by Edward Lee
“What, I guess you just thought you’d get me horny enough and I’d decide to fuck you? Right after I just got done telling you I didn’t want to?”
“I-I—”
“Past a certain point all women are just bitches in heat? They’re all asking for it? ‘No’ really means ‘yes’?”
“No-no—”
She turned and resumed her strut.
“Wait! Please!”
When Collier grabbed her arm again, she almost hauled off and hit him. But he had to stop her, he had to find out what had happened.
“Why’d you have to ruin it?” she wailed in the street.
“What? My hand?”
“I told you, no sex, and you said okay!”
“It was just my hand! My finger!”
“That’s just great.” Her glare mixed with heartache. “Let me spell it out. If you put your penis into my vagina, that’s sexual contact. Why? Because my vagina is my sex organ. If you put your mouth on my vagina, that’s sexual contact, because my vagina is my sex organ. So tell me, Justin. If you put your finger in my SEX ORGAN, what is that?”
Collier’s jaw froze open.
Now she was wiping her eyes. “I’m leaving. Good-bye.”
“Wait!”
His shout cracked down the street. He was sure anyone within a block had heard it. Now he was squeezing her arm hard.
Let her go, man, insisted the Evil Voice. She’s the Tease from Hell. Forget about this nutty bitch. Go back to the hotel and use Lottie for an oil change…
Collier was getting sick of that voice. “Listen,” he began.
“Let me go. You’re hurting my arm.”
“At least give me a chance to talk. This isn’t fair at all.”
He released her arm. Now the street stood in total silence, like the silence after a machine-gun volley. He could see several late diners at the bistro craning their necks at them.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t understand—”
“Come on, you were working me—”
He pointed his finger right in her face. “Let me talk, damn it. Give me two minutes, and then you can split and think whatever you want. But I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. You gotta admit, your rules are a little weird.”
“I know they are!” she yelled. “But they’re still my rules, and I explained them to you, and you said that was okay, but five minutes later you’ve got your hand down my—”
“All right!” he yelled just as loud. “I get it! I guess it was my male instincts or something. But you were letting me…do…other stuff, so…”
“So you figured it was okay to stick your finger in my pussy?”
Those words, too, echoed down the street. Jesus, he thought. This is too hard!
So why didn’t he just leave?
“We were just making out, Justin,” she said, “and it was wonderful. It was passion, it was desire. But that’s never enough for you guys, is it? If two people are making out, then that’s carte blanche for the guy. Everything’s got to be a nut. Everything’s got to be a piece of ass. If a woman makes out with a man, even after she’s told him she doesn’t want sex, all of a sudden she’s got an obligation to fuck him—”
“Now you’re being a cynical smart-ass,” he countered. “That’s not how I feel at all.” He felt the need to convince her. “And look at it this way. I know now that I’ll never get to have sex with you. Right?”
She peered at him with suspicion. “Yeah.”
“So if I’m just your typical cock-hound, if all I’m out for is a piece of ass… then why am I still standing here? How come I’m not long gone?”
Dominique couldn’t answer.
“Tell me that you’ll go out with me again,” he insisted.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Justin—”
“Bullshit. It’s a great idea.” He squeezed her arm gently this time. “Tell me you’ll go out with me again.”
She sighed. “All right.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Great. What time?”
She grinned. “Seven thirty in the morning.”
What! “That’s really early.”
“Take it or leave it.”
Collier’s shoulders fell. “All right. Seven thirty in the morning. Where?”
She pointed across the street.
Collier couldn’t see the building very well, for the shadows. But he could see the sign just fine: ST. THOMAS METHODIST CHURCH. JOIN US FOR OUR EARLY SERVICE!
CHAPTER TEN
I
“Please!” wept the nasally voice. “I’m begging you…My love!”
Jiff frowned, his feet kicked up in bed before the television. “But I was just there earlier today. You want me to come over again, tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, yes!”
