“You’ve been such a good boy, John. Why don’t you join Mother?”
I scrub my face and forehead as if that will clear away the image before me. There have been no intoxicants consumed this morning to blame for what I’m witnessing. And if she’s here now, today? Then last night had to be real, too.
Or, I’m just now having the massive nervous breakdown that I should have had as a teenager. Setting foot in this place one more time was the straw that broke the backbone of my sanity.
If madness is this pleasurable and intoxicating, then sanity is overrated.
“Yes, John. Last night was glorious. Mmmm.” She closes her eyes for a moment as if savoring a memory. When she opens them again, they’re serious and deep. “Now take off your clothes and climb in. Don’t make me punish you.” She raises a hand and makes a clenching motion with her neatly manicured fingers.
My balls ache as they relive the aggressive squeezing from the night before, and my cheek stings from the slap. I don’t doubt that those were “tame” punishments compared to what she would do if I really were to disobey.
My fingers begin removing my clothes before my mind has truly accepted compliance.
When I’m fully naked, she leans forward for me to climb in behind her. She lays between my legs with her head on my chest.
“You were washed by your mother when you were little, John. Why don’t you wash Mother now.” She hands me a washcloth.
I take it, get it wet, and run it up and down her arm.
Briefly, I think about my wife Meisha and how I’ve only ever washed her in the tub like this once before.
Strong fingers take hold of my chin and break up my thoughts. “Focus, John. You are here with Mother now.” She doesn’t release me until I nod an agreement.
I move the washcloth over her breasts. She moans and arches against me when I tease her nipples which pucker beneath my touch.
“You’re making Mother very hot, John. Why don’t you take care of her like she took care of you last night?”
I slip the washcloth between her legs and gently move my fingers in little circles.
“Mhmm,” she moans. “Just like that. You’re making Mother feel so good.”
Moments later, she cries out in pleasure. “Really good job, John.” She rolls over. “I’ll see you later.”
I close my eyes and feel her lips brush mine. When I open them again, I’m alone in a tub of lukewarm water.
I climb out of the bath, dry myself off, and put on the only change of clothing I have with me. If I’m staying another week, I’ll definitely need more.
I have two texts from Meisha. The first says, “How did you sleep?” and the second, “Let me know how it went with the appraiser, and when you’ll be on your way back home.”
With a sigh, I put my phone back in my pocket without responding. Shame ignites my cheeks. What am I supposed to say to my wife when I feel like I’m having an affair? But an affair with who? The ghost of my mother? Who I saw dancing for me on a stripper pole that isn’t really there?
Without really thinking about it, I make my way back to my father’s study and pour myself another glass of scotch. I haven’t indulged in day drinking since my college years, and even that was only at the encouragement of my buddies to get rid of a hangover after partying the night before.
With scotch in hand, I decide to tour the house and remember it for myself. On the first floor is the master bedroom, dining room, kitchen, living room, my father’s study, my mother’s sitting room, and the parlor where we kept the piano. I never did learn to play, and I regret that now as I run my fingers over the smooth key cover.
Meisha and I decided early on that little Johnny would take music lessons as soon as he was old enough. We would do everything we could to make sure he had a fun, engaging teacher.
“Tell Mother you’ll give her a child.” Mother’s voice ethereally floats ethereally in the stale air to my ears.
How am I supposed to give a ghost a child?
Apparently, my mind has decided the being I’m having visions of is a ghost. That would make sense. The house is old and has felt strange, especially after that day. Remembering the first time I saw those eyes makes me shudder.
After walking the entire downstairs, my reacquaintance tour continues to the upstairs where my bedroom and Jamie’s bedroom used to be. The four other bedrooms on this floor were mostly empty when I lived here. Jamie and I used them as playrooms.
This giant house, always too big for the four of us, had been in the family for generations. Now that our parents are dead, neither Jamie nor I want anything to do with it.
It feels a little sad to let it go. But too many memories here are haunted.
That day when Jamie and Becky had played with the Ouija board was not the only time the hole in the wall behind the grandfather clock existed. It made regular appearances throughout my childhood and teenage years.
The second occasion was Christmas of that first fateful year. My mother had worn a red rockabilly dress with white tulle peeking out the bottom and white halter straps that tied behind her neck.
I don’t recall now what toy I’d received that I was contentedly playing with in the hallway when the whoosh of air happened, and the grandfather clock was pulled away from the wall again. I do remember being instantly aroused and wasting no time to peer through it.
My parents had retired to their bedroom for an afternoon “nap”. Instead of sleeping, my mother was on the bed on her hands and knees in her holiday dress. The position pulled the hem of her dress up seductively, showing most of her smooth stocking-covered legs.
My father stood at the foot of the bed, yanking his clothes off as quickly as possible. When he was naked except for his socks, he climbed on the bed behind her, his member standing proud and ready. As he pulled her stockings and lacy panties to her knees, I reached for my crotch. I was breathing hard and rubbing myself by the time he thrusted into her with a grunt.
She cried out in pleasure, and those eyes of hers turned to meet mine. I couldn’t look away.
As I pull myself back to the present, I’m embarrassed to find that I’m rock hard, even though no one else is here. I take a big swig of the scotch and try to walk it off by going up the stairs to the attic.
Something sweeps across my face, and I flail like a madman against an unseen assailment. My heart takes on a fervent pace.
A few wispy cobwebs coat my hands when I lower them again.
I stand, feeling like a fool, and take a few deep calming breaths before surveying the dark space.
In the middle of the otherwise empty attic is what I assume to be Becky’s Ouija board. It’s been sitting here for all these years and yet there’s not a speck of dust on it.
The board draws me to it, the wooden planchette resting on it in a neutral spot. With my adult eyes, I notice details about it that my younger self missed.
The board is made of real wood, stained a deep cherry color, and possibly hand-carved. A stern, beautiful female face graces the space above the letters. Two massive horns resembling that of a ram sprout from her forehead and curl about her head.
Without conscious directions from me, my body kneels before it and sets my hand on the planchette. I hold my breath and hope nothing happens.
After a moment it moves. My hand slides around the surface as I’m unable to break the connection. Sweat pours from my forehead as I try to wrest my hands away. What madness is this?
H. E. L. L. O. J. O. H. N.
The invisible force releases my hands.
I jump up, nearly spilling my drink, almost hearing her voice saying the words. Mother.
* * *
After the interaction with the Ouija board, I drain the scotch and rush back down to the study.
