He found Toby waiting for him on the back porch. “Did your friend tell you everything you needed to know to keep from summoning a demon who will decimate the entire town?”
“You're so not funny,” Ian told him. “Are you hungry? I stopped at the market and got some stuff.”
“I could eat.”
“Anything happen while I was gone?”
“Nothing I observed, but she doesn't always make herself known to me,” Toby said. “Of course, there'd be no point in her doing anything while I'm here by myself if she doesn't let me see it or hear it. So, following that line of logic, I'm guessing it's safe to say nothing happened.”
“I think I understood your point,” Ian said as he turned to walk back inside to unpack the market stuff and put it away.
“Are those potpies?” Toby asked when he spotted the little square boxes.
“Pretty tasty, too. I eat them all the time for lunch.” Ian held out two of the boxes. “Pop these in the microwave and nuke them for six minutes. I really do have to get some work accomplished tonight since I've been slacking. You'll have to entertain yourself.”
“I can handle that. You have a TV and snacks. That will hold me for a night,” Toby said as he punched in the time on the microwave and pressed START. “I'll try not to make any noise and interrupt your creative flow.”
~ ~ ~
Dreams never bothered Ian too much because he always knew when he was in one and usually was able to manipulate them as he wished. Even nightmares, no matter how scary they might be, didn’t induce holy terror in him. While lost in the land of Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams, Ian always had the ability to keep one part of his mind in the realm of the awake.
Controlling much of what happened in his dreams, was a skill he developed as a small child; it didn’t desert him as he grew into adulthood, and perhaps that was why he could write such detailed and imaginative stories for his readers to enjoy. Dreaming, to Ian, was more or less like watching his own internal television, only he was in charge of the storylines. The subconscious mind was known for taking various snippets and painting a bizarre picture on the dreamscape. He knew there was even a science for studying dreams: Oneirology.
Even though he’d spent years in high school and college studying psychology, Ian never put much stock in the interpretation and study of dreams. The mind could take some extraneous piece of stimuli from a waking moment and turn it into a terrifying nightmare; the mind could also incorporate sounds from the environment of someone sleeping, into the dozens upon dozens of dreams it is estimated a person has each night—the majority of which the average person simply doesn’t remember after waking.
On this night, a series of nightmares caressed him as he tossed and turned and finally came to rest on his left side. He made a few noises, a grunt or groan here and there, but no words escaped his lips. In his sleep, tormented as it was, he managed to pull the blanket up over his shoulder and covered the lower half of his face.
Cold air breezed in through the open window and set the drapes to dancing. It washed over the bed, and Ian, caught in the grip of his nightmare, snuggled deeper under the blanket. When he reached to pull the pillow down further, the blanket slipped from covering his mouth and his breath escaped, the cloudy vapors swirling away into nothingness.
The figure stood at the foot of Ian’s bed and watched him in silence. Then it reached down, grasped the blanket, and slowly, slowly pulled it, uncovering Ian’s body inch by inch. He shivered but didn’t wake, as his body was exposed to the night air. A hand brushed against the bare skin of Ian’s leg, as the figure crept around the side of the bed; it ran its hand up Ian’s thigh and under his boxer shorts. Ian shifted onto his back, one arm draped across his chest, the other resting alongside his body. His breathing hitched, and he murmured a few words.
In his dream, Ian fought against the straps restraining him to the long wood table, railing against them even as they dug into his wrists and ankles. Resistance was in vain, but he had to try.
The nightmare quickly morphed into more of a sexual fantasy.
When the figure, this woman, grasped Ian’s cock in her withered, cracked hand, the same happened in Ian’s dream. Only in the dream, it was a crystalline beauty bathed in radiant white light, who caressed and stroked him with her cool, cool hand; his protestations were muffled, nearly muted, by the fabric wrapped around his neck and the lower half of his face. His pleas were ignored as the cool ministrations caused him to become more and more rigid.
Blood raced through his body as her ministrations sent wave after wave of pleasure over him, submerging him, as the sex dream took shape.
Outside the dream, the woman, leaned over, her long, tangled hair pooled between his legs, as she eased his boxer shorts off and dropped them in a pile on the floor. Then she returned her attention to his hard shaft.
Mimicking the actions of her dream counterpart, she took Ian into her mouth. A gasp escaped him. She licked up and down his shaft, her dry tongue scraping along his flesh. Her one hand stroked him; the other hand cradled his scrotum, as she nipped playfully at him with dark, broken teeth. Sliding Ian deep into her desiccated throat, she made rasping sounds, yet expelled no breath.
Ian understood it wasn’t real; it was something his subconscious made up. He’d woke up hard like most guys have on occasion, but he’d never had an erotic dream he could remember. Involuntarily, his back arched as the crystalline lady swallowed him down to the base. Her icy nose and lips pressed against his abdomen as she massaged him with the muscles of her throat.
Never had a dream felt so real, so pleasurable. He strained in vain against the straps holding him on the table. It may not be real, but he wanted to rip out of the straps, grab her head, wrap his hands in her blinding white hair, and tell her to look up at him with those pale, pale eyes while he was embedded in her throat.
