The Haunted Victorian #3
It was all beautifully handcrafted, ornate, vintage. Likely had been in my family for generations. But there was a wretched darkness permeating the wood. I can't explain it, but I could feel it. So, I got rid of almost everything.
This closet is the last to empty, and previously, every time I came in here, Eric would shove me away. So I worked through the rest of the house. There were plenty of other things to do.
But this is all that's left.
"The new slim silhouette convertible Hoover. Your wife will love it!" I read the advertisement, shaking my head, and throw it in the garbage bag. "I guess vacuum cleaners were too sophisticated for husbands to operate in the 70s," I muse.
Eric nudges the bigger box, where the brand new Hoover vacuum is all folded up. Even though I can't see him, his tension radiates around us, making the air feel heavy and caustic.
It doesn't take me long to unearth a book buried beneath the sales pitch pamphlet and piles of old receipts. I flip through the pages. It's filled with dates and times logged in pencil, fading with age. A ledger of sales.
Flipping through the notes, I fan the pages to the front of the book until I see it.
His name. An old yellowed label, typed on an old-fashioned typewriter.
Property of Eric Greer.
Tears burn my eyes, tracking down my cheeks. I wipe them away and suck in a breath, the air catching in my throat like a jagged piece of glass.
"I'm so, so sorry," I whisper, though the words are insufficient. I knew what I was going to find before I found it. The evidence was insurmountable, and there was only one reason Eric would make me save this room, this closet for last.
Eric, and many others, had the unfortunate luck of knocking on Greta's door. That's all it took.
He was a door-to-door salesman. He sold vacuum cleaners. And my great aunt was a serial killer, and no one, not her neighbors, not even her own family, knew the truth.
Except, now, me.
I find a pencil in the box, and write on the back of an old receipt, numbers 1-9. A slow, annoying, albeit effective means of communication Eric and I have developed over the past year.
"How old were you?" I ask.
I tap my finger over the one and pause, then the two, where he nudges me. I nod and start over, and he stops me at the four.
"Twenty-four?" I ask.
Icy fingers brush my wrist. Yes.
Tears stream down my cheeks.
He was so young. I'm only twenty-six. I can't imagine what that must have felt like. Two years ago, at twenty-four, I'd felt dissatisfied with life. Bored, indifferent. That all feels so trivial now.
This… having it end like that, so violently, at the hands of someone like Greta… I don't know how he can stand to be in the same room as me.
"I'm so sorry, Eric."
He doesn't touch me or make any noise. I give him a moment.
He likes to touch me. I suspect he follows me more than he lets on.
But right now, it seems like he wants to be alone. I don't know if he's left the room, but I decide to give him space. Like every other room I've cleaned out, I pick up all the trash, collect it into big black contractor bags, and carry it outside, stacking it up beside my car to bring to the dump.
I stand outside and look up at the great big Victorian. When I thought of my mysterious aunt before I'd moved here, I'd assumed her reputation had to do with some sexual deviance, or maybe she poisoned the neighbors' dogs who barked too much.
I'd never expected this.
She's horrible, and I'm glad she's dead.
A cool breeze rushes in from the sea; the salty air grounds the swirling rage in my gut. The waves crash rhythmically in the distance, making the promise on my lips, in my heart, feel even more resolute.
"I'm on your side, Eric," I whisper to no one. "I've got you." I need to protect him from the darkness Greta brought into this house. I will never let anything harm him again; not if I can help it.
When I get back inside, I expect the house to feel different.
It's dark and quiet as always, and Greta's trophies are all officially gone.
I walk through each room. There used to be more ghosts haunting Greta's Victorian, but, according to Eric, they either passed to the other side, wherever that may be, or are hiding in some in-between world, afraid to return to the site of their gruesome death.
I wander the halls, but it's useless. I'm all alone. And things feel heavy as always. This house has its claws in me.
I hope Eric feels better. I've never felt worse.
Dina
"Are you sure about this?" I ask for the third time.
"Oh, yeah, babe, I'm definitely fuckin' sure," Angel mutters. His face is buried between my tits, giving new meaning to the word motorboat.
But I'm not talking to him.
Though it's not the first time I've brought someone home, and Eric seemed totally normal—encouraging, even—when I left a few hours ago, he's been on edge since I got back.
