The Haunted Sultan (Skeleton Key) (4 page)

“Where? Where do you see him?” the woman asked.

“He’s right there.” She pointed at the man again. But there was no one there. He had disappeared. Gone.

The tour guide had gone silent and was looking at the house with wary trepidation and then back at Sierra. The tourists were either looking at Sierra or looking fearfully at the house. They were murmuring amongst themselves. It sounded loud compared to the quiet of the street around them.

Finally the guide stepped toward the house and pulled out his phone. “Folks, I think we might be experiencing a bit of supernatural activity. This is common on these tours. Do you smell the incense? And those screams are coming from the house. This is a great time to take out your phones and cameras and snap pictures. Some people have photographed a shadowy figure that might be the Turk and tons of people have taken photos of spirit orbs.”

The tour guide himself had taken out his phone and begun to snap pictures of the house. The whole group pushed forward, spreading out into the street taking pictures. A few girls turned their cameras on themselves and snapped selfies with the house in the background.

Click, click, click, flash, flash, flash. The strobe of the flashes had Sierra gripping Owen’s hand harder. He wasn’t letting go and she wasn’t going to pull away.

Cecilia had moved forward with the group. She had her phone out and was copying the materialistic females and had it turned to selfie mode, posing with the house behind her.

The smell of incense increased, so much that the acrid smoke could be seen in the air. It was as if it was burning next to Sierra. She began to cough and Owen slipped his hand from her grip and put his arm around her, patting her on the back lightly.

“Are you okay?” he murmured and Sierra looked up at him, her eyes watering from the smoke.

“This smoke, do you smell it? Can you see it?”

“Yes,” he said and he wiped away a tear with his thumb as it trickled down Sierra’s cheek. It was such an intimate gesture, one that she shouldn’t have enjoyed. He was a stranger. He had no right to touch her, no right to be within her personal space. She only let people she trusted into her personal space. But, Owen felt right. She wanted him to touch her.

The group had moved away from them. They stood alone on the sidewalk as the others moved closer to the house. Snapping away, unaware of what was going on around them.

“This is really happening,” he said, not breaking their stare.

“It is,” she said quietly, trying not to breathe the smoke too deeply. She didn’t want to start coughing again. He was right. This was happening. This was supernatural. And they were the only ones experiencing the majority of it.

A loud clanging noise resonated through the street. Owen and Sierra broke apart and looked wide eyed at the house in front of them. Someone from the tour group screamed and the mass of people that were creeping closer and closer to the haunted house began falling over themselves to get back on the opposite side of the sidewalk.

The barred door at the front of the house had blown open. It clanged against the wall of the house, making a racket. The interior door was still closed, only the outer security door had flung open, but it was enough to startle everyone in the group.

Clang. Clang. Clang. It hit the house over and over again.

Movement drew Sierra’s gaze up to the balcony. He was back. He was on the second floor balcony again. And this time everyone could see him. He held his arm out as if in a plea and the horrible scream shattered the night again.

“It’s the Turk,” someone yelled. Another person yelled their agreement and everyone’s cameras began snapping and clicking.

“Help me.” A low moan came from the house.

“
H
elp me
!” The cry came again. It wasn’t coming from the man on the balcony. It came from the house itself. The plea was so full of pain and need that Sierra felt herself physically react to it. Her eyes were watering and she wiped at them, an intense sadness rendering her unable to move. She stared in horror at the house, a sick feeling lodging itself deep in her throat. Pain. Loss. Hate.

The cry for help came again and Sierra didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to accept what it meant.

“Simply respond to a plea of help. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“Fuck me,” Sierra groaned. A scam would have been better. A scam she could deal with. This she was clueless on how to respond.

The figure on the balcony held out a hand, and this time the cry for help came from him.

“Help me!” The plea was loud. Penetrating. It was filled with desperation. It called to Sierra. Owen was at her back, rigid in fear. No one else was reacting to the cry. They stood snapping pictures of the figure on the second floor. Stupid tourists.

“I don’t see him. Do you see him anymore?” Cecilia turned back to Sierra. But Sierra and Owen were transfixed, they could still see him. And now all they heard was him. His voice was in their heads. The voice overpowered everything. Sierra’s vision blackened. It was only the voice. Only the plea for help. She had to do something about it. There was no choice. She could only move forward.

