The Necromancer's Wife: A Dark Romance

by Cara Vance

  I activated it and then typed my name into the search box: Lydia Strom. As the results loaded, I saw it was a more popular name than I would have thought. I saw listings for Lydia Stroms on Facebook. I remembered that. It was kind of a new MySpace. There were more Lydias as well: a few on some website called LinkedIn and others listed on something called Twitter. Apparently, there was a porn star of that name as well. Go figure. I smirked at that thought. Considering the past several months, she and I might’ve had more to chat about than either of us realized.

  Still, this was getting me nowhere fast. I needed to be more specific. I typed my name again, then added our town, Hollisburgh, and - just for good measure - ‘death’ followed by what I assumed to be the year of my demise. This was going to be weird, reading my own obituary. Holding my breath, I hit the search button.

  What the...?! No results...or at least none that matched. There was a Lydia Nelson a few towns over. She was struck by lightning. A Munson Strom, no relation as far as I knew, died in Hollisburgh that year...from a heart attack. I combed through the first page, seeing no mention of my name. Was I that small of a deal to people? I mean, sure the gallery had never been huge, but it brought in a decent income. It had even gotten a few write-ups in the local press. It figured. Try to bring a little culture to a jerkwater town and they forget you the moment you croak.

  I scanned through the next page and still nothing. I was starting to feel seriously insulted when I turned to the third page and a headline caught my eye.

  Local Psychic Claims Missing Woman Alive and Well

  For some reason, despite its National Enquirer type feeling, I was compelled to click on it.

  Waynefield resident and self-proclaimed local psychic, Chase Thurmon, held a press conference today on the case of Lydia Strom of neighboring Hollisburgh, who went missing some four months ago.

  Thurmon has claimed that Strom, longtime resident and general manager of the Hollisburgh Central Art and Photography Galleria, came to him in a dream the prior evening to announce that she is alive and well. According to Thurmon, Strom, missing since March of this year, wishes her friends and family to know that she has relocated out of country for reasons related to her health. When questioned as to why Mrs. Strom has not contacted her family directly with this news, Thurmon was quick to point out that sometimes his visions aren’t complete in their information.

  Hollisburgh police detective, Jensen Horowitz, currently taking lead in the investigation, was quick to point out that Mr. Thurmon has no connection to either the case or his department. When pressed for further details, Horowitz stated that as of this time they have no additional information.

  Mrs. Strom is survived by her husband, Dr. Harold A. Strom. Our sources reveal that he is currently not considered a suspect in the case.

  What the hell? I quickly changed my search terms, taking out death and replacing it with disappearance. The screen immediately filled with stories, all of them about me.

  My eyes opened wide in surprise, but I clicked on the first one nevertheless.

  Chapter 15

  By the fifteenth article, I realized I wasn’t going to learn anything else that was new. That was fine because my head was practically spinning. Forget the vasectomy lie. It was nothing compared to this. There had been no car crash...at least not one that anyone else was aware of.

  I had simply vanished without a trace. One day I was there, the next I was gone. I had supposedly gone out shopping, at least that was the story the cops had been given. My car, along with my purse and wallet, were found at a mall I used to frequent. At first glance, it looked like a kidnapping. However, when no ransom note had been delivered, the police had turned to other theories. One was the obvious thought that I had simply gone nuts and run off. The other was more ominous...foul play.

  That was the weird thing, though. According to the papers, Harold had quickly established an alibi and was almost immediately dropped from consideration as a suspect. I’m no sleuth, but growing up I had seen enough episodes of Columbo to think that the acceptance of his innocence happened a little too quickly. The fact that my corpse was currently lying in the basement, in full view of anyone who ventured down there, attested to that.

  The rest had been pure speculation on the media’s part. Apparently, there had been an arrest of some drifter, but it had gone nowhere. Everything else pointed to a cold case. Hell, as far as I could tell I hadn’t even been declared legally dead yet. If that were the case, then there had been no funeral either. It was yet another lie to add to the growing list.

  What the fuck had happened to me?!

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I glanced down at the clock and noticed I had been at it for longer than I realized. My time was rapidly drawing to a close. Oddly enough, that was fine with me this time. However, I realized there was one physical sensation I really needed before I left...and it had nothing to do with Harold’s prick. I needed a drink. I knew it wouldn’t do me any good once I returned to the beyond, but even a few minutes of alcohol-based numbness sounded like just the thing for my frazzled brain.

  I got up, taking care to shut down the laptop and make sure the room was left in the exact same condition as when I had entered it. Hopefully, Harold wouldn’t be able to tell there had been an unauthorized login to his computer during the night, but alas there was nothing I could do about that. I just had to hope that the intervening years hadn’t seen him become more technologically competent than he had been before.

