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.
I definitely need another drink. Or ten.
My phone vibrates. It’s another message from Meisha.
“Is the appraiser still there? Are you doing okay?”
I put my phone back in my pocket. Am I doing okay? I honestly think I’m going crazy. Having delusions or illusions or whatever they’re called. Nothing about this is okay. I need some time to clear my head.
After I pour a sizable glass of scotch, I peruse my dad’s study. A built-in shelf with a mix of books, ancient and modern takes up almost a whole wall. Some of them might be worth a considerable amount. The appraiser will be able to give me an idea of how much when he comes back next week.
Next week! Why am I staying here another week?
I answer myself: because I was told to. And the teller was compelling.
After another sip of scotch, I wonder if I should see a therapist. All these repressed childhood memories coming back have me thinking crazy things.
I was never abused as a child, but I obviously had a very unnatural attraction for my mother. Why else would my crazy ghost dreams have her starring in them?
Obviously, my mother was a very attractive woman, especially when I was still a young boy. She aged quickly after my father’s death. But again, it wasn’t until her eyes changed that I started to be sexually attracted to her. I think he found her more attractive after that, too.
They started having sex all over the house. I remember looking for my baseball uniform when I was in high school and walking in on them having sex on the washing machine. And I mean I walked all the way in.
I was so shocked that I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. Dad grabbed a dirty towel to cover himself and threw one at my mother. She pulled it up to cover her naked body, much too slowly as if she wanted me to have her breasts burned into my memory, and slipped the tip of her index finger into her mouth. Her eyes never left mine.
“Fuck, John, get out of here, you’re getting aroused by your own mother!” Dad pointed at my crotch.
It was true. My little John was standing up and proud. I had to masturbate twice that night in order to fall asleep.
Looking down at myself now, I notice my little John is reminiscing at the memory, and my glass of scotch is empty. With a sigh, I fill my glass and sit down in one of my father’s chairs. I set the glass on the end table, put my feet up, and close my eyes.
“Mmm, looks like you were thinking about me.”
My eyes fly open, and I’m staring into her deep, dark ones.
She straddles me, wearing garters with black stockings and a corset from which the top of her smooth breasts bulge. Her hips grind against mine, making my pants uncomfortably tight. She gracefully turns around and teases me with her bare cheeks. The tiniest little satin string is the only thing covering her backside.
“You can touch me, John.”
As if her words were a command, my hands slide along her luscious curves. I grasp her and pull her onto my lap. My erection begs to escape. She bends forward, reaches between her legs, and frees me.
