He Loves Me Not

by Matt Coolomon

  He Loves Me Not

  &

  Haunted Hook-up

  Matt Coolomon

  Victoria Hansen

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real life persons or situations is coincidental and unintended by the author. The places described in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Copyright © 2013 by Matt Coolomon and Victoria Hansen. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

  He Loves Me Not

  1

  Death is confusing. Existence is flashes of awareness amidst the cold darkness of despair. It is better for a soul who passes on quickly, their life complete, stored in the fabric of eternity, their spirit released and reassigned to their next new life.

  To remain in death, as Wendy had, was to be forcibly held and ripped from one flash of pseudo consciousness to another. There was no way to control it. Being ripped away from a worldly experience was painful and could happen at any moment.

  Wendy was sometimes visible to the living when having such an experience. She was pressed against the ceiling of the attic, in the corner of the room. Her lifeless form had not the physical mass to lower to the floor where the children were playing. The younger of the two little girls looked up at her and smiled.

  2

  Randal Wade was twenty-eight and not long past college and his football days. He was never going to make it in the big league but did well enough during his time to be popular with the ladies and have a following of guys who looked up to him, tending to check with him before laughing, making sure he thought the topic was funny first.

  Things hadn’t changed in the four years since graduation. He had retained a following of football buddies who he’d hang out with on a Friday night, scouting for babes.

  “Look at that bitch—gagging for it,” Alex said, casting a glance at a woman in a see-through blouse and red bra.

  “She’s checking every dude here,” Toby concurred. “Look at the way she licks her lips.”

  The three men chuckled amongst themselves. They spotted another woman to make fun of—a peroxide blond of perhaps forty, dressed as if she was twenty.

  “They’re fake, man. That’s how they’re defying gravity like that,” Randal explained to his cohorts. “It’s all silicone.”

  All three men were married. They hung out at the White Horse Bar, a well-known pick-up joint, but Alex and Toby’s wives would have them drawn and quartered if they ever actually picked up. They were just there clinging to their fading youth and pretending to be studs. Though Randal kept a few phone numbers and regularly cheated on his wife.

  Toby sparked up, as if suddenly thinking of something he’d planned to rave about. “Hey, remember Jewels Mead, Snack Bar’s little sister? She was in earlier. Some dude pushed her into the back of his car and had the windows misting up. He was doing her right there in the car park, man.”

  Randal chuckled at the enthusiastic rendition, but the mention of Snack Bar always caused him angst. She was a college girl he had screwed a number of times. She’d had a huge crush on him, and he used to take advantage whenever he was without a date and needing to get laid. The guys on the football team gave her the name because you could always get a quick fix from a snack bar.

  Randal had been driving the car she stepped out in front of one rainy afternoon. There was nothing he could do. He’d slammed on his brakes, but it was too late.

  “You shouldn’t be making fun of the Mead girl. She’s not so bad,” he told his buddies.

  They both stopped laughing instantly.

  “No, she’s cool,” Toby said.

  Alex shrugged. “Actually, she wouldn’t be bad looking if she wasn’t so fat—same as her sister was.”

  “I have to go, dudes… Later,” Randal said, leaving his friends and striding out to his pickup truck. He had traded the pickup he’d been driving when running Snack Bar down. He shook his head, admonishing himself for still thinking of her with the cruel nickname.

  3

  Sheri Wade had her two daughters seated at the dining table awaiting their father’s arrival. Annabel was six, Anastasia four. They were both bathed and in their nightdresses—two good little girls for the most part, who liked to play together. They actually got on remarkably well. Annabel was in charge. Her younger sister looked to her lead and did as she was told. They shared toys and were virtually inseparable after school. Sheri would often check out the kitchen window to see them walking hand in hand around the garden, playing games and making up stories for their dollies. A call would bring them inside to have their bath together and wash each other’s long, dark hair. Then it would be dinner, then play time on the living room floor or in their bedroom, sharing a story book before being tucked into bed.

  “Hello, my sweet girls.” Randal hugged and kissed each of them.

  Annabel had turned her head away from his kiss. Anastasia did too.

  “Why are you late? Don’t you love us today, Daddy?”

  “Annabel!” Sheri reprimanded her daughter. “Of course your father loves you. What would make you say such a thing?”

  “Oh, forget it.” Randal squeezed Sheri’s waist and gave her a kiss too. “Silly little girls’ ideas. She knows I love her. Don’t you, Annie?”

  Annabel unfolded her napkin and placed it across her lap. Anastasia did the same. Both girls looked to their parents, awaiting dinner, it seemed.

  Sheri shook her head disbelievingly. “Again with the attitude,” she complained to her husband. “What is it with the month of September? Every year, my little angels turn all serious and spooky. Remember last September when Annie started pinching us all the time?”

  Randal was sniffing in the pots on the stove. “Yeah, but she grew out of it. It was just a phase.”

  “Yes, it was just a phase. I won’t pinch anymore,” Annabel stated calmly.

