Feature Writer: The Fallen
Feature Title: Ghostly Pleasures
Story Codes: Mg, Romance, Fantasy
Uploaded: http://www.asstr.org/~LS/stories/thefallen4172.html
Ghostly Pleasures
Morning
Eric stared up at the ceiling. He was bored to death. Bad choice of words, but they rang true. At least the bed was comfortable.
So he’d screwed up a news story with a local politician. He didn’t see anything wrong with asking the man about his frequent visits to prostitutes. Eric had gotten a tip, and it made good reporting to utilize it to the fullest.
Of course, he hadn’t known that the politician in question had the owner of the newspaper by the balls and controlled all the news stories. He’d learned real fast though. Eric was surprised they hadn’t fired him. He probably should have quit, but news jobs were few and far between these days.
Instead, he’d been banished to the human interest section. Fluff reporting was sheer hell.
And now, here he was, at a supposedly haunted Bed and Breakfast. Could it get any worse? The only scary thing he’d encountered in three days was the thought of where his boss would send him next. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be covering the Poodle Pageant next week.
Eric picked up the single pink rose from the pillow next to him. He inhaled its light fragrance. Every night when he returned to his room, he’d found the bed turned down and a rose on his pillow. It was an interesting service. A tradition, he imagined, though he hadn’t yet asked. He was having trouble garnering up any enthusiasm for this haunted story. Hauntings. What a crock!
The first night, the rose had been white. Last night, the rose was peach. Today, it was pink. He wondered if the colors signified anything. He’d have to ask that, too. The owner must order out for the roses, because he hadn’t seen any rose bushes on the grounds. Seemed an extravagant expense to him, but then he was a reporter, not a businessman.
The one positive happening to this whole experience was that he’d had the most erotic dreams while sleeping here. He’d take those memories home with him. Maybe he should turn those in as his story, he thought with a chuckle. But even if he could, he wouldn’t. Too risky, he thought. And beside, he didn’t want to share his dream-child with anyone.
Strangely, for a dream, the adorable child – his little girl, as he’d begun to think of her – appeared the same each night. About twelve years old. Long, blonde hair. Green eyes. Porcelain skin. Dressed in a white nightgown. Beautiful and insatiable and yet still a child, so small and vulnerable. His body grew hard simply thinking of her. On a sigh, his eyes closed. Maybe he’d go to sleep early tonight.
A whisper of silky softness touched his lips and Eric’s mouth responded to the sensation. Suddenly realization dawned, and he bolted upright, eyes wide. His heart racing, he scanned the room. Asleep. Yes. He must have drifted asleep. He touched his mouth and laid back down. Maybe it was The Ghost. He chuckled at the thought.
Tonight the owner of the Bed and Breakfast was supposed to take the guests down to the basement and show everyone some sort of shrine or museum of the person who supposedly died here over one hundred years ago and still roamed the halls.
Ten to one they’d have a shop set up with souvenirs. Great way to milk people out of more money.
Afternoon
“Right down here, folks,” the owner directed, as she led everyone down the stairs.
“I swear I heard someone walking down the hall last night,” an older woman said on her way to the basement. “I’ll bet it was The Ghost.”
Several guests nodded in agreement. Eric rolled his eyes.
The basement was dark, except for a few lit candles placed in strategic locations. The musty smell teased Eric’s nostrils. Along one wall was a long table topped with trinkets – old-fashioned hair brushes, hand mirrors, necklaces, and such. On the opposite wall hung a variety of black and white photos.
As the others milled about the room, Eric was drawn to the photos. The closer he got, the harder his heart drummed in his chest. The air seemed to close in around him. All the photos were of a little girl. And not just any little girl – his little girl, the one of his erotic dreams. She held a white rose in her hand.
A coincidence. A resemblance. That’s all it was. An uncanny resemblance.
“Very beautiful child, wasn’t she?” the owner said, stepping up beside Eric.
“What was her name?” Eric had to know. He wanted to know everything. This story had now taken on new meaning for him.
“Amelia Carmichael. She was the daughter of an English Earl. Their family came here for a visit in 1868, when this was the home of a local businessman, who was a long-time friend of the Earl. Little Amelia fell in love with the gardener. This chap here.” She pointed to a picture Eric hadn’t noticed before – the only one of a man. “They became lovers even though she was no more than a child, so the story goes. When the Earl found out, he killed the man in a fit of rage. Distraught, Amelia took her own life. She just turned twelve couple of months before her death.”
How tragic and such a waste of young life, of beauty. Eric stared at the picture of the gardener. It was faded and not a good angle, but the man’s build was similar to his own.
“How did little girl kill herself?” he asked.
“She jumped from the top window.”
Eric cringed, and a chill rushed down his spine.
“I wouldn’t think a person could kill themselves that way.”
“She was found by her parents on the ground in front of the Hotel. The legend is… she still roams the halls of this house looking for her lost lover.”
He pointed at the rose Amelia held.
“She liked roses. Every little girl likes roses.”
“Her lover gave her one every night when he couldn’t be with her. She always slept with it on the pillow next to her. Such a romantic gesture, don’t you think?”
“Like you do for the guests.”