  When finished, I walked into the living room and headed immediately for the bar, thankful for the tacky new addition to our - Harold’s - household. I grabbed a tumbler and took stock of the selection. Ah, I found a bottle of good Russian vodka, more importantly good, expensive Russian vodka. I filled up half the glass and then walked into the kitchen, more out of force of habit than anything else. In life, I had never been big on taking my liquor straight.

  I opened the refrigerator, hoping for some orange or cranberry juice. Heck, any type of juice would do. I stared at the contents of the fridge, unimpressed. Forget the bachelor lifestyle; this looked like the refrigerator of someone straight out of school. Beer filled the lower half with several bottles of soda up top. I did see a carton of milk, but it looked well past its prime. That was about it. Real nice, Harold, not even a stick of butter in sight.

  Wait a second. I pushed a few bottles of Pepsi out of the way and found an unmarked glass pitcher filled with a neon green liquid. I vaguely remembered buying a bottle of Hi-C of the same shade some years back when it was on sale. Considering Harold’s other selections, a sugar-saturated kids’ drink didn’t seem out of the ordinary. I figured, what the heck?

  I poured a splash in my vodka and gave it an experimental sip. Ugh! Definitely not fruit juice. It tasted bitter in an herbal kind of way...almost medicinal. Was this Harold’s lone concession to healthy living, some kind of vegetable concoction? Fortunately, the aftertaste wasn’t too bad. The shock over, I took another sip and considered it. Mixed with the vodka, it was palatable. Of course, that might have just been the warmth of the alcohol hitting my belly.

  Whoa! It was definitely warm. Despite how this body looked, I guessed that maybe she was a lightweight when it came to drinking. The warmth was starting to spread and along with it came a tingling, which likewise filled me. It felt familiar...very familiar.

  Soon my whole body was feeling it, especially my most sensitive areas. My nipples hardened and I could feel my crotch growing damp. Holy shit! This was almost the exact same feeling as I had gotten from the magic pentagram in the basement. I highly doubted it was the vodka. That left the mystery juice. What the hell was in it?

  Whatever it was, it was starting to affect me. Whereas before, my interest in returning upstairs had been the necessity of leaving, it was now becoming a physical need. Salacious thoughts entered my mind from seemingly out of nowhere...all of them involving satisfying the craving that was rapidly growing inside of me.

  Had Harold somehow
distilled that power from downstairs into this drink? It sounded absurd, but at the same time seemed possible.

  But why?

  Maybe he’d planted it as a trap for me, but that didn’t seem likely. Had he perhaps used it on all of the women he had lured here? I put the juice back where I found it and considered this. As I did, my hand reached down, almost seemingly of its own accord, and began stroking my inner-thigh. It felt almost dangerously good...far better than anything I had felt in this body up until this point. For me, that ruled out Harold using this on his female guests. If he had, I would have certainly noticed this feeling before.

  Why then? I closed my eyes, letting my fingers explore my now overly-sensitive vulva. Within seconds, though, they opened wide as a word - no, a memory - popped into my head: impotent.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I dropped to my knees. An incredible orgasm rippled through my body just as the memory erupted through my brain. It was both heavenly and torturous at once. I quivered from head to toe, my body convulsing, as the scene replayed itself in my head.

  That last argument. It too had been about sex, like so many of the others. This time, though, it was different. Harold hadn’t been the aggressor; I had. It had been weeks since we had last been intimate...an eternity by our standards. Frustrated at his sudden lack of bedtime interest, I had badgered him. I’d accused him of having an affair, of being bored with me, of anything that came to mind.

  At last, he had confessed. His penis, the marvelous weapon which had been my undoing over the years, was no longer able to perform. He didn’t know the reason. He had been too embarrassed to seek help or let me know. Unfortunately, my dander was already up. I had been in a mood that day for some reason. Rather than giving comfort, I had lashed out at him. I’d been cruel, calling him less than a man...telling him that he was useless to me now.

  I had gone on and on for some reason. Maybe it was years of anger boiling over or just a spur of the moment thing, but I just couldn’t let it go. He told me he was working on something to fix it, but I scoffed at him. I continued to berate him, seeing the shame in his eyes gradually give way to blunt anger...and...

  That was it. My body stopped spasming, which coincided with the end of the memory. It was the very last thing I remembered in life. After that, it was a blank.

  I sat there gasping for a few minutes, feeling I was close to a breakthrough - the last few pieces that would finally tell me what was going on. Unfortunately, whatever was in my system still wasn’t through with me. Need burned through my physical being, making rational thought difficult. My focus was drawn to the upstairs. I could sit there on the kitchen floor and diddle myself until I passed out, or I could make good use of my remaining time.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Ouch!” Harold protested as I bit down on his still soft shaft. If he had anything else to add, though, it was drowned out as I pushed my mound onto his face.

