her body. Her thoughts surprised her. She wasn’t one for casual sex or throwing herself at strangers. She didn’t even know this man’s last name and she wanted to pull him into a dark alley and molest him.

  The smell faded as fast as it came and the sound of the street returned. Everyone in the group shifted uncomfortably and looked around. They looked up at the scary house in front of them and whispered amongst themselves.

  The tour guide put his hat back on his head and seemed to regain his composure.

  “On the following morning,” the guide said, jolting everyone with his loud stage voice as he continued the story as if nothing had happened. “After the screams were heard, neighbors walking past the house noticed the guards were gone, the door was open…and blood could be seen seeping onto the street.”

  Another scream ripped through the night.

  It wasn’t coming from someone in the tour group. It wasn’t coming from some passerby being a douche. It was coming from across the street. It was coming from the house across the street. The Sultan’s Palace.

  And it was obvious it was a female’s scream. A female’s scream of pain.

  “Shit,” Owen cursed. His face had gone white.

  Sierra’s head shot up and she stared at the house again, sensing movement. She gasped when she saw him. It was the man again. But he wasn’t on the third floor anymore. He was now on the second floor balcony. How had it he made it to the second floor so fast?

  “Holy shit,” she whispered and pointed at the man. Sierra realized this strange man on the balcony couldn’t be a tenant. He couldn’t even be a man. He was translucent. She could see the pattern of the brick behind him.

  This was a ghost. This was the Sultan.

  The people in the group around Sierra glanced at where she was pointing and they turned questioning gazes at her.

  “Do you see him? Do you see the man?” Her voice quavered. They were looking at her funny. Her hand was still in Owen’s grip and he squeezed gently, making her look at him.

  “Do you see him?” she whispered and he nodded jerkily. He looked fearful and nervous. He knew it wasn’t a man too. They couldn’t deny what they were seeing was supernatural. It was a ghost. The ghost of the Sultan.

  The man on the second floor balcony wasn’t a being from present day. She could see him more clearly now that he was closer. He was a handsome man, in a stern and foreign way. Sierra could tell he was of Middle Eastern descent, his skin was dark and golden, his hair long, black, and lush over his shoulders in a vintage style. His pants were strange; they puffed out at the thighs and tapered at the ankles. The wind blew, yet his pants didn’t flap in the wind.

  It had to be a joke. Some Halloween prank by the people that lived in the Sultan’s Palace. Scare the tourists. Play the Sultan. Because this couldn't be the Sultan. Even the translucent look had to be a prank. Maybe done with lighting or make-up. It had to be fake. It had to be a prank. This couldn’t be the real Sultan. It had to be a joke. Denial repeated in Sierra's head.

  This was a Trick or Treat and the tour group was getting the trick.

  “What are you pointing at?” Cecilia hissed. She was uncomfortable as more and more people turned and looked at them, whispering.

  “The man on the balcony. The one right there.” Sierra pointed, gesturing erratically. “It’s gotta be some crazy joke. He must be getting a kick out of dressing like the Turk. It’s gotta be one of the people that live in the apartments. Whoever is doing this must be getting his rocks off dressing like the Turk to scare the tourists,” Sierra laughed nervously, not quite believing her own excuse.

  “I don’t see a man, Si,” Cecilia said softly, looking at Sierra strangely.

  “The man, right there? You don’t see that man? He’s right there, Cecilia.” Again Sierra pointed at the Sultan impersonator.

  “No, there is no one up there.” Cecilia’s eyes widened when she realized Sierra wasn’t messing with her. “You see someone? You see the Sultan? Like for real, for real?”

  “No, it’s gotta be a j
oke,” Sierra said.

  “There’s no one up there,” a woman to Sierra’s left said. “Do you see something?” She brought her camera up and snapped a few pictures of where Sierra had pointed.

  “I see him,” Owen said. “Long black hair, weird pants, no shirt?”

  “Yeah, I see that,” Sierra said, relieved that someone else could see the man. That meant she wasn’t crazy, right? She couldn’t be nuts if someone else was sharing in her insanity.