“I—” Sheee-it! “I got too much work to do tomorrow,” he semilied. “My ma’s pissed at me fer not gettin’ to all my chores today.”
Sniffling. A croak. “I’m…worthless.”
You got that right.
“I love you.”
“I done told ya. Quit talkin’ like that!”
“I need…to be utterly debased. I’m not worthy of your love because, I know, I’m shit. I’m begging you. Come here tomorrow morning and humiliate me. Treat me like the garbage I am.”
It was getting pathetic. “No. I told ya. I cain’t.”
“I need to be profaned. I need to be debauched. Please, my love.”
“No!”
“I’ll pay you a hundred dollars…”
“I’ll be there. What time?”
“Thank God!” Another sniffle, and something like a yelp of joy. “Come at nine, and…Jiff?”
Jiff was trying to watch Home Shopping Network. “Yeah?”
“I need it…to be real bad. Because I’ve been real bad. I’m so unworthy of your love that I need to be treated like common scum, do you understand?”
Jiff waved his hand. “I gotcha, J.G.,” he almost yelled. He was getting to hate the pitiable fat old man and his masochistic kink games, but…
For a hundred dollars?
“Don’t worry. I’ll surprise ya. Now go to bed, I’ll be ’cos at nine.”
“I love y—”
Jiff hung up. At least business was picking up. He’d made over a hundred dollars today just at the bar; another hundred tomorrow just from one trick with Sute would cash in a fine week. Things could be worse.
It was going on midnight; Jiff hoisted himself up and left the room. He still had to empty the ashtrays and take the trash cans outside, then make a final window check before going to bed. When he passed Lottie’s room, he thought he heard her bed squeaking. Sounds like she’s humpin’ her pillow again, Jiff figured.
The next contemplation aggravated him. Sute wants something extra hard tomorrow. But Jiff couldn’t imagine what. He was being left to his own creativity, and as much of a pain in the ass as it was…
A hundred bucks is solid bread.
Jiff knew he’d think of something rough.
When he left the wing, he didn’t notice the pallid brown dog snuffling around at the other end of the hall.
II
Collier came back to a lobby empty and barely lit. Damn, didn’t realize it was so late. He felt like looking around at more of the display cases but thought better of it. Need to go to bed right now, he reminded himself. I need to be in CHURCH at seven thirty tomorrow morning…He could still scarcely believe it. I’m pussy-whipped for a girl who will never go to bed with me. Collier thought hard about that, but didn’t feel any different after doing so.
He was really looking forward to seeing Dominique.
The incident on the bench seemed so absurd now, he almost laughed out loud. Smart move. Great way to really impress her. But his nerves still felt vibrant from being so close to her. He could still smell her hair, could still taste the clean sweat he’d been allowed to lick off her skin…
God…
He left Mrs. Butler’s truck keys behind the counter. Mental note: NEVER borrow her truck again. He’d walk to the church in the morning. He was about to turn up the stairs but noticed a display for the first time: an oblong glass display case on end, almost as tall as he. It held a woman’s dress, a rich burgundy, in something almost like velvet. BALLROOM DRESS WITH STOMACHER AND PANNIERS, the plaque told him. WORN BY MRS. PENELOPE GAST. Collier stepped back to assess it, as one might a painting. She wore that, he abstracted. A hundred and fifty years ago, her flesh and blood was standing in that dress—in this house…the wife of a twisted killer. The notion gave him a chill.
Mrs. Gast. Mrs…Tinkle…
He stepped away, unnerved, but not before noticing a much smaller case hanging on the sidewall of the stairs. It looked like a pair of crude pliers next to an old hat, but then he read, HAND-FORGED IRON COOLING TONGS—1861—AND REGULATION PATTERN 1858 “HARDEE” HAT, OWNED BY R. HARDING, THE FAMILY BLACKSMITH.
Collier remembered Dominique’s story, the midnight blacksmith in the floppy hat. That’s it, he thought, looking at the hat. If the guy she saw really was a ghost…that’s the hat he wore. Same guy that made the shears in the other case…
Another chill followed him up the stairs. He hadn’t noticed that the “Naughty Girl Clips” in the other case were now missing.