  Sheri and Randal looked at their daughter then turned to each other, shrugging helplessly. Sheri served dinner. The meal was eaten with the children silent and well behaved, finishing all of their meat and vegetables before waiting patiently for sweets. They were then excused to go and play for an hour before bedtime.

  When Sheri had tucked them in, she walked from their room along the dark hallway, feeling a cold shiver that frightened her so much she hurried to her room and closed the door. She had been experiencing weird chills and strange notions about being watched or followed around the house. It was silly, of course—just a case of the heebie-jeebies. But there was something strange about September. The girls were different every year during the month. She had noticed the change in their behaviour once, and then again, and then again in September. It had to be more than coincidence. She also experienced the weird, creepy feeling around the house every year at that time.

  Sleep came reluctantly to Sheri that night. She finally succumbed, but her mind remained active, churning over the car accident that had occurred eight years ago. She had been in the passenger seat with Randal driving when Wendy Mead had stepped out onto the road in front of them. The car had struck Wendy’s plump, round body and sent her skidding and tumbling along the road and into a light pole. It was the look on the woman’s face as the car had struck her that tormented Sheri. Wendy had been smiling. She had stepped out in front of them deliberately.

  Sheri sat bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding and her chest heaving as she panted for breath. She saw a form in the corner of the ceiling, floating there. It was shimmering silver, lighter than the gre
y midnight room. It vanished before her wide eyes.

  4

  Randal pulled the covers around his ears and rolled over.

  “I’m telling you I saw something,” the wife cried excitedly.

  “Well, there’s nothing there, babe. Go back to sleep.”

  Wendy was in the top corner of the room. It was so hard to remain close to the floor. The constant pull from above was powerful. Her dimension—her void of despair—had incredible magnetic strength that willed her upward. She was suddenly ripped out of the room to materialise in the back seat of a car. It was a small sedan with a squeaky vinyl seat. She was being groped and was pushing against a strong arm with a hand feeling for the crotch of her underwear. The guy was Teddy North. He was on the football team. He had his penis out, and Wendy was stroking it. She was thinking that if she could get him off quickly he would leave her alone. He was too strong, his fingers pressing into her. She felt a surge of agonising pain rising within, and she was suddenly ripped away again.

  The pain subsided. She was standing at the end of the bed, her bare feet close to the floor but not touching it. Randal was on his side with the bed clothes still around his ears. Only his hair was visible. The wife was lying on her back with the blankets at her waist, her breathing slow and steady, her eyes softly closed.

  Wendy leaned forward—her spirit form floating, her legs lifting and her upper body lowering. She gripped the bedspread. She was light, so it was easy to hold on and defy the constant urge to float upward.

  She reached hand over hand, drawing her form parallel with the sleeping woman, only inches from her. She gripped the pillow either side of the wife’s head and turned her own head to press her face closer without touching her. Wendy could enter the sleeping body. She visited every anniversary of her death, and when the wife was not on birth control, she would use her to join with her man. Such would drain her completely, though, so she needed to be patient and wait. She loved being this woman—having Randal, her true love. A few more nights, and it would be time to live again.

  Wendy pressed her lips to the lips of the sleeping wife. She loved her, and she hated her.

  5

  “Ouch!” Randal cried, rubbing at a sharp pain. Annabel had tapped the back of his hand with her breakfast spoon. She had done it quite hard, and it hurt. “Why did you do that, sweetie?” She was grinning, and Randal chuckled. “Why did you hit Daddy, baby girl?”

  Annabel got down from her chair and hugged him. “Sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Sweetie, you have to stop doing that.”

  Her arms were around him. Her little fingers pinched and dug into his side. He took hold of her and held her away. She was giggling. Anger surged. “What’s gotten into you? Do you want a smack?”

  “Sorry, Daddy.” Her giggles turned to a pout. There was still a grin behind it, though.

  Randal shooed her. “Go away and play. Go on!”

  She ran off. Anastasia was seated across the table. Randal met her eyes. She held his gaze steadily for a moment, offering an unfathomable, dead stare, then she hopped down from her chair and ran after her sister.

  Randal’s phone rang. It was work wanting him to stop off on the way in and pick up some machine parts. It meant spending half the morning in traffic and not arriving at work until nearly lunch time. He spent the afternoon in his office on the phone, chasing wayward accounts.

  On the way home, he stopped at the pharmacy for supplies. “Anything else I can help you with, sir?” a young female attendant asked politely.

  He gazed from her pretty eyes to her chest. Her peach-coloured uniform had a button open and was offering a peak at her cleavage. He had a long, lewd look, smirking at her blush. “Just these, sweet cheeks.” The two boxes of condoms he had placed on the counter were ribbed, super sensitive.

  The girl packaged them and processed his credit card quickly, avoiding his eyes as he continued to check her out.

  Randal drove home and tossed the paper bag in the bin as he walked into the kitchen. He placed the two boxes of condoms on the counter where Sheri was preparing the evening meal. She looked up from them, blushing. He winked. “You good to go tonight, babe?”

  She blushed a bit deeper. “Do you have to put it like that, Randal?”

