Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Luna
The door is slightly open. The light I left on in the living room downstairs glows softly from the passageway.
I’m restless, edgy. My limbs feel heavy, too cumbersome to move. When I try to lift my head off the pillow, my neck feels as limp as a noodle.
A long sigh exhales out of my chest.
But I can’t take my eyes off that slim gap of light…
This is because I know that someone is standing in the passage shadows.
I think it was a sound that woke me, but I’m not sure. Was it a knock or a bump? Am I really lying here in the middle of my precious sleep time worrying about things that go bump in the night?
The light source flickers as the dark shape begins to form. I’m fascinated—mesmerized—as it materializes into the silhouette of a man.
The scent of leather and old lace seeps into the room as the gap in the door widens. He comes in. He comes closer. And with every step he takes, the weight in my limbs shrinks, retreating to one particular part of my body—that secret nub of pleasure hidden beneath the plump lips of my pussy.
My clitoris becomes heavy and throbs. A warm sensation floods my veins. It’s as if my body is a target and my clit is the bullseye.
And the man in the room can sense this. It pleases him. When I stare at the crotch of his tight leather pants, I can see his cock has thickened. His throbbing member is so long that the mauve bulge of his glans sticks out of the belted waistband riding low on his hips.
“I’m melting, I’m melting.” My words come out as a desperate sigh.
The Wicked Witch of the West—those were her dying words in The Wizard of Oz. If this is what dying feels like, then shoot me dead right now. That precious crevice between my creamy thighs is molten with desire.
Didn’t Shakespeare call an orgasm the “little death”? Le petit mort. That gorgeous sensation where you hold your breath to make it last longer; where the hearing fades and words either become a breathy whisper or mount into a scream of joy.
“You’re going to give me a little death.”
I have to tell him this. I want to share every secret, every little thing I know, with my mysterious visitor.
His deep voice stimulates me. “Tell me how bad you want this.” And then he caresses that enormous bulge in the crotch of his pants, his large hands forming a frame around it as he flaunts his sexual prowess in my face.
Involuntarily, my hand reaches for the soft mound at the bottom of my belly. All I need is one touch and I will be pre-orgasmic with utter lust.
But when I brush a probing finger across my greedy, pulsing lovebud, I can feel that something vital is missing.
“You must penetrate me.” I’m gasping with frustration. That high that I am chasing cannot happen without his participation. “I need you inside me—now.”
All I want is to feel that perfect cock inside me. I know coming with his yummy penis thrusting deep into me will be the best ride of my life.
He kneels at the foot of the bed, his pale face glowing in the golden lamplight. The springs creak as the mattress gives way to his weight. I watch him crawl towards me like some feral creature of the night. Yes, he’s enjoying this; taking pleasure from the control and power he has over me.
A flash of white, a brush of icy cold leather against my shivering skin, and he’s crouched between my legs, holding my knees far apart as he inspects my wet cleft.
“Play with yourself. I want you dripping wet. I’m all hard horn, blood, and teeth. Lure me inside you with the juice from your delicious cunny.”
I have to obey him. I’m happy to obey him. I want to please him.
Brushing my fingertips against my clit with delicate strokes, I bring myself closer and closer to the edge.
“I’m… I’m close…”
My orgasm begins to mount with precipitous speed.
The man’s teeth flash white as he gets ready to penetrate me.
A rumbling growl makes us pause. Turning my head to the light as my orgasm starts peaking, I see the white dog standing there.
“Go away…!” I’m screaming as the pleasure peak spasms inside me, as my finger kneads my clitoris. “No, no, no!”
The echo of my despondent wail is still ringing in my ears as I sit up in bed.
I’m alone, with only Tempest’s white fluffy dog staring at me as the last wisps of my orgasm fade away.
I wake up bright and early, because I forgot to draw the drapes closed last night. The light streaming in the window chases all my bad dreams away. I slept like a log, bar the occasional nightmare... I think. If I had any dreams, they are dull and faded shadows now.
The floofy white dog is lying on the bed with me. I guess he’s taken a shine to me because I fed him a whole can of dog food last night.
Stretching, I move to the bathroom. When I see my face in the mirror, I reckon I look kind of pale. I started reading my aunt’s notebook last night, but I got sleepy after scanning the first page and so went to bed.