One hand broke free of its strap, ripping the material out by the screws holding it. Ian wanted nothing more than to grab the crystalline beauty by her glowing hair. He did, fisting it, wrapping her locks around his wrist. His breath came in deep gulps as she pleasured him; he guided her head into a rhythm, a smooth motion. She used her tongue to trace the vein from the bottom to the top, and then her pouty pale blue lips nibbled on the head before she engulfed him once more.
Outside the dream, Ian’s hand also grabbed a handful of hair, but it wasn’t silky; it was stringy and filthy. He forced the woman’s head down further, driving his cock into her dry mouth, scraping against her rotted, broken teeth. Her jagged nails scratched down his inner thigh, not enough to draw blood, but enough to raise welts.
But being lost in the dream, he wasn’t aware of the reality. He felt only the warm, wet mouth of the crystalline beauty who worked her magic between his legs. The second strap finally broke, leaving Ian free to finally reach down with both hands. Moaning out loud, he grabbed another handful of her hair, drawing her closer, making her take him deeper into the softness of her mouth and throat. The fabric around his face and throat loosened and slipped away, as he whipped his head from side to side.
He couldn’t hold back much longer; he was so close to exploding. The building up seized him.
Coming out of the dream and just about to come, Ian sat up, his heart beating thunderously and looked down.
Right into the eyeless sockets of the cadaverous wraith deep-throating his cock, taking him down her dry, dusty throat.
“Holy fuck.” Ian started backpedaling to get the hell away from it, to make it stop touching him. He slammed his hands into her head, the strings of her hair still tangled in his fingers. The disgusting strands slid through his fingers like cold silk ribbons. “Get the fuck away from me!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. He wanted to puke. He wanted away from this thing.
The cold corpse reeled back. Her laughter peeled around the room, drowning out his screaming and cursing.
“Kiss me.” Her voice crackled.
Kissing her was about as appealing as
a mouth full of maggots. This seduction of decay repulsed him.
Flames and fog erupted all around him, ferocious heat and freezing cold closed in on him. Everywhere Ian looked, the flames licked the fog, giving the room a luciferous ambience. She was gone, the rotting woman. Gone. But her laughter lived on and danced through his bedroom and his head.
He shot out of bed and made a beeline for the door. At first the door wouldn’t open and he swore, but the knob turned in his slick hands and he fell into the hall. When he gained the courage to look back into his bedroom, both the flames and the fog were gone. Not an ash, not a vapor. The dead bitch had vacated the room, too; she may have been gone, but her laugh had wormed its way into his brain and he couldn’t clear his head.
He saw his boxers lying in a pile beside the bed and wondered if he’d ever be able to wear them again. Damn shame, because they were his favorite pair.
And he’d have to burn the sheets, too.
Sick. No other way to describe it.
Bile rose in his throat when the image of the woman blowing him floated to the forefront of his mind. He breathed slowly in, telling himself to calm down. Breathe out and get a hold of yourself. If you don’t, you’ll either end up passing out or puking on yourself.
Think about it.
Couldn’t have been real.
A nightmare.
Yes, that made sense. He talked himself into that explanation. It was either that or admit he might be crazy or living in a haunted house. Sure, he believed in ghosts and the paranormal. After all, he made a living out of writing those kinds of stories, and he’d had a few experiences through the years, but he didn’t want to face the option of living alone in a house with a horny ghost.
Made more sense than waking up and discovering he was being molested by a dead, dry-rotted woman.
All the creepy little things in the house, had caused his mind to form that dream, and he got caught in a nightmare. His mind used creepy things as ammunition and summoned up that hag. He must have thought he’d woken up, but it was a false awakening. He’d been in another dream, a nightmare. Simple explanation and it made perfect sense to him.
Still, he felt like he needed a shower and a drink, not necessarily in that order. A drink, then a shower, and then another drink. And a smoke. Maybe another shower. Or a bath. With bleach.
He wanted a damned cigarette first, and he went on search of his pack and his lighter.
He couldn't believe he hadn't awakened Toby with all his yelling, unless he hadn't been yelling as loud as he'd thought. Ian went downstairs as quietly as he could.
Out on the back porch, cigarette in hand, his thoughts returned to the nightmare. Ian had to laugh. It seemed pretty real when he was trying his best to get the hell away from her. He was a writer, for the love of all that’s holy; he should be used to his mind dreaming up such sick stuff. Maybe he could use it in a book.
He tried to find the moon, but clouds must have been covering it, because it was as black as…well, as black as night out there.
Ian exhaled a long line of smoke and watched it swirl away from the porch light, out of his line of sight, and into the darkness. Then he flicked the ash into the glass ashtray he kept outside. Taking another drag, he thought about how he could spin his waking nightmare into the manuscript he was currently working on. Working it into the vampire story wouldn’t take too much effort. He hoped he could do it justice putting it into words, to properly capture how vivid it was. When they were reading a horror story, scenes like that turned the reader on, and Ian had to admit, he liked those kinds of scenes, too.