The floor creaked with every other step upstairs. Several wall-mounted electric candles were all that lit the stair hall. Did he hear a door click shut somewhere? Collier gazed through grainy dark. When he passed room two, he couldn’t help it. He bent to sniff the keyhole but noticed nothing. Then he whisked into his own room and locked the door.
Why am I so creeped out tonight?
It was Dominique’s story, of course, and the power of suggestion that would follow most anyone who’d heard it. Something in the house was building up, some unnamed psychic residue, and Collier was picking it up like a lint trap.
When he stripped and turned out the lights, impulse took him to the curtains over the French doors. He looked out at the old forge, which, in the sinking moonlight, looked like nothing more than a pile of rocks.
Sleep impelled him once in bed. God, I’m tired. But when he tried to drift off, his brain betrayed him with images of Dominique: her eyes in the moonlight, her bare legs shining, her nipples plump beneath the thin fabric he’d sucked a great, wet circle in. His penis erected at once, but he shouted at it, No!
He thought about her force of will—to abstain from sex—and then thought about his, which barely existed. He determined himself not to use her to assuage his own lust. The voice of his id kicked in yet again, You got her so torqued up, she’s home right now with her feet sticking up in the air with a twelve-inch dildo stuck in her, you asshole!
Collier, somehow, doubted it, and he sloughed off the voice.
Right now she’s hauling some other guy’s ashes ’cos you didn’t have the balls to go for it…
Collier smiled and shook his head.
He fell into black sleep and began to dream at once. Please let me dream about her…Instead he dreamed of lying prone in a lightless void; darkness lay on him like great rolls of pitch-black cotton.
No sex dreams tonight, he begged his mind in the dream.
Because he knew this was a dream.
He dreamed that someone was looking in his keyhole…
Who was it? And what were they seeing?
The blackness prevailed. A soft hand ran up his chest. Shit…There was no relent to his lust, even in sleep. It stained him like wine on white linen. Another pair of hands landed on him, one rubbing the other pectoral, the other slowly sliding toward his groin. His hips squirmed but he couldn’t move—of course not—as the hands softly molested him. It was as though two women knelt at either side, to tend to him.
Even his dream was goading him to masturbate. But why not with images of Dominique? Was Dominique one of the women, and if so, who was the other?
Eventually the tongues and hands retreated.
Did he hear a giggle?
That’s when it occurred to him how small the hands on his body seemed…
A lively whistling, then a girl’s Southern drawl whispered through the utter blackness, “Here! Come on! Here!”
The bed rustled a bit; then someone else began to ravenously lick his face. It was frenetic, unabating…
More giggles.
The voice on the right: “Look at him go! Good, good boy!”
The voice on the left: “Don’t lick him there, Nergie! Lick him down there!”
“What a dirty dog!”
This is no dream! Collier’s mind stormed, and he lurched up, shoved his hands through the dark, and pushed two unseen forms off the bed. His legs mulekicked outward, and his heels shot something lean and hairy off the mattress. After a thump! he heard a dog yelp.
He snapped on the bed lamp—
The room stood empty, but…
Bullshit!
The door was ajar.
“I know I locked that!” he stated to no one. He got up uncaring that he was naked, and he closed the door and locked it. “I’m positive I locked it…”
But was he really?
Damn it. He sat on the bed’s edge. He felt his face and chest and, of course, there was no trace of wetness. I gotta get out of this house…
Collier wished he smoked just then, because it seemed the perfect time for a cigarette. Should I leave? Should I just pack my bags right now and get out of here? But he’d barely written anything on the book. And where would he go at this hour? He’d have to pay his bill.
tap, tap tap…
His eyes shot wide. He looked at the door but—
tap, tap tap…
The tiny tapping sound came from the other side of the room.
What in the HELL is going on now?
tap, tap tap…
It was coming from the wall. Low on the wall.
