The Haunted Victorian #8
From what little the wraith told me, I gathered she was an evil wench whose compulsive need to kill was indiscriminate, ranging from small children who annoyed her, to service workers, door-to-door salesmen, and even the occasional lover.
How that woman ever got laid is beyond me.
I may not have met her, but I can spot a psychopath a mile away, and, judging by this house, she would have definitely triggered some alarms.
Then again, I've fallen for her kin, and if left to their own devices, I've no doubt in my mind the wraith would've dragged my girl into doing more than crime-scene-clean-up with little effort, so who's to judge.
I finish washing my hair using a generic bar of soap, watching the dirt pool at my feet, swishing up at the round basin of the tub. There's a lot of dirt.
I've never dug myself out of a grave before.
I've died many ways in the centuries I've been alive.
Beheading, hanging, stab wounds. I've been lit on fire time and time again, accused of witchcraft.
When burned at the stake, my phoenix form resurrected instantly, and those puritans had a hell of a surprise when my wings rose from the ash.
The simplicity of having my neck snapped, and my body buried before I woke, is humbling.
I regenerated a day or so ago, but laid there under the earth, at first, contemplating what had happened, and wondering why, after all these years, the woman I fell for, hard and fast, the one that drew me in like none before her, would have killed me.
I know death, and she didn't have the stench. Now I know it was the wraith. But before I came back, the idea that it was her really stung. It's a strange sort of relief to know the girl you're crushing on didn't kill you.
Finally, I began digging myself out, but it was harder than I thought, especially with feathers for fingers.
As my phoenix form receded, giving way to flesh and bone fingers, it became easier.
Fortunately, it had only been a few days, and the dirt was still somewhat loose.
The rain helped, too. It made the mud heavy, but cakey, and it was easy to push away in clumps.
When the water runs clear, I grab the towel my helpful little Dina left out for me, and dry off. I hesitate for only a moment before getting dressed, not because I don't want to wear a dead man's pants, but because what I have in mind to punish my strange, toxic little duo doesn't involve clothing.
For now, though, I put on the pants and glance in the mirror, noticing my feathers have fully retreated.
I can transform any time I like, even partially, but only when I am reborn do I take on my full phoenix form.
Right now, I resemble the man she met, the man who took her home, who thought he'd finally found the one.
If she were any other human, I'd have avoided her completely, no matter how pretty she is. I cannot share my true self with anyone.
See: burned at the stake, beheading, hanging.
But this girl? I think I could tell her anything, and she'd give me that owlish expression and shrug, like, what else ya got?
I thought it was odd she took me to her garden to fuck me senseless, but I loved every second. She was a strange mix of quiet and observant, but once she got talking, she wouldn't shut up, like she was bursting at the seams to unleash all her thoughts.
Then, her wraith boyfriend murdered me, and when I resurrected and knocked on her door, after the shock wore off, she didn't freak out. She didn't call me a demon, or call the police, or even scream.
I could've just left, not come to her door, and she'd never have known what I was. But my demon girl called to me; she craved my heat. And I was right.
After the shock wore off, she filled up with lust.
And I know, unequivocally, she is the one for me after all.
I just need to do something about the boyfriend.
I can hear the two having a mostly one-sided conversation. The wraith is pacing. His voice is scratchy, a whisper, like the inside of his throat was once used as an ashtray.
I don't speak to many ghosts; they tend to get clingy. Case in point. He's begging her to let him kill me again, and this time, chop my body into multiple pieces and have her drive to various parts of the country to dispose of me, so I can't return.
Hmm… I've never died that way. Could take a while to resurrect. Sometimes it's instant, even after a death one might expect to be more traumatic. Other times, it takes days. But I've never had my body parts separated like that. Could be interesting.
Of course, Dina doesn't hear any of his insane pleas. She can't hear him speak at all. She feels his cold presence, and with worry in her voice, she's trying to calm him down. She knows he's agitated, spiraling, and on the verge of doing something irrational.
She'd be right. I wonder what she'd do if she could hear what he had planned for me.
I stroll down the hallway, following the beacon of her bedroom lamplight, carried by the mirrors along the halls, then swing open her door.