After clattering downstairs to the kitchen, I walk around looking out of the windows as I wait for the water to start bubbling.
With the kettle almost boiling on the gas stovetop, I pick up the notebook my aunt left for me.
Pouring boiling water over two teaspoons of coffee granules, I add milk and sugar before going to sit at the table overlooking the road.
I pick up where I left off. The first page of the notebook told me how to switch on the generator and turn the dial on the HVAC thermostat. Twisting the gas valve from “Close” to “Open” is easy.
On page two of the notebook, it starts to get more personal. It’s almost as if Aunt Tempest is talking to me.
Please be assured that I didn’t die in the house, dear Luna. I wouldn’t want you to get creeped out by that.
My only sorrow at leaving this world would be that I can’t take Muohta with me. He is a Samoyed hound from Siberia. His name means “Snow” in the Lule-Sámi dialect. He loves herding, hunting, and pulling small sleds in winter, so feel free to hook him up with those kinds of jobs.
He might get anxious if you leave him at the house and go off by yourself, so it’s probably best that you take him everywhere with you.
Slamming the notebook down on the table, I go refill Muohta’s bowl with the salmon and rice kibble I found in the cupboard. I’ve just inherited a dog! I hope there’s a vet on the island.
Grabbing a tin of cookies off the shelf, I nibble on them as I continue reading.
Okay, here are a few tips.
Stay off Ben Magoo’s land if you don’t want him getting pissed. He’ll probably give you a pass the first time you do it, but try not to make a habit of it. His property is on the left as you walk to the inn.
Inn? No one told me anything about an inn. Dog-earing the page, I read some more.
The attic floor beams are wonky, so please don’t install heavy items up there.
I know you like to craft things, but the ceiling boards are going to crack if you put anything bigger than a small box up there.
The power points are hooked up to the generator.
Ben will bring you full tanks of gasoline every fall so you have enough to get you through winter.
You can order your supplies from the general store up the road.
It’s the small building painted red opposite the inn.
Was Tempest honestly expecting me to stay here through winter? Fat chance! But the notebook’s not finished yet.
There is no cell phone coverage—don’t listen to those optimists who tell you there is.
Nor is there any wi-fi. The best way to call for help during an emergency is to use the radio on board the boat.
Monty Hubble brings the mail every now and again until he can’t get the ferry through the ice anymore. You can use Vince Pruitt in a pinch.
The tide gets low enough once every few months for the land bridge to be used. You must please post the tide times on the bulletin board at the inn as a courtesy for the summer visitors.
This last part is written in bold letters.
IF YOU RUN INTO ANY TROUBLE, THERE’S A CUBBY IN THE DISTILLERY. HIDE THERE UNTIL IT ALL BLOWS OVER. AS YOU HAVE PROBABLY GUESSED BY NOW, LANDSLIDE SECURITY IS AS CRAZY AS THE CRIMINALS!
Snapping the notebook closed, I cram the last cookie into my mouth. I’m fuming.
Why wasn’t I informed about this distillery! When Mr. Bryant told me about my aunt’s “property,” it would have been nice if he had bothered going into a little bit more detail.
It makes sense that I spend the rest of the morning offloading my suitcase and boxes out of the car after parking it as close as I could to the front porch.
It’s a hassle. And it doesn’t help that I hate unpacking as much as I do packing. It puts me in a hell of a bad mood. I’m starting to think that this might not even be worth it.
Focus, Luna. Get an appraisal of everything and then sell to the first person who puts in a bid. You’ll be back to your cozy Twin Cities life before you know it.
The only thing that I can think of that might get in the way of me getting back to the city is myself. I am obsessed with being seen in a positive light. And that’s not just me being paranoid. As Luna Blackwood the artist, I cannot risk someone publishing something negative about me or my brand.
If I sell the property at a loss, I might be setting myself up for everyone on Landslide remembering me as a spoiled brat. Or worse, they could paint me with the “jaded city slicker” brush.
I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Gritting my teeth, I forge ahead, placing all the box contents onto shelves. The suitcase items get put into drawers or hung in the ancient-looking wardrobe in the main bedroom.