Even with the lights on, he could just make out the peephole.
He switched off the lamp and found himself kneeling at the wall. Now the hole was lit.
He looked in.
He could tell at once that the sleek physique sitting in the hip bath belonged to Lottie. The circle encompassed her spread thighs, belly, and tight peach-size breasts. Oh, Jesus…
The strange girl’s hips writhed in the bathwater, her hand frenetically plying her sex.
Collier’s teeth chattered; he watched for many minutes, even as he thought, She’s knows I’m watching. She WANTS me to watch…
His hand inched toward his own crotch. Not this again, he thought, wincing, but then his face blanked when he imagined what Dominique would think if she knew he was doing this, on the verge of masturbating while peeping on a whack-job exhibitionist.
She’d think I was scum.
He pulled away from the hole and sighed. Madhouse, he thought. A house full of sexual weirdos…But did this solve his most current dilemma? Did Lottie enter his room with a master key and feel him up before slipping away to the washroom? It made perfect sense, except…
There were FOUR hands on me…
And what could explain the final observation, what could only have been a dog lapping his face and chest and, very nearly, lower?
He remained there on his knees for several minutes, and through the wall heard Lottie’s obvious climax, then the hip bath being emptied, then the door click shut. A few moments later, and not much of a surprise…
tap, tap, tap…
It was from his door now.
“Gimme a break, Lottie,” he hefted his voice. “Go to bed.”
tap, tap, tap…
Don’t answer it.
He felt absurd sitting on the floor, in the dark. He was hiding in his own room. But he knew what would happen if he let her in.
A few more taps and evidently she got the message. He heard her footsteps pad away.
You really are Man of the Year, huh? his id voice complained. What kind of MAN says no to a horny woman?
Collier didn’t answer the voice.
thunk!
Collier’s head jerked upright. The sound he’d just heard…had come from the other side of the wall. The bath closet.
Had Lottie returned, to tempt him further with more
exhibitions of her body?
And the next sound? A rapid gurgling…
Collier looked back to the peephole.
A dark blur crossed his pinpoint field of vision. The gurgling sound continued, heightened, then stopped. When the blur moved off again, Collier blinked, and in the space of the blink thought he saw a man…with his head in the hip bath…
Impossible! he yelled at himself.
Another blink, and then he heard a vicious gnawing sound.
Collier jerked his eye back from the hole. He took repeated deep breaths, staring into the dark. Then he jumped up, pulled on his robe, and bound out of the room and over to the bath-closet door.
He paused, hand on the knob.
I know that when I open this door, no one will be inside.
He opened the door and found the small room unoccupied.
Madhouse, he thought again.
He returned to his room and went back to bed, disgusted, exhausted, and no longer capable of considering the latest absurdities.
Go to sleep. I have to go to church tomorrow…
Exhaustion and unease sucked him deep down into sleep…
III
Just as the sun sinks, you notice the man hanging by his neck. That’s the first thing you saw when you turned the corner at the bottom of the hill…
Then you blink, and you’re a little girl again.
Your spirit has transfused. Your name is Harriet, and you know this because you read it in your mother’s diary that you kept for five years after she died. You remember: When you were seven, you came back from picking boysenberries in the woods and saw the Indians ripping off her clothes. She was screaming, and the Indians took turns lying on top of her and moving funny. They chopped off the top of her head with a great war hammer, then peeled off her scalp. You were terrified but you knew you must be very quiet. You looked around for your father but quickly saw that the Indians had done the same to him. After that one Indian cut off your father’s thing, too, and put it on a cord around his neck; the cord had the things of many men on it. Another Indian had a curvy French knife—you knew it was French because your father had one just like it. He’d told you once that he got it from his own father, who’d killed lots of Indians in a war a long time ago. In this war, French soldiers gave lots of these knives to the Indians and paid them for parts they cut off of colonists. But anyway, right now this Indian used the knife to cut off the fur between your mother’s legs, along with the skin, and he put it in a bag.