Rhayven House (15 page)

     “Yes, doctor.”

     “Get up,” Toby told Ian again as he stood up. “I'm going to bed.”

     The woman moved off to the side of the room, to the shadows, and continued to watch.

     Ian grumbled some more, mostly cursing under his breath, but eventually he got up as well and went upstairs to bed, leaving the lights on again.

Sixteen

     Deciding it would behoove him to go to Belle for assistance regarding his idea about having a séance in the house, Ian drove into town before he said anything to Toby—so his friend couldn't attempt to talk him out of it. She listened to his reasons and told him what he wanted to know, warning him of potential dangers as well as giving him instructions. She also agreed to make the candles his endeavor required, including a red stone candle—pure white wax at the top, swirled with deep, dark red quartz fragments embedded right in the bottom of the candle. This would not only assist in summoning the spirit with whom Ian wished to converse, but also in warding off any spirits who may come pretending to be the woman he sought—at least that's what Belle claimed it would do.

     “Better to be safe. There is a technical term for what you wish to attempt,” Belle told him.

     “Other than séance?” He wasn't trying to be a smart ass, even though it could have been taken that way.

     She smiled, evidently not taking his comment the wrong way, as she wrapped the white candles in colored paper before bagging them for him. “
Sciomancy—
communicating with spirits, ghosts, shades, whatever you wish to call them—is an ancient art unto itself and a potentially dangerous one; punishable by death in some cultures and religions. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I must urge you to take caution if you’re seriously planning to do this.”

     “Your concern is noted and appreciated, and so is your advice.” Ian said. He reached out a hand and stroked Astrya. Purring loudly, the cat raised her head and looked at him, her green eyes so deep and vivid. “On one hand, I think I might be making an ass out of myself. On the other, I feel as if it’s the only way I can possibly get answers to my questions.”

     Fluidly jumping to the floor, the cat wound herself around Belle's ankles as smoothly as a shadow around a single candle flame.

     “I'm used to her presence,” Belle explained when she saw him looking, “so she doesn't trip me up—not that Astrya would do it on purpose. She's just making sure I know she loves me. Aren't you, my love?” Belle said, looking down at the cat.

     Astrya meowed so quietly, almost like she was answering Belle.

     “Have you thought of adopting a furbaby?” Belle asked him. The segue, as smooth as it was, caught him off guard.

     “From time to time. I think after I've gotten used to the house and more of the renovation has been completed, I may adopt an animal,” Ian said. “I haven't decided what kind of animal.”

     “Never fear; the right one will make itself known to you when the time is right,” Belle said, holding the bag of candles out to him. “That's usually how it works. It's all about balance.”

     Ian accepted the bag and asked Belle, “What if the universe has planned for an armadillo to move in with me? I don't know a thing about armadillos, but I know some stuff about iguanas and I like iguanas. But you don't see videos of iguanas playing, like you do armadillos.”

     “Serves you right if the universe sends a whole fez of little armored ones your way,” she said with a smile.

     “If the invasion of the armadillos happens, you will be my first call,” he promised, “because I'll need a book on caring for them.”

     They shared a laugh and then Belle wished him luck as Ian left. He thanked her again before closing the door behind him. On the drive back home, he contemplated picking up a pizza to take home and surprise Toby before settling on some frozen entrees and snacks. Ian told himself he needed to be more vigilant about keeping groceries in the house. He now lived a good twenty minute drive from town and couldn't easily run over to the market whenever he wanted something. What used to be a simple and quick market run would now be an hour or more, and that would get old real quick.

     He found Toby waiting for him on the back porch. “Did your friend tell you everything you needed to know to keep from summoning a demon who will decimate the entire town?”

     “You're so not funny,” Ian told him. “Are you hungry? I stopped at the market and got some stuff.”

     “I could eat.”

     “Anything happen while I was gone?”

     “Nothing I observed, but she doesn't always make herself known to me,” Toby said. “Of course, there'd be no point in her doing anything while I'm here by myself if she doesn't let me see it or hear it. So, following that line of logic, I'm guessing it's safe to say nothing happened.”

     “I think I understood your point,” Ian said as he turned to walk back inside to unpack the market stuff and put it away.

     “Are those potpies?” Toby asked when he spotted the little square boxes.

     “Pretty tasty, too. I eat them all the time for lunch.” Ian held out two of the boxes. “Pop these in the microwave and nuke them for six minutes. I really do have to get some work accomplished tonight since I've been slacking. You'll have to entertain yourself.”

     “I can handle that. You have a TV and snacks. That will hold me for a night,” Toby said as he punched in the time on the microwave and pressed START. “I'll try not to make any noise and interrupt your creative flow.”

~ ~ ~

     Dreams never bothered Ian too much because he always knew when he was in one and usually was able to manipulate them as he wished. Even nightmares, no matter how scary they might be, didn’t induce holy terror in him. While lost in the land of Morpheus, the Greek god of dreams, Ian always had the ability to keep one part of his mind in the realm of the awake.

     Controlling much of what happened in his dreams, was a skill he developed as a small child; it didn’t desert him as he grew into adulthood, and perhaps that was why he could write such detailed and imaginative stories for his readers to enjoy. Dreaming, to Ian, was more or less like watching his own internal television, only he was in charge of the storylines. The subconscious mind was known for taking various snippets and painting a bizarre picture on the dreamscape. He knew there was even a science for studying dreams: Oneirology.

     Even though he’d spent years in high school and college studying psychology, Ian never put much stock in the interpretation and study of dreams. The mind could take some extraneous piece of stimuli from a waking moment and turn it into a terrifying nightmare; the mind could also incorporate sounds from the environment of someone sleeping, into the dozens upon dozens of dreams it is estimated a person has each night—the majority of which the average person simply doesn’t remember after waking.