  “Well, your period’s finished, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes. But—”

  “But what, baby?” He cuddled up behind her.

  She pressed against his arm as he felt her breast. “Stop that, Randal—the children!”

  “But I’m horny, sweet thing. How about a quickie before dinner, eh? This stuff will keep for a bit.”

  “No! You can’t just come in here groping me and expecting me to do whatever, whenever you say.”

  The girls came squealing from the other room, playing chasings and laughing hysterically, to hide and dart from either side of their parents’ legs. Randal lifted Anastasia and gave her a hug. He got a hug back. Annabel claimed his hand, and he was led into the living room to play Twister. His two little girls were all over him with cuddles and kisses. He teased and played with them through dinner and tucked them in that night.

  Sheri had come around by bedtime. She was waiting for him after his shower. She was a conservative lover, but he was well used to that. The light was off, the bedclothes pulled up. She let him lift her cotton nightdress but not remove it. He used two of the condoms that night before falling asleep exhausted beside his wife, holding her to his chest and stroking her hair.

  6

  Wendy watched the girls sleeping. She floated from above Annabel’s bed to rest beside little Anastasia. She touched the girl’s face, stroking softly. She was not able to feel in the way of the living, but there was a transfer of energy she found absolutely exhilarating. To touch or to stroke pulled it into her, strengthening her, as if she were able to draw life force that way. It was nothing like entering a living body—not that she could enter the body of a child, anyway, nor did she have any such desire.

  There was no need to join with the girls. They were the children she’d never had. She had been there with them since the moment of their conception, watching them grow.

  Wendy couldn’t remember her death. She had experienced what she imagined were her final moments many times over. She could close her eyes and go there anytime. It was not like the other experiences—not involuntary and painful. She closed her eyes right then and saw the shiny pickup truck approaching. She saw Randal’s eyes, wide with shock, as he realised he was about to run her down. She saw the confusion and disbelief in the wife’s eyes too. She had been in the passenger seat, the place for Randal’s girlfriend—the place Wendy had never been invited to occupy in daylight.

  That unpleasant thought always ended the vision. Wendy stroked the little girl’s face, drawing in the positive energy to counter that empty, heart-wrenching feeling. No doubt she had been killed that rainy afternoon, and there was a sense of relief about that. She remembered smiling as the pickup skidded toward her—feeling happy it was over.

  Wendy felt the pain rising within to fill her. She was then ripped away from the girls, and there was darkness and despair all around her. She could see nothing and touch nothing. She was in the void where time passed slowly. There were hours or perhaps days. It was silent, and the disorientation played on her consciousness. She drifted in and out, feeling as if time was passing but not knowing for sure. She felt sad and lonely, lost and afraid, then she was suddenly thrust into a moment where she was being taken from behind.

  She was clinging to a wooden bench seat. There were towels strewn around amid shoes and clothing. She was facing a bank of lockers. There was a strong hand twisting her hair and holding her head down as the man on her back drove his penis into her violently. She was crying as she opened her eyes and saw the face of the man in the mirror. It was Randal.

  The pain flared up to consume her, and she was ripped out of that experience as suddenly as she had been thrust into it—back to the darkness, the sile
nce, the waiting.

  7

  “What are those for?” Randal enquired about the bunch of flowers Sheri had brought from the service station after paying for the fuel.

  “I thought we could stop at the cemetery. I’ve been dreaming about Wendy Mead a lot lately. I guess it’s because of the anniversary of her death coming up.”

  “Oh, yeah—we should leave flowers,” Randal agreed.

  He had been sent across state by his firm and had taken the family to make a holiday of it.

  Suddenly his hair was being pulled. Annabel had a fist full of it and was twisting hard. He brushed her little hand away and glared back to be met with his two daughters’ laughter.

  He rubbed at his scalp. “That damn well hurt!”

  “Sorry, Daddy,” Annabel said.

  “Sorry, Daddy,” Anastasia echoed.

  He frowned at their silly game. He had been hit and pinched and had his hair pulled quite a lot over the past week, and the game was wearing thin. He had also been getting a lot of cuddles and being included in the girls’ nice games, though, which didn’t happen all that often. He liked that bit.

  “What about more playing nice with your dad?” he said to them.

  “Okay, Daddy,” they sang in unison, and they both giggled.

  He could never stay angry with them for long.

  Sheri was shaking her head. “You shouldn’t let them walk all over you like that, Randal.”

  Randal squeezed her leg, edging his hand beneath her skirt, but she claimed his wrist and pushed him away, rolling her eyes disapprovingly.

  The cemetery was on the way out of town. There were a dozen people visiting other graves on a warm, sunny afternoon. The resting place of Wendy Mead was bare of any fresh flowers. There was a glass jar on its side with some dead carnations strewn around. The girls filled the jar with water, and Sheri set the flowers she had brought inside. They pulled at the weeds growing in the cracks of the brick-bordered grave. Sheri helped them. Randal watched on, checking the time and thinking of where he could make it to that night. He wondered how he would get any from Sheri with the girls in the same motel room.