One step.

Owen was at her side. They stepped forward together. Off the curb, into the street. Forward. Toward the house.

A sound ripped through the air. Barks. But, it wasn’t dogs. High-pitched, sharp and ear-splitting wailing began as the whole world went mad. This is what it felt like to be mad. There was no other way to describe it. Colors sharpened then faded out, sounds crescendoed off the walls of the surrounding buildings. The wind blew through in gale force gusts, knocking against Sierra and Owen’s bodies.

Sierra froze as the temperature plummeted, her breath plumed out of her mouth in a mist. There was no way she was going into that house. She walked forward. She had made a promise.

O
wen Thomas
only wanted to get information on the Haunted Tours for the article he was writing for Southern Travel magazine. He didn’t expect to find himself neck deep in a supernatural showcase, his arms wrapped around the hottest female he had ever had the pleasure to meet. This was insane. Totally insane, he thought.

The girl at his side was all kinds of exotic with long, thick black hair, and bronze skin that went on for miles. She had no qualms about showing it off either. The costume she wore had his dick going hard the moment he had laid eyes on her. He didn’t consider himself a player, but he was up and ready for a bit of vacation hit and run, if ever there was the opportunity.

The tattoos and cute little nose ring added to the charm. He had never been with anyone like Sierra. Sure, he had dated girls with tiny cherries inked on their asses, but nothing like this though. Everything about her was exotic and now he was having an all-out crazy experience and she was the only other one to witness it. He wanted to run down the side street with Sierra at his side. He didn’t want to go into a haunted house where a Sultan waited for them…but you can’t always get what you want.

And right now, what he didn’t want was to follow Sierra. Well, he wanted to follow her. He wanted to follow her anywhere she was willing to take him. Problem was, she was leading him into the shit storm that was this house. And he liked the girl…but this was asking a little much for a first date.

The rest of the tour group had started to move away. The ludicrous tour guide was droning on about how they should send in their pictures if anything showed up. Did they not see the dude dressed like a Sultan on the balcony, with his arm out like Rapunzel in her tower?

“This is fucking nuts,” he cursed and those big brown eyes looked up at him in question. She was wincing as if in pain. Whatever the hell was howling like a pack of wild dogs was making his ears ring too. The wailing was so loud it hurt. He wanted it to go away.

He was alone with Sierra. Standing in the middle of the street. Not one member of the tour group remained with them. Alone. Well, not quite alone. The Sultan still stood, looking down at them from his balcony. But he was the only one. Even the chick that Sierra was with had left them. They walked away, down the street without a backward glance at the members of their tour group they had abandoned so easily.

“Heeeelllllpppp mmmmeeeee.” The keening request floated on the wind and chills erupted across Owen’s skin. The dude needed to shut-the-fuck-up.

Owen grabbed Sierra’s arm. There was no way they were going to stick around for this shit show. They needed to catch up with the tour group.

“We have to get out of here. C'mon, Sierra. I'll buy you a drink. Shit, I'll buy you ten, dinner, a trip to Maui, just come with me.” He tried to tug on her, but she was frozen to the spot. Her eyes were huge with fear, but she looked determined.

“Nothing more, nothing less, but to respond to a plea of help,” she whispered.

“What are you talking about?” Owen asked.

The wailing from the house quieted when Sierra spoke. It was a relief to finally hear himself think.

“Today, in the costume store, the weird shopkeeper said in exchange for this costume I had to respond to a plea of help. I think this is what she was talking about.” She shrugged as if resigned to her fate. As if this entire scene was common place.

“What? The shopkeeper wants you to help this guy? That’s insane. This costume is all kinds of sexy and you look amazing in it, really. But, I don’t think she meant trying to help some long dead sultan. If that’s the case, you should get more than a costume out of the deal.”