I can't leave Eric. But I can't really be with him, either, so we came to this compromise: I could find lovers, real ones, human ones, warm ones, when I felt really lonely—when I just needed to touch someone, to talk to another person.
Eric always joins in. But tonight, he doesn't engage with me and Angel at all.
The guy has a surfer vibe to him. He's gorgeous and carefree. He has long, sun-streaked hair and is chill in a way I've never been. But I like that about him. I lean into him, reveling in his human warmth. I'm turned on, and I desperately need a release.
I don't know why I've been so stressed out lately. Every day looks the same; there's nothing new that should make me feel this way. I just wake up and want to scream.
Ever since the day I found the last remnants of Eric's life, things changed between us. I've been protective of him. But I'm going insane with all this isolation. I can't see him, or hear him. I can barely feel him.
"Oh, fuck, baby, that's so good. Yeah, just like that," Angel rasps, rubbing his face into my chest, smothering himself. It makes me laugh. He's playful. Fuck, I need more of that.
I look behind me, but there's no sign Eric's there. He'd have joined in by now. I even angle my hips so he can take me from behind.
There's nothing like feeling a human inside my pussy, and my strange, ghostly lover in my ass. It's cold and hot and wild and tight.
But Eric isn't there, and I need this release, so I turn my attention back to Angel. I ride him, let him motorboat my tits like an idiot, and close my eyes. I get lost in it, letting the pleasure build.
And then something strange happens.
There's a loud snap. Like bones cracking. And a quick gurgle, before the sound disappears.
Angel's dick is still hard, inside me. But his eyes roll into the back of his head, neck bent at an awkward angle.
I scream and jump up. The feel of his dick dragging out of me makes me retch, and I fall to the floor and start vomiting.
Because I know what I'm seeing.
I understand it, intellectually.
But it takes me a while to formulate my thoughts. To say the words.
"He's-he's—you ki-killed him," I stutter. I look at Angel, lying there naked. Eyes unseeing.
Dead.
"What did you do? What did you do!" I scream.
I think I'm going to throw up again. My stomach churns.
Eric doesn't respond. Of course he doesn't.
Five minutes pass. Maybe. I've lost track of time.
I want to scream. To fight with him, to ask why, to go back half an hour and never bring Angel inside.
And then Angel's body lifts from the bed. Eric's carrying him, but to me, it looks as if he's floating in the air. His dead limbs sway, sun-streaked hair limp and long. I liked his hair. And his laugh.
They're nearly out of sight before I force myself to get up.
I follow the procession, nauseous, naked, but can't form any words. It's past midnight. Dark out, all the neighbors likely sound asleep. I don't think they can see into my backyard anyway, and I should be more concerned about whether they can or not.
But I'm numb. My mind went from racing, trying to piece together what the fuck just happened, replaying the last few moments in fragmented, horrifying loops to just…
silence. Incoherent thoughts. Emotions. Sadness for the man I barely knew, whose only crime was coming home with me. And white-hot anger towards Eric.
I watch as the earth parts in the backyard. Some of it is Eric, likely digging with his hands. The dirt shifts, but it also feels like the house is helping him, pulling back roots to make the burial easier.
The body drops into the deep grave beneath the bushes. The guilt and horror nearly suffocate me as the dirt pours over the body. My hands are clammy. My heart races. Eric plants a baby rose bush atop the grave.
Numbly, I walk back inside and take a seat at the kitchen table.
I should call the police.
But I don't.
"Why not the front yard?" I croak.
It's the only thing I've said since it happened. Disgust slithers through every vein and out every pore, still stuck on the feeling of someone else's death inside my body, the guilt of having brought Angel home banging loudly in my head, like someone's taken a metal pot to my brain.
A minute passes. I hear the front door open. Another minute. And then Eric sets a rose on the table in front of me.
The rose bushes.
So, that's where he got the idea to bury Angel's body.
What fucking irony.
I feel hollow. And the feeling doesn't leave for days. Weeks.
Wake, work, eat, sleep. But it's different now, clouded by death and more secrets. Not Greta's this time.
Eric eventually apologizes.
But that means nothing.
My lover is a murderer, and I'm his accomplice. I should have stopped him from burying the body. I should have called the police, told them where Angel's buried.
Something stirs in my chest. It's like the house takes a breath. And it feeds me its strength.
Is this what happened to Greta? I tense and take a breath, and so does the house—because it's become a part of me?
Is this what I have to look forward to?
Eric