“Excuse me?” the owner asked, a perplexed look on her face.
“The rose that you leave on the pillow every night,” he explained.
“We don’t have rose bushes here any more. They won’t grow. In fact, no rose will live on this property… even those we’ve had delivered. They die almost immediately.”
Evening
Eric woke abruptly. He squinted against the light. The lamp beside the bed cast a glow inside the room. When he moved, his pen rolled off his stomach onto some papers beside him.
He wondered what had waken him. Before he’d fallen asleep, he’d been trying to write his story on little Amelia, but hadn’t gotten very far. The suicide – love story was a good angle, but somehow he felt no one will believe it since the girl was only a small child and he would end up being ridiculed for writing nonsense.
Turning on his side, he picked up the rose on the pillow next to him. Tonight it was red. He rolled over on his back and raised the flower to his nose, inhaling its scent. Who would leave a rose on his pillow if not the owner? It had to be the owner. And the rose was very much alive. She’d probably lied just to keep up the mystery of the place.
He glanced at the clock. Midnight. He wasn’t going to get any more work done tonight.
Midnight
More frustrated than ever, Eric stormed into his room and tossed his pad and pen on the dresser. He couldn’t write the story. Every time he tried, he went blank.
This was his last night. He had to write something.
The covers had been pulled down as usual, but the red rose had gone missing.
The small hairs on the nape of Eric’s neck stood on end. He mentally shook himself. “So, the cleaning lady took it away. No big deal.” But the owner’s words came back to haunt him in more than one way. “Her lover gave her one every night when he couldn’t be with her.”
Did that mean she was going to come to him tonight? But… she’d been with him every night… in his dreams. Would she be here tonight in spirit?
He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “I’m getting as loony as the other guests. Right now, that Poodle Pageant is starting to look good.”
Eric stepped into the bathroom. “I need a cold shower.”
The night was warm, so he’d opted to simply sleep in his briefs. He felt somewhat better after the shower, but was still tense about the story.
He glanced at the dresser where he’d thrown his pad and pen. “What the hell …”
The pad was neatly positioned in the middle of the dresser, its cover flipped open. The pen lay perfectly atop the first page.
The fluid-looking script on the paper drew him closer. It wasn’t his writing. He glanced around nervously. Someone had been in his room.
Eric quickly checked the door. “Still locked.”
Taking a deep breath, he walked over to the dresser, brushed the pen aside, and picked up the pad. As he made his way over to the bed to sit down, he began to read.
He settled back against the pillow and concentrated on the story written in his pad. It was exactly three pages long and didn’t take him long to finish.
Exhaling a deep breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding, he set the pad aside. She hadn’t killed herself. Amelia had been murdered, according to the story. Her father not only had killed her lover in a fit of rage, but her as well… for shaming him.
Eric stared at the locked door. The owner must have come in while he was showering, wrote up the story, then locked the door again after she left.
Something slid across Eric’s thigh and he jumped, brushing at his skin. A spider? He didn’t see one. This place was suddenly giving him the creeps. He stared down at the pad. “I suppose I could check out the story; see if there’s any truth to it.”
Something touched him again, but this time it fluttered across his face, and his body responded immediately. “Damn! That was a hand.” A light brush slid across his lips, moistening them with a kiss. Eric raised his hands to push whatever it was away, but he only encountered air.
Warm breath teased his ear. Whatever was happening wasn’t painful. If he’d relax, he might even enjoy it. It was also possible that he was dreaming and just didn’t realize it. That thought appealed to him. “It couldn’t really be a ghost-child, could it?”
The breath next to his ear moved to his lips, and he responded, mingling his breath with … “Amelia?” he whispered, and was rewarded with a gentle rub on his chest.
Was it possible she wrote the story on his pad?
As soon as the thought entered his head, the smell of roses wafted to his nose. He glanced around the room, but didn’t see any flowers.
Something tugged on the waistband of his briefs. “Uh …” He grabbed the material, but then he felt a pair of lips kissing his face. “You’re torturing me, Amelia.”
He reached out, thinking she had to be there, but he couldn’t feel her. “Why can’t I touch you?”
Something tugged on his underwear again, and this time he didn’t try to stop it. Once he was lying naked on the bed, uncertainty overcame him. “This is just too weird.”
He felt pressure on his thighs and realized that little girl must have straddled him. He grew hard, and when the child slid over him, he moaned and jerked his hips. “Amelia,” he whispered on a shallow breath of air. “Why did you come to me?”
Come to me… the words echoed in his head, but in a child’s voice. His body tightened and he climaxed. Tell my story, Eric, so I may rest in peace.
Pure pleasure exploded through his body, and for an instant he saw Amelia straddled atop him, smiling like a mischievous little girl. She was even more beautiful than she appeared on the old photographs. Her blond hair fell around her shoulders and her angelic face looked down upon his face with love in her big green eyes. The next instant she was gone, and his head lolled to the side.
Dawn
The day was breaking out and lying next to him, a white rose released its fresh scent. Where had that come from? Eric slowly drifted to sleep, a smile on his face, knowing he had a story to tell.
He and Amelia both would rest in peace tonight.
THE END