Satisfied readers talked about books they liked. Word of mouth was the best publicity and led to good sales. And publishers loved good sales. So did his bank account; it was in need of a little resuscitation itself, after he’d pumped so much into this house. He wasn’t poor; there was just less than what he was comfortable having in savings in his account.
But that laugh. Even though he’d convinced himself it wasn’t real, it still tormented him. The sheer demented delight in that laugh; he didn’t know if he could describe it in words.
Then he looked down; it suddenly dawned on him: he stood on his back porch, nonchalantly smoking, completely naked. He'd only been living in the house for a few weeks and it wasn't quite autumn yet, but the night air was cool enough to give him goose bumps and make him shiver.
And then he busted up laughing.
The whole scenario was just wrong, so fucked up, but if he didn’t laugh, then surely he’d eventually crack under the strain of the deranged bitch.
Good thing there weren’t any neighbors to see him standing outside in his birthday suit—but there might have been an animal out in the woods staring at him. Maybe some of those mantises masquerading as flowers.
What if there were ghosts out there on the lawn slow dancing with the moon? Only in his wildest dreams.
Only the moon, the stars, and me.
Ian took a final drag, stubbed out the butt, and went in search of that drink before he headed upstairs to the shower.
~ ~ ~
After he dried off and dressed, Ian thought about waking up Toby and filling him in on what had happened.
The moment—as disgusting and disturbing as it had been—was passed. Toby wouldn't be able to see or hear any of the experience for himself, and Ian didn't feel like reliving it yet; so he decided he'd wait until later in the morning when they both got up to share it with his friend. He half-wished Toby would see the spirit of the woman.
He still half-anticipated the ghost putting in an appearance every time he got in the shower. Even though she didn't always do so, the fluttering in his stomach started whenever he stepped in and turned on the water. He hung the towel on the hook and got dressed, wondering if it was worth it to go back to bed. The weird-ass dreams—some of them full-blown nightmares—were making him gun-shy about going to bed.
Toby said he had a lot of balls for staying in the house, but Ian found himself feeling more and more like it was all an illusion of bravado, more than actual testicular fortitude.
Piano music filled the room. Not ethereal and seductive or playful as before. Violent in intent, almost chaotic in nature—deliberate chaos.
Pounding and pounding of the keys, producing frightening notes. It nearly forced Ian to cover his ears. He waited for Toby to wake up and come running down the stairs, demanding to know what the hell was going on and why.
Almost like a whisper, the answer came to Ian and he said it aloud.
György Ligeti. L'escalier du diable—The Devil's Staircase.
And how did he know that? Ian wondered. Classical style music had never been a favorite. And that sure sounded like it was an obscure title.
After a handful of minutes, the cacophony petered out into an echoing dirge and then came to an end.
Silence reigned once more.
Wait a minute. He froze in mid-stride. Ligeti's piece was written in the last twenty-five or thirty years. How did a spirit—one who'd supposedly been inhabiting a house which had allegedly been abandoned for five or six decades—happen to know the music written so recently?
Ian wondered how he even knew it and about the source of this information.
~ ~ ~
“Have you really not had anything else happen to you since you've been here?” Ian asked his friend the next morning—it was after eleven but it was still technically morning. “Not a single thing? Not even the pounding piano music last night?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Toby grimaced. “I haven't. And I didn't. Seriously. No seeing, no hearing. Just the fire creature. I've had some wicked-ass dreams though, but that's not evidence of anything, just my mind being all convoluted.”
Dreams? Ian had had some pretty wicked dreams himself and wanted to ask Toby to describe some of the things he'd dreamed. If they were anything like Ian's, they were probably on the embarrassing side and what happened in then was better left unmentioned.
Clearing his throat, Ian
let seconds lapse and then said, “If something in your dreams bothers you or you find they—your dreams, nightmares—are influencing your waking moments...” He let his voice trail off because he wondered how much sense he was making and he didn't want to confuse his friend.
“Gotcha. Will do,” Toby said, his head still turned away. “Don't worry. I have a good head on my shoulders. It will take more than her mind fucks to send me over the edge into the abyss of insanity.”
“That's a good line,” Ian said.
Ian wondered if his friend had been plagued by nightmares similar to his, and he hoped Toby would confide in him if that was the case.
Changing the subject, Toby asked, “Did you put up the covers of your books? I haven't seen them yet.”
“Still packed away in a box somewhere,” Ian said. “I'm thinking I want them in the library, with the Dogs Playing Poker.”
Standing in the doorway to the living room, Toby laughed. “You're the only person I know who would frame an M&Ms ad where they're dressed like the Addams Family, and hang it above a mini collection of Ganesh statues. Could that be considered sacrilege?”
Looking over and seeing both the statues and the framed ad, Ian felt more comfortable, felt like the house truly was finally becoming his home—and he was not an unwanted squatter.
“Keep your eye out for the one where they're dressed like the members of KISS,” Ian said. “It should be in a frame matching that one. I know I packed it and I double checked the townhouse, but it has apparently evaporated or something because I can't find it anywhere.”
“Pal, you can buy another ad online if yours doesn't turn up,” Toby said as he scratched his stomach.
“That's attractive,” Ian said.
Toby ignored the comment. “Did you make breakfast yet?”
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