Necromantic

by Cole Vance

  Once there, though, I got a bit sidetracked. The guy working the counter was cute and the store was empty. He began eyeing me up the second I walked into the store to access my postal box. I pretended not to notice at first, but then remembered back to my possession of Francine. Orgasm or not, it had been intensely satisfying to have another man inside of me. Still, there had been an element of stupidity to it, too. I quickly glanced down at this body. I had no doubt this girl was kind of loose. Still, she was young and I had no desire to mess up her life through my actions.

  But wouldn’t a girl like this maybe know all that and plan accordingly?

  On a whim, I decided to check her purse. Bingo! Sure enough, there was an unopened pack of condoms inside. I glanced at them, then at the counter boy. I was in business.

  He didn’t need much convincing either. Aware of my own time table, I cut right to the chase. Within minutes, the front door was locked and I was straddling him naked on the stockroom floor. He didn’t last too long. I couldn’t really blame him for it either. A surprise fuck at work from a hot stranger would cause even the most experienced of players to shoot quickly. Fortunately, thanks to the excitement of the situation, it lasted just long enough for me. By the time I got back to the car, package in hand, I was still flushed.

  I hadn’t lost much time either, maybe a half hour at most. There was still enough remaining to return home, get some reading done, and then get back upstairs in time to coax Harold’s dick back to life for one more go before I left.

  * * *

  This continued for many more weeks, just like clockwork - well, almost, anyway. There was one incident where I arrived to find it was a Wednesday instead of Saturday. I guess the twenty-something year old blonde - Sasha I think he called her - was booked up for the weekend. Aside from that one little odd deviation, though, you could have set your watch to the routine.

  As the time passed, I grew bolder in nearly every aspect. My studies continued in both the physical and metaphysical sense. I made new purchases above and beyond what Harold had on hand...using the old storage boxes in the basement to hide my newly obtained spell components as well as some other items, not the least of which was a bulk order of Trojans. I had enjoyed my little tryst at the Office-Mart, so much so that I found myself looking to repeat the event at every opportunity. Soon, I had little doubt that the employees were probably fighting over the weekend graveyard shift thanks to the inexplicable parade of slutty women that seemed to show up on random Saturday nights. A few of the young studs manning the front desk even had skills and pricks rivaling Harold’s. More than once, I found myself glad of my seven-hour time limit because I was damn near exhausted come the end of it.

  Still, I made sure that I never took my eye off the ball - pardon the pun. With each passing week, a new piece of the puzzle fell into place. I came to understand a great many things, including that Harold was far cleverer than I would have ever given him credit for. His method of spell crafting apparently involved mixing the rituals from various ancient cultures until he obtained the results he wanted. That explained the bizarre pairing of religious icons: the pentagram and the Egyptian altar for starters. I also figured out why the power in the pentagram made my nerves stand on end with sexual excitement. Somehow, the herbal magic of the Chinese combined with the rituals of the ancient pharaohs to stabilize the spell...the side effect being that anyone who spent more than a few seconds in close proximity to the magic circle would immediately be driven into a lustful frenzy.

  Harold’s notes indicated that the binding agent, the thing that kept my spirit tied to my physical remains, was Aztec in origin. Unfortunately, he didn’t go into much further detail. That one racked my brain for weeks until I remembered the receipt on his computer. He had spent a ton of money on some blessed Aztec relics...hoes they were called. Fortunately, by then I was quite adept at using the internet. A quick search online was able to fill me in on what they were...some sort of metalwork the Aztecs prized highly, using it as currency in some cases.

  Following that revelation, I did what I hadn’t been brave enough to try since that one night several months back...I entered the pentagram and uncovered my body. My corpse lay there as before, still clad in my favorite dress.

  “You’ve lost weight,” I said to the skeleton, my attempt at some graveyard humor. It didn’t work. It was still weird as all hell staring at what had once been me. Gone was everything but a few scraps of dried out flesh. Aside from the attire and strands of hair, I was unrecognizable.

  The decay looked natural, the result of time. I almost laughed, wondering how badly I had stunk up the joint during those first few months. Surely someone would have noticed that, but then I remembered the magic. If Harold could mesmerize an entire police force, surely a little spiritual Febreze wouldn’t have been all that hard to whip up.

  That’s when it caught my eye. What I had at first assumed was just some costume jewelry around my body’s neck, wasn’t that at all. The greenish metal shard that sat on my shrunken chest was old...far older than I had first noticed. It matched the descriptions I had found online. It was an Aztec Hoe, the binding agent that let Harold call my spirit forth from all the countless souls in the afterlife.

  That question had been answered, but I still found myself staring at what had once been my body. Despite the fact that I was practically dripping with desire, the result of standing in the circle once again, my curiosity was piqued. I pushed the feelings of lust away as best I could and bent down toward myself. The shock had long ago worn off, but there was still one mystery remaining.

  I knew it was probably hopeless. With my flesh gone, it would most likely take an expert to deduce anything of note. A pathologist I was not. Still, I began to examine myself...hoping to gain something, perhaps some insight that was lost to my final memories.