  “Where? Where do you see him?” the woman asked.

  “He’s right there.” She pointed at the man again. But there was no one there. He had disappeared. Gone.

  The tour guide had gone silent and was looking at the house with wary trepidation and then back at Sierra. The tourists were either looking at Sierra or looking fearfully at the house. They were murmuring amongst themselves. It sounded loud compared to the quiet of the street around them.

  Finally the guide stepped toward the house and pulled out his phone. “Folks, I think we might be experiencing a bit of supernatural activity. This is common on these tours. Do you smell the incense? And those screams are coming from the house. This is a great time to take out your phones and cameras and snap pictures. Some people have photographed a shadowy figure that might be the Turk and tons of people have taken photos of spirit orbs.”

  The tour guide himself had taken out his phone and begun to snap pictures of the house. The whole group pushed forward, spreading out into the street taking pictures. A few girls turned their cameras on themselves and snapped selfies with the house in the background.

  Click, click, click, flash, flash, flash. The strobe of the flashes had Sierra gripping Owen’s hand harder. He wasn’t letting go and she wasn’t going to pull away.

  Cecilia had moved forward with the group. She had her phone out and was copying the materialistic females and had it turned to selfie mode, posing with the house behind her.

  The smell of incense increased, so much that the acrid smoke could be seen in the air. It was as if it was burning next to Sierra. She began to cough and Owen slipped his hand from her grip and put his arm around her, patting her on the back lightly.

  “Are you okay?” he murmured and Sierra looked up at him, her eyes watering from the smoke.

  “This smoke, do you smell it? Can you see it?”

  “Yes,” he said and he wiped away a tear with his thumb as it trickled down Sierra’s cheek. It was such an intimate gesture, one that she shouldn’t have enjoyed. He was a stranger. He had no right to touch her, no right to be within her personal space. She only let people she trusted into her personal space. But, Owen felt right. She wanted him to touch her.

  The group had moved away from them. They stood alone on the sidewalk as the others moved closer to the house. Snapping away, unaware of what was going on around them.

  “This is really happening,” he said, not breaking their stare.

  “It is,” she said quietly, trying not to breathe the smoke too deeply. She didn’t want to start coughing again. He was right. This was happening. This was supernatural. And they were the only ones experiencing the majority of it.

  A loud clanging noise resonated through the street. Owen and Sierra broke apart and looked wide eyed at the house in front of them. Someone from the tour group screamed and the mass of people that were creeping closer and closer to the haunted house began falling over themselves to get back on the opposite side of the sidewalk.

  The barred door at the front of the house had blown open. It clanged against the wall of the house, making a racket. The interior door was still closed, only the outer security door had flung open, but it was enough to startle everyone in the group.

  Clang. Clang. Clang. It hit the house over and over again.

  Movement drew Sierra’s gaze up to the balcony. He was back. He was on the second floor balcony again. And this time everyone could see him. He held his arm out as if in a plea and the horrible scream shattered the night again.

  “It’s the Turk,” someone yelled. Another person yelled their agreement and everyone’s cameras began snapping and clicking.

  “Help me.” A low moan came from the house.

  Chapter 5

  “Help me!” The cry came again. It wasn’t coming from the man on the balcony. It came from the house itself. The plea was so full of pain and need that Sierra felt herself physically react to it. Her eyes were watering and she wiped at them, an intense sadness rendering her unable to move. She stared in horror at the house, a sick feeling lodging itself deep in her throat. Pain. Loss. Hate.

  The cry for help came again and Sierra didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to accept what it meant.

  “Simply respond to a plea of help. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  “Fuck me,” Sierra groaned. A scam would have been better. A scam she could deal with. This she was clueless on how to respond.

  The figure on the balcony held out a hand, and this time the cry for help came from him.

  “Help me!” The plea was loud. Penetrating. It was filled with desperation. It called to Sierra. Owen was at her back, rigid in fear. No one else was reacting to the cry. They stood snapping pictures of the figure on the second floor. Stupid tourists.