I take a quick peek into the other room. I wish I hadn’t. It’s some kind of a work room. Every surface overflows with stacks of paper. I’m not surprised. What good is storing info on a laptop out here with no internet?
Finally, around mid-afternoon when I look at my phone, I’m finished.
“Okay, Muohta,” I call the Samoyed over to me. “Let’s go check out this inn and distillery, and whatever else is up there.”
Stuffing my phone into the pocket of my jacket, I pull a beanie hat over my hair. I know the device is close to useless, but I can use it to tell time. I’m in my workday uniform of jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt, but when I glance out of the window, I’m reassured because it doesn’t look like rain.
I can remember the hand-drawn map Ben Magoo gave to me yesterday. The general store is at the end of this road. So, that’s where I’m heading. Needless to say, I figure it’s safe for me to leave the doors unlocked. I haven’t seen a single soul or vehicle since Linda left last night.
Leaning back so that I don’t tumble down the incline, I trudge to the road. After pausing a beat to orientate myself, I set out. Turning right at the gate at the end of the panhandle, I pick up the same route I was following yesterday evening.
Ben Magoo’s property is on the left. Okay. And he gets pissy about it if someone cuts through it. I’m willing to abide by those rules—that is, until I see how the road curves in a wide arc around Magoo’s extensive forest.
I have to call Muohta back. The clever dog wants to burrow under Ben’s rickety wooden pole fence and, quite frankly, I don’t blame him. “Muohta! Come on. We’ll have to go all the way around.”
After forty minutes or so of hard slog dodging over all the muddy potholes, I see a red painted building hove into view in the distance.
The general store. That means the Swiss chalet style wooden structure next to it is the inn.
Oh my God. It’s darling! I love it.
The architecture appeals to the artist in me. All those carved details: wide projecting beams, eaves extending extra deep and decorated with large scallops, wood balconies with flower boxes. The low-pitched gable roof facing the front and the exposed rafters are so quaint and whimsical.
“Oh, Muohta… All this place needs are walls made of gingerbread, and I’d think I’ve died and gone to fairytale heaven!”
The dog barks, picking up on my excitement.
Only now do I realize I left the big old bunch of keys back at the house. But I’m not going to waste this opportunity.
Trying hard not to feel like a peeping Tom, I press my face against the windows as I walk around the inn. There’s a “Closed” sign on both the front and back entrances. I suppose guests can only visit here in summer.
One window is really low down, close to the ground. I’m guessing it connects to the basement.
“Shit, what the hell. I might as well.”
Lying on the scraggy grass, I look through the glass pane.
It’s the distillery. But it doesn’t look like it brews beer or spirits. The equipment reminds me of how Walter White’s meth lab was set up in Breaking Bad. I know my aunt couldn’t have been doing anything illegal down here, but I’m left wondering if she was some kind of scientist in her spare time.
I only get up when Muohta starts snuffling at my beanie hat.
After brushing the debris of leaves and grass off my outfit, I set off to explore the backyard.
Is that a communal building of some kind, or is it for storage? They have to keep winter equipment somewhere, I guess. Wait! The door is open.
Glancing up as I step inside, I see familiar black lettering etched over the doorway. Same as back at Tempest’s house:
“Denn die Todten reiten Schnell.”
But this time, the words have been translated into English underneath the… Is it German? Or Swedish maybe?
“Because the dead ride fast.”
I think this might have been used as a clubhouse or something long ago. Maybe this is the club Tempest bought her house from?
A faded gray banner that might have once been black hangs on the wall in the back.
“Midnight Riders”
There’s a logo on the banner—a full moon rising behind a strangely shaped mountain.
But movement breaks my concentration. “Ugh!” I think I saw a rat. Muohta scratches at the wood panels, snuffing hard.
When I look around the room, I see it’s covered in dust and spiderwebs.
You, dear clubhouse, have a date with a demolition backhoe. There is no way I’m going to be able to sell the inn with an eyesore like this on site.
When I come out of the wooden structure, I am shocked to see the wan fall sun has left the sky. The wind picks up and is howling through the trees. Even the red painted general store door is shut tight.
Backtracking as fast as I can, I walk double-quick time down the road.
Ben Magoo seems like a nice man. He can’t possibly get angry if I take a shortcut through his forest…