  I don’t know how long I looked, poked, and prodded. It must have been a while, though, for by the time I was about ready to give up, I felt like a fire had been lit in my crotch. Had Harold shown up at that moment, wanting to fuck me on top of my own rotting corpse, I would have spread my legs and gladly taken it.

  It was getting hard to think. I stood, ready to cover my body again and head back upstairs. I still had at least forty-five minutes left; my plan being to wake my bastard of a husband up and put them to good use. That was when I noticed it. It wasn’t much - I could see how I might have missed it. Just under the chin of my jawbone, I saw it: a visible crack in one of the vertebrae.

  The son of a bitch had snapped my neck.

  Chapter 20

  Somehow, I managed to keep from clawing Harold’s eyes out when I went back upstairs. Angry as I was, though, the magic had taken hold. My need to feel him inside of me was far greater than my desire for revenge at that moment. The brunette I inhabited was petite but well-muscled. I attacked him with a ferocity I hadn’t felt in weeks, barely letting him breathe as I rammed my tongue into his mouth. I grinded my hips against him until he was hard and glistening wet from my abundant juices. When at last I could feel his meat throbbing against my belly, I impaled myself upon him.

  Such was the effect of the power downstairs that I came almost immediately. I arched my back and cried out, calling upon a God that I was pretty sure didn’t exist and not caring one bit either way. Waves of pleasure flowed through me and I felt my nerves light up with it. Every sensation seemed to be increased by a hundred fold: the air against my bare back, the feel of Harold’s rough chest hair against my breasts, the tight stomach muscles of this body slapping against his, the head of his cock as it slammed into my cervix. I felt all of it, as if I was ablaze.

  “Liked that, did ya?” Harold asked from beneath me, assuming his touch alone had brought me to this state so quickly - the arrogant son of a bitch.

  Losing control of myself for one moment, I angrily spat, “Fuck you!” at him before once more tasting his tongue with my own. I began to move my hips more quickly, not wishing for the insanity inside of my body to stop
. A second orgasm ripped through me and I knew it wasn’t the end, either. I stifled a scream as I bit down on his lip and yet still didn’t stop.

  It was then that an uncontrollable spasm ripped through me. My hands turned to claws and gripped down on Harold’s shoulders hard enough to draw blood. What the...?

  The world wavered for a moment before regaining focus. I knew what it meant. Quickly, without trying to be obvious, I turned my head toward the clock. I still had nearly half an hour left. What was...again the world greyed out and I found myself starting to slip away.

  Why? There had been no...and that’s when I realized what it was. The magic downstairs! I had spent too long in the circle. Whatever it had done to me, it was also counteracting the binding that kept me here.

  A third orgasm shook my form as the final convulsions began. My entire body seized up, every muscle contracting, as I felt myself begin to slip away. Before I went, though, I heard Harold gasp, “Jesus!” right before beginning a spasm of his own. The last thing I felt as I once more fled this mortal coil was the hot onrush of his seed filling me.

  So delicious!

  * * *

  If it were possible for a spirit to collapse into a quivering heap, I would have. The sensations continued to race through my soul. This had happened the last time I had touched the magic surrounding my body. That explained how it was able to follow me here, where I was just a spirit. The power that bound me to my corpse was somehow able to affect me regardless of my lack of flesh. Of course, this was all elementary at that point in time. I could still feel the onrush of that final orgasm coursing through me. It was terrifying, yet wonderful at the same time. Cumming without a body...it’s quite the experience.

  I don’t know how long I lay there; it could have been days. Eventually, the feelings faded. My connection to the mortal world finally severed and I was able to think again. Thank goodness for that because with it, I finally began to see how reckless I was becoming.

  When this had first started, I’d been content with one or two goes at it before being sucked back into oblivion. Now, though, not only was I screwing Harold like a rabbit hopped up on Spanish fly, but I was taking a perverse thrill in fucking complete strangers. I had to face facts; I was becoming dangerously addicted. A stiff penis was my crack pipe. An orgasm was my high and I couldn’t get enough.

  Worse yet, it was starting to work against me. A half an hour here or there, but it was starting to add up. Now, I knew the magic could work against me, too. How much time had I lost in total? I had no idea. Whatever the amount, it was costing me. I had figured out the basics of what Harold had done, and was still doing to me. What I hadn’t discovered yet was anything that would help me, assuming that was even possible.

  I had to focus. I needed to resolve myself to try harder.

  There was nothing I could do about my comings and goings with Harold, though. If I suddenly became a cold fish, he would become suspicious or worse. That was my compromise. I’d take what pleasure I could, but even so, I’d limit myself. Unless he insisted otherwise, there would be one screw when I arrived and another when he thought I left. When it was actually time for me to go, I would do so simply lying by his side. Let whoever owned the body de jour take over from there if she so pleased. Aside from that, there would be no more giving it up for strangers. Not only did it waste time, but it was stupid as well. If Harold happened to ever waken while I was out on one of my jaunts, the whole thing could come crumbling down upon me.

  There was just one problem: in the land of spirits it was easy to make such promises. Would I be strong enough once I was again wrapped in warm, sensitive flesh?