  “Shut the fuck up and eat me!” I commanded from atop, where I straddled him in a sixty-nine position. I didn’t wait for his response. Unnatural desire coursed through my body and I heeded its call. Taking him into my mouth, I closed my lips around him and sucked with everything I had. The effect was nearly immediate. I could feel him growing in my mouth, but that wasn’t all. He had taken his cue and I could feel his tongue going to work.

  I ground my hips harder into his face, at that moment not caring one bit if I smothered him. I needed to feel release again and he was going to give it to me whether he liked it or not. His tongue entered and expertly worked me. Harold might be an asshole, but he knew how to please.

  In the meantime, I continued to engulf him with my mouth. If he wanted to make it a race, so be it. I sucked on the head of his cock, using my tongue to tease him. As I did so, I grasped the base of his shaft with my hands and began jerking him off. I knew my time was short. I had minutes at best. The heat inside of my body insisted, though, that I could not leave until we were both finished.

  It was insane. A part of me knew I should really be wondering what the hell had been in that stuff in the kitchen. The rest of me didn’t give a shit. I started to move that much faster, adding my teeth to the torture that I was inflicting upon him. In turn, he closed his lips around my clit and began to suck.

  Oh God! I began to shake all over. Whether it was from his touch or the spell wearing off, I didn’t know.

  Who was I kidding? I didn’t care either, especially the way it felt. The world began to grey out around me as another spasm hit. I could feel myself dripping with wetness. It would be a small miracle if Harold didn’t drown down there.

  Correction, make that both of us.

  Just as I felt myself begin to recede from this body, he erupted in my mouth. I struggled to swallow it all, needing to taste him. My gag reflex kicked in, but I ignored it.

  I redoubled my efforts, slurping him greedily, unwilling to let anything go...and then I was gone.

  Chapter 16

  One moment, I felt Harold’s cock filling my mouth as he continued to suckle me from below, the next there was nothing. I didn’t even have a mouth anymore. Fortunately, along with the sensations went that insatiable need. The chemicals were no longer affecting my mind, thus the feelings they induced evaporated like smoke.

  For a moment, I found myself wondering if the juice’s effect would persist once that body’s true owner reestablished dominance. A part of me hoped it would. Harold had spent his seed, but hopefully she wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily.

  Just like that, though, the thought of Harold - combined with the clarity of being back in the beyond - hit me like a freight train. It was so obvious. How did I not see it before?

  The stuff in the refrigerator hadn’t been for Harold’s dates. It had been for him. Hadn’t I been marveling at his stamina for months now? He had been good for at least three, and oftentimes more, goes each time I was back...almost like clockwork. Most men his age would have run through the streets, their arms raised in victory, for being able to go twice in one evening. Sure, he needed to rest. That stuff apparently gave one’s loins unnatural stamina, but that didn’t mean it did the same to the rest of his body.

  Still, that didn’t answer...or maybe it did. Was this the solution that he had claimed to be working on? If so, it did the trick...more so. If only he’d figured it out sooner...

  While I had still been alive.

  If I had a mouth, it would have dropped open. Had I a voice, surely I would have cried out.

  He didn’t!

  He couldn’t have!

  As much as I tried to rationalize it, though, I kept coming to the same conclusion. It all added up: my disappearance, my final memories, the anger I had seen in his eyes.

  Harold had killed me.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  For once, I was glad to be disembodied. Had I been back on earth, such a revelation would have caused me to break down completely. Lies were one thing. Even the concept of adultery seemed minor in comparison. Murder, though, was the ultimate betrayal. The irony was that the victim did not get a chance to rue the treachery. Perhaps that was for the best. What response could possibly satisfy that level of crime? There weren’t enough tears to be cried, curses to be uttered, or possessions to be thrown that could make up for having one’s life ended prematurely.

  The worst part for me was being denied the details. Damn the rules of death! Wasn’t there supposed to be some clause for people wronged in life that allowed them to remember these things so as to become poltergeists or vengeful spirits?

  Speaking of which, my first thoughts were toward revenge. It would be a minor matter to return next time and bash his brains out while he slept. Hell, depending on the body, I could probably gouge out his eyes while he was right in the middle of screwing me. Better yet, I could find the garden shears and snip off his balls...let him live the remainder of his pathetic life as a eunuch.

  I won’t lie; these thoughts made me feel better. Even disembodied, I guess we still somehow
have access to that primal reptilian part of our minds.