     On this night, a series of nightmares caressed him as he tossed and turned and finally came to rest on his left side. He made a few noises, a grunt or groan here and there, but no words escaped his lips. In his sleep, tormented as it was, he managed to pull the blanket up over his shoulder and covered the lower half of his face.

     Cold air breezed in through the open window and set the drapes to dancing. It washed over the bed, and Ian, caught in the grip of his nightmare, snuggled deeper under the blanket. When he reached to pull the pillow down further, the blanket slipped from covering his mouth and his breath escaped, the cloudy vapors swirling away into nothingness.

     The figure stood at the foot of Ian’s bed and watched him in silence. Then it reached down, grasped the blanket, and slowly, slowly pulled it, uncovering Ian’s body inch by inch. He shivered but didn’t wake, as his body was exposed to the night air. A hand brushed against the bare skin of Ian’s leg, as the figure crept around the side of the bed; it ran its hand up Ian’s thigh and under his boxer shorts. Ian shifted onto his back, one arm draped across his chest, the other resting alongside his body. His breathing hitched, and he murmured a few words.

     In his dream, Ian fought against the straps restraining him to the long wood table, railing against them even as they dug into his wrists and ankles. Resistance was in vain, but he had to try.

     The nightmare quickly morphed into more of a sexual fantasy.

     When the figure, this woman, grasped Ian’s cock in her withered, cracked hand, the same happened in Ian’s dream. Only in the dream, it was a crystalline beauty bathed in radiant white light, who caressed and stroked him with her cool, cool hand; his protestations were muffled, nearly muted, by the fabric wrapped around his neck and the lower half of his face. His pleas were ignored as the cool ministrations caused him to become more and more rigid.

     Blood raced through his body as her ministrations sent wave after wave of pleasure over him, submerging him, as the sex dream took shape.

     Outside the dream, the woman, leaned over, her long, tangled hair pooled between his legs, as she eased his boxer shorts off and dropped them in a pile on the floor. Then she returned her attention to his hard shaft.

     Mimicking the actions of her dream counterpart, she took Ian into her mouth. A gasp escaped him. She licked up and down his shaft, her dry tongue scraping along his flesh. Her one hand stroked him; the other hand cradled his scrotum, as she nipped playfully at him with dark, broken teeth. Sliding Ian deep into her desiccated throat, she made rasping sounds, yet expelled no breath.

     Ian understood it wasn’t real; it was something his subconscious made up. He’d woke up hard like most guys have on occasion, but he’d never had an erotic dream he could remember. Involuntarily, his back arched as the crystalline lady swallowed him down to the base. Her icy nose and lips pressed against his abdomen as she massaged him with the muscles of her throat.

     Never had a dream felt so real, so pleasurable. He strained in vain against the straps holding him on the table. It may not be real, but he wanted to rip out of the straps, grab her head, wrap his hands in her blinding white hair, and tell her to look up at him with those pale, pale eyes while he was embedded in her throat.

     One hand broke free of its strap, ripping the material out by the screws holding it. Ian wanted nothing more than to grab the crystalline beauty by her glowing hair. He did, fisting it, wrapping her locks around his wrist. His breath came in deep gulps as she pleasured him; he guided her head into a rhythm, a smooth motion. She used her tongue to trace the vein from the bottom to the top, and then her pouty pale blue lips nibbled on the head before she engulfed him once more.

     Outside the dream, Ian’s hand also grabbed a handful of hair, but it wasn’t silky; it was stringy and filthy. He forced the woman’s head down further, driving his cock into her dry mouth, scraping against her rotted, broken teeth. Her jagged nails scratched down his inner thigh, not enough to draw blood, but enough to raise welts.

     But being lost in the dream, he wasn’t aware of the reality. He felt only the warm, wet mouth of the crystalline beauty who worked her magic between his legs. The second strap finally broke, leaving Ian free to finally reach down with both hands. Moaning out loud, he grabbed another handful of her hair, drawing her closer, making her take him deeper into the softness of her mouth and throat. The fabric around his face and throat loosened and slipped away, as he whipped his head from side to side.

     He couldn’t hold back much longer; he was so close to exploding. The building up seized him.

     Coming out of the dream and just about to come, Ian sat up, his heart beating thunderously and looked down.

     Right into the eyeless sockets of the cadaverous wraith deep-throating his cock, taking him down her dry, dusty throat.

     “
Holy fuck
.” Ian started backpedaling to get the hell away from it, to make it stop touching him. He slammed his hands into her head, the strings of her hair still tangled in his fingers. The disgusting strands slid through his fingers like cold silk ribbons. “Get the fuck away from me!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. He wanted to puke. He wanted away from this thing.

     The cold corpse reeled back. Her laughter peeled around the room, drowning out his screaming and cursing.

     “Kiss me.” Her voice crackled.

     Kissing her was about as appealing as a mouth full of maggots. This seduction of decay repulsed him.

     Flames and fog erupted all around him, ferocious heat and freezing cold closed in on him. Everywhere Ian looked, the flames licked the fog, giving the room a luciferous ambience. She was gone, the rotting woman. Gone. But her laughter lived on and danced through his bedroom and his head.

     He shot out of bed and made a beeline for the door. At first the door wouldn’t open and he swore, but the knob turned in his slick hands and he fell into the hall. When he gained the courage to look back into his bedroom, both the flames and the fog were gone. Not an ash, not a vapor. The dead bitch had vacated the room, too; she may have been gone, but her laugh had wormed its way into his brain and he couldn’t clear his head.

     He saw his boxers lying in a pile beside the bed and wondered if he’d ever be able to wear them again. Damn shame, because they were his favorite pair.

     And he’d have to burn the sheets, too.

    
Sick
. No other way to describe it.