“No, I think this is it, this is what she was talking about. I have to do this. She also said only one other person would hear the cry, and only if that person came with me would we be able to succeed. I think you’re that person. I think we have to help him together.” She looked at Owen earnestly. She was convinced. Owen wasn’t as sure. He did feel a strange draw to this woman standing in front of him. He was chalking it up to a serious case of lust, but deep down he knew it was something more than that. Something about her drew him in. He’d encountered hot chicks before, lusted after them, even managed to get them into his bed a time or two, but he’d never been pulled into their sphere so quickly. He felt like he knew Sierra. Not as far as her memories, or life, but knew her motivations, feelings, who she was. It was creepy, scary, but strangely comforting. He didn’t want to be away from her. But he wasn't convinced they should go into the creepy house.

“I have to help him and I need you to come with me.”

“I can’t…” he tried to say. But she was looking at him with those big eyes and he couldn’t say no. Fuck it. He was going to jump into a steaming pile of shit for this woman and he didn’t even know her last name.

“What’s your last name?”

“What?” she asked.

“Your last name? I figure if we’re going to be crazy, might as well know a little more about each other. Mine is Thomas. Owen Thomas.”

“Sierra Azar,” she said.

“Pretty name, Sierra Azar. I like to hike, that’s my hobby. My favorite food is pizza and I hate wearing shoes. Tell me about yourself,” he said nervously.

“Is this really the time for this?” She looked back at the house.

“Yeah, I guess not. What do we have to do? I don’t know anything about ghosts or sultans.”

“I don’t know much either, but I think this has something to do with it.” She took off a necklace she was wearing and held it up. It gleamed in the street lights, the sparkle of crystal confusing him for a second. He finally figured out that it was a key of some sort. A skeleton key. The head of it was fashioned in a skull. Not very reassuring.

Owen broke eye contact and looked around, another cry for help floated over the air and his entire body clenched up. He wasn’t getting a good feeling about this. Sierra stepped onto the raised sidewalk and into the house’s shadow, moving toward the front door.

All he could do was follow her. The closer he got to the house, the more his stomach churned in anticipation. Trepidation shivered down his spine. Not a good idea. Not a good idea was the mantra that was going through his head. The air thickened and felt more and more oppressive with each step. He moved forward and gripped Sierra’s hand, he didn’t know if it was to reassure her or himself.

The house loomed over them. The closer he got the more fear trickled through his system. The only way he could describe the place was evil. It was so dark and black he could taste it. Acidic and cloying. The house was a black stain on the area. He stared up at it and realized it was darker than the houses around it, a black hole, sucking away the light, sucking away the good around it. Even the houses next to the Gardette Le Pretre house were gray and worn down compared to the other houses on the block. This area was a mess. The house was evil and the man trapped inside needed help. And the chick he was with wanted to go in there and help him.

Damn. Owen was pretty sure he was screwed.

S
ierra stopped in her tracks
. The front door of the building was only a few paces ahead of her. Was she really going to do this? Was she really going to go into this haunted house? Help some Sultan guy that was the victim of a mass murderer?

She didn’t want to, but she knew she had to do this. Something in her gut told her that she was the only one who could do this.

She crossed the remaining few steps, pulling Owen along by his hand. The security door remained open, revealing an intricate wooden door that looked out of place in the drab building. The exterior door was made up of two large wooden panels that each had beautiful carvings from floor to ceiling. The carvings were of a fantastical landscape with an Ottoman landscape on the horizon, minarets and domed buildings dotted the skyline, while intricate lace patterns framed the borders. It was truly beautiful.

In the center of the door was a single key hole. There was no handle. Only the keyhole.

Sierra gripped the glass skeleton key in her hand and calmly inserted it into the hole. With a turn of her wrist, her ears popped, as if she had suddenly gone too deep underwater. The door swung open.

The smell of jasmine and lavender washed over her and she breathed in the scent, greedy for the feeling that it brought with it. Pleasure. It was a purely pleasurable smell. It was clean and fresh and couldn’t be a sign of evil. There had to be good here.

Owen, who had been scowling and acting protective a moment earlier, was now smiling and eager to enter the house. It welcomed them. It called to them. They wanted to be here. It wanted them here.

They crossed the threshold. Again the popping sensation in Sierra’s ears. Colors faded in and out until the sharpness around them felt unreal. Yellows popped, and red fed the eye like a feast. The room around them shimmered in light and sound. They were standing in a brightly lit atrium. It was carefully styled and arranged; murals of a lush harem were depicted on two of the walls. Men and women were wrapped around each other, while voyeurs looked upon their nude bodies with smiles. Beautiful men played the Saz while women danced seductively in front of them. It was magnificent, but it was unreal. Sierra and Owen realized they had been transported somewhere else. They weren’t in their own time and place. The whole world had changed around them. Colors popped in their eyes as time and place shifted. Sunlight filtered in through stained-glass windows high above. Sunlight. It had been dark when they crossed the threshold.

What was once plaster walls, dingy from grime, were now sumptuous wood paneling with intricately carved relief patterns along the base. Rugs were piled upon the floor, thick underneath Sierra’s thin sandals. Red and gold drapes hung from the ceiling, and the tinkling sound of music beckoned from down the hall.

The two moved deeper into the house. Following the draw of the music and the smell of mouth-watering aromas. The front hall opened into a large room, windows that went from floor to ceiling broadcast sunlight into the room, revealing decadence and over abundance. They had entered the harem.

Sierra glanced out the window and noticed the street had changed. The day was bright and she noticed lavishly dressed women in dresses, big hats and parasols strolling down the street arm in arm with gentlemen.

It was a different time. She was in the past. How could that be?

She looked around the room; it was massive, meant for entertaining. Low sofas were scattered along the walls, and thick carpets were strewn over the wood floors, double stacked in some places. Large overstuffed pillows were everywhere, patterned in ornate, thick materials in deep burgundy and navy blue. They were stacked in welcoming piles throughout the room for sitting or lying. Low tables, equipped with incense burners and hookahs were also placed strategically throughout the room, discarded drinks and ashtrays covered them in haphazard patterns. The smell of hashish clung heavy in the air, the pungent smell and tantalizing elixirs a salve to ease Sierra’s disturbed mind.

This was the past. This was the time of the Sultan. Today, in her world, the place couldn’t look like this. It was run down and a hot mess of an apartment complex. This was decadence to the extreme. This reflected the house’s name; this was a Sultan’s palace.

A woman, wearing only a flowing skirt, her nipples erect and dusted with gold, greeted them. She spoke in a warm language that Sierra couldn’t understand. The woman smiled mischievously and beckoned them into the room. She pulled on Sierra and Owen’s hands, enticing them to join the festivities, to go further into the illusion.

The man, the same man Sierra had spotted on the balcony, lay back on a mound of pillows. He was smoking from a long tube connected to a hookah and watched as a nude man danced in front of him.

“
Bonjour
,” he said in thickly accented French, the music coming to a stop the moment he spoke. When both Owen and Sierra didn’t respond the man spoke again, “
Francais
?
Anglais
?”

“English,” Owen spoke up.

“Ah, the English of the Americans. I speak well English. Welcome guests. I have not had pleasurable guests in a very long time. Come, please, sit.” He gestured to the pillows around him and Owen sat down, pulling Sierra down with him.

“My home is your home and my home is pleasure,” the Sultan said and smiled. The music began again and with it the nude man resumed his dance. He was a beautiful specimen of a man. He was of African descent, his skin gleamed like obsidian, his muscles were toned to perfection, but they were for fashion. His perfect skin and soft features spoke of a life of leisure and not of labor. As a testament to that, jewels glittered on his wrists and ankles and there was even a gold ring around his cock. The large organ, adorned with gold, jutted out, hard and erect from a nest of thick dark hair.

“
Du vin
,” the female who had greeted them at the door said and handed them chalices of fragrant smelling wine. Sierra took a big gulp and reveled in the unique flavor. She had never sampled wine like this. The taste was rich and spicy, delicious and overpowering. She breathed in the incense burning around her and sipped the wine, feeling pleasure infuse every pore of her being. This was amazing. Surreal and intense.

She was in a different time, a different place. She should be nervous, worried, and scared, but she had never felt so at ease. Her limbs felt heavy, and her body tingled in awareness. Owen’s fingertips trailed along her shoulder and she focused in on that touch, on the feel of his fingertips, rough, yet soft. Her consciousness narrowed to only where her skin met his skin. She was so