  “I don’t see him. Do you see him anymore?” Cecilia turned back to Sierra. But Sierra and Owen were transfixed, they could still see him. And now all they heard was him. His voice was in their heads. The voice overpowered everything. Sierra’s vision blackened. It was only the voice. Only the plea for help. She had to do something about it. There was no choice. She could only move forward.

  One step.

  Owen was at her side. They stepped forward together. Off the curb, into the street. Forward. Toward the house.

  A sound ripped through the air. Barks. But, it wasn’t dogs. High-pitched, sharp and ear-splitting wailing began as the whole world went mad. This is what it felt like to be mad. There was no other way to describe it. Colors sharpened then faded out, sounds crescendoed off the walls of the surrounding buildings. The wind blew through in gale force gusts, knocking against Sierra and Owen’s bodies.

  Sierra froze as the temperature plummeted, her breath plumed out of her mouth in a mist. There was no way she was going into that house. She walked forward. She had made a promise.

  Chapter 6

  Owen Thomas only wanted to get information on the Haunted Tours for the article he was writing for Southern Travel magazine. He didn’t expect to find himself neck deep in a supernatural showcase, his arms wrapped around the hottest female he had ever had the pleasure to meet. This was insane. Totally insane, he thought.

  The girl at his side was all kinds of exotic with long, thick black hair, and bronze skin that went on for miles. She had no qualms about showing it off either. The costume she wore had his dick going hard the moment he had laid eyes on her. He didn’t consider himself a player, but he was up and ready for a bit of vacation hit and run, if ever there was the opportunity.

  The tattoos and cute little nose ring added to the charm. He had never been with anyone like Sierra. Sure, he had dated girls with tiny cherries inked on their asses, but nothing like this though. Everything about her was exotic and now he was having an all-out crazy experience and she was the only other one to witness it. He wanted to run down the side street with Sierra at his side. He didn’t want to go into a haunted house where a Sultan waited for them…but you can’t always get what you want.

  And right now, what he didn’t want was to follow Sierra. Well, he wanted to follow her. He wanted to follow her anywhere she was willing to take him. Problem was, she was leading him into the shit storm that was this house. And he liked the girl…but this was asking a little much for a first date.

  The rest of the tour group had started to move away. The ludicrous tour guide was droning on about how they should send in their pictures if anything showed up. Did they not see the dude dressed like a Sultan on the balcony, with his arm out like Rapunzel in her tower?

 
“This is fucking nuts,” he cursed and those big brown eyes looked up at him in question. She was wincing as if in pain. Whatever the hell was howling like a pack of wild dogs was making his ears ring too. The wailing was so loud it hurt. He wanted it to go away.

  He was alone with Sierra. Standing in the middle of the street. Not one member of the tour group remained with them. Alone. Well, not quite alone. The Sultan still stood, looking down at them from his balcony. But he was the only one. Even the chick that Sierra was with had left them. They walked away, down the street without a backward glance at the members of their tour group they had abandoned so easily.

  “Heeeelllllpppp mmmmeeeee.” The keening request floated on the wind and chills erupted across Owen’s skin. The dude needed to shut-the-fuck-up.

  Owen grabbed Sierra’s arm. There was no way they were going to stick around for this shit show. They needed to catch up with the tour group.

  “We have to get out of here. C'mon, Sierra. I'll buy you a drink. Shit, I'll buy you ten, dinner, a trip to Maui, just come with me.” He tried to tug on her, but she was frozen to the spot. Her eyes were huge with fear, but she looked determined.

  “Nothing more, nothing less, but to respond to a plea of help,” she whispered.

  “What are you talking about?” Owen asked.

  The wailing from the house quieted when Sierra spoke. It was a relief to finally hear himself think.

  “Today, in the costume store, the weird shopkeeper said in exchange for this costume I had to respond to a plea of help. I think this is what she was talking about.” She shrugged as if resigned to her fate. As if this entire scene was common place.

  “What? The shopkeeper wants you to help this guy? That’s insane. This costume is all kinds of sexy and you look amazing in it, really. But, I don’t think she meant trying to help some long dead sultan. If that’s the case, you should get more than a costume out of the deal.”