  Chapter 21

  I redoubled my efforts. I’d been a fair student while in school, never top of my class, but well within the upper quarter. I decided it was best to start taking my own notes, to supplement what Harold had written. On my next visit, I made a quick drive out to pick up some notebooks, making sure to keep my mind as far away as possible from thoughts of the young male waiting on me from behind the counter, much to both of our disappointments, no doubt. I then began in earnest, knowing I could hide my work amongst the stacks of boxes in the basement. Harold would rue his actions, both killing me and being such a packrat.

  I rewrote all of the rituals I was currently aware of, noting their ingredients, where they had come from, and the significance of each culture’s influence. I did this until I felt I knew them by heart. Only then did I start moving forward again, digging through his notes for new information, looking for fresh insight.

  * * *

  It was a turd hunt. Most of the remaining notes were ramblings about ancient gods and cultures. There was little tying it together, save for continual references to Osiris. I had already gathered as much, from the bust sitting only a few feet away from me, that his symbol was somewhat important to the ritual. Somehow the Egyptians had gotten more of the puzzle correct than the others. Many of the other cultures noted: the Atlanteans, The Aztecs, some group called the Children of Mu, all of them were bloodthirsty. They saw death as a way to appease their angry gods, seeking strength from the souls of their dead. Others, such as the Chinese, looked upon the afterlife as a source of knowledge. Only the Egyptians seemed to look at the circle of life and death as interconnected. To them, death was both a window as well as a door that could be swung both ways.

  After ordering some mandrake - having noticed my supply was starting to run low - I confirmed these findings online. The Egyptian Book of Coming Forth, also known as the Book of the Dead, wasn’t exactly a hugely popular item. Fortunately, though, research other than Harold’s existed. There was apparently a full translation available as well. Heck, it was even available for sale. Unfortunately, digging deeper revealed that it was widely considered a bastardization of the original. Still, it might be worth looking into. I ordered a copy. If it was even ten percent accurate, that might still give me some additional insight.

  I continued to read, finding various scholarly white papers on the subject. All of them took a historical approach toward the work, rather than treating it as a subject of fact - a good thing, otherwise there would probably be a cottage industry around bringing back dead relatives. I saw more mentions of Osiris, the supposed god of the underworld for their culture. I likewise found an interesting examination into the nature of the spells.

  Most were for paving the way or making the transition of the dead easier. Some were for calling forth the deceased for the purposes of wisdom. A few, though, were darker...considered forbidden magic by even their standards. Those were what interested me. I continued forward in my research. Sure enough, I found mention of a spell that would open a door through which to call forth a spirit to inhabit the body of the living. Unfortunately, as was my experience, there seemed to be an egg timer associated with whatever door that opened.

  Wait a second...pay-dirt! I had been hoping to find perhaps some insight into making my forays last longer. On the outside, I had my fingers crossed that maybe I could even find a way to take control of things, so I could come back during a time of my choosing and not whenever Harold’s prick twitched.

  The word that caught my eye, though, promised far more than that...far more than I could have ever hoped for.

  That word: resurrection.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, if I was hoping for an easy fix, it wasn’t to be had. The surviving original texts of the book contained bit and pieces of the ritual, but seemed to be purposely vague. If anything, it looked like the same spell that called forth the spirit. The problem there being that Harold had somehow cobbled together bits and pieces from other cultures to supplement that. Even then, it had been a crap shoot. A part of me was tempted just to start messing with ingredients to see if I could get a reaction, but I knew that would be idiotic. I didn’t quite dare take a shot in the dark and risk ruining everything.

  I narrowed my search, seeing if I could dig up anything else on this forbidden ritual. There was very little to be ha
d, sadly. Many so-called experts on the subject even considered it little more than a fanciful mistranslation. The results were not encouraging.

  I was just about to quit, when at the bottom of the fifth page I saw a link that caught my eye.

  Bringing Forth The Dead: the marriage of science with necromancy

  A white paper by Dr. Peter Gibbons.

  The title itself didn’t exactly speak volumes. If anything, it looked like a crackpot term paper that some pothead might turn in. Why was it catching my eye, though? Then I realized it. That name...I had seen it before. But where? Was it online? Maybe it was on the nametag of one of the store clerks I had screwed. No, that didn’t sound right.

  That’s when it hit me. Hadn’t there been mention of a Gibbons in Harold’s notes? Something about him being...wait a second. Hadn’t he referenced someone of that name talking about making resurrection permanent? I could have sworn it.

  Either way, I clicked the link, giving it my rapt attention.

  * * *

  It was no mystery why Harold had dismissed him as a crank. The guy was obviously a loon and not a very useful one at that. Sure, he claimed it was possible for the spirit to be brought back. He even wrote that he could re-bond it to its original body. Unfortunately, where he fell short in his claims was on how to do so. The best he could offer was what he theorized to be a secret passage hidden deep within the Book of the Dead. He had found it using some cryptography of his own making. Translation: the nutball had probably made it all up.

  The window shall close, the door will be shut, and the ba reunited with the ib. Spurn the husband for he is fallen. Call upon the ren of the mother wife. The flesh of the priest bound to the fallen shall feed the body and the ka will once more burn bright.