"Tell me, Dina, I'm curious. When your wraith kills and dismembers me, would you fly all the way to California to throw away a foot? Seems like a lot of effort not to see me again."
"What?" she gasps in outrage, turning to face Eric.
I can see his form—a black void, with an almost purple, shimmering essence—but I can't make out his features. Not yet, anyway.
Even though I can't discern his facial expression, I can tell he's pissed, the way his shimmering essence tightens. I give him a smirk and add, "Do you really think she's going to stay if you keep killing her lovers?"
"One. One lover. It happened one other time, and he was just some rando we took home. And he—" she points accusatory at Eric, though she's off by a couple feet, "participated in the sex. I had no idea he was going to get all jealous and kill the guy. Yes, I'm still mad about that!"
She's figured out exactly where he is and flays him with the look of a woman scorned.
"You said you were into it! And you fucking murdered the guy while his dick was still inside me!
" She lets out an enraged growl, then she softens and turns to me.
It pisses Eric off exponentially, but makes butterflies take flight in my abdomen. Oh, this woman.
Her voice turns sweet when she says to me, "You don't count, since you didn't die. And we're both glad you lived. Aren't we, Eric?"
If she could pinch his ear like a scolding mother, she would. He's seething. His shoulders bunch up to his ears, ready to lash out.
I know what he's going to do, maybe even before he does. I lean to one side just before his body collides with mine. An icy breeze brushes past, but before he can pivot and try again, I grip the back of his neck. "Bad dog," I hiss.
With a quick glance around the room, I find a chair in the corner. It's a soft, tall wingback with a vintage floral pattern and gold trim. Not ideal. I snatch a scarf hanging on Dina's dresser as I march him through the small bedroom and shove him down into the chair.
"Be a doll and get me more of these?" I wave the scarf in the air, but don't take my eyes off the wraith. He struggles against my hold, but his ghostly energy is weak. If I weren't here, he'd likely become completely non-corporeal, and the binds would fall right through him.
Fortunately, I am a master of death. And Eric is dead. Which means he is mine to control.
I'm going to force this little heathen back to the land of the living, and he'll either hate me for it, or get on his knees and swear fealty. I'm fine with either.
Dina gathers the scarves, but she hugs them close to her chest instead of handing them over. "Umm… I should probably ask… what are you doing with these?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"No, not really. I can't see him at all. Just…" she waves at the scarf I already tied around Eric's wrists, keeping his hands at his back. It probably just looks like a floating knot to her.
"You're an asshole," Eric spits in a low, raspy whisper.
I wink and grab the scarves out of Dina's arms. I tie his ankles together, then his thighs, having to tie two of the scarves together to get it around his legs, but eventually, it does the trick, and he's secure.
Placing my hands on either side of his hips in the wide chair, I lean in close, and take a deep breath. He smells of roses. What is it with this house and fucking roses?
I get flashes of the woman who killed him.
She was in her early thirties. She looks vaguely familiar, like Dina, with dark hair and nearly black eyes.
Short, naturally curvy. Eric was in his early-twenties, selling vacuum cleaners.
He was cute. A small guy, maybe five eight. That's why she picked him.
He died scared. And when she was finished, Greta dragged his body out back in a wheelbarrow, dumped him in the gazebo, and cut him up before burying the pieces beneath her rose garden out front.
I feel a pang of sympathy for the guy. But then again, he was ready to do the same thing to me not two minutes ago.
"She's not yours," I whisper.
"Mine!" he spits. "She's mine!"
I wrap my hands around his head, my palms over his ears, and call forth that burning ember, always smoldering inside me. I share some of my magic, letting it pour out of my hands. Feathers emerge in soft, downy rows along my fingers.
Dina gasps. "What did you—Eric?!"
I let go and lean back, cocking my head. He's trussed up like a fucking turkey. Dina can't tear her eyes away. She can see him as I did now. A black and purple shimmering silhouette.
"Dina," he whispers, desperate for her. Shit, maybe I fed him too much power. He's looking at her in awe. And I can tell because now I can see him a little more clearly, too. His expression is clearer. His eyes never stray from hers. Tears run down Dina's cheeks.
God dammit. This was supposed to be a punishment, and I'm getting all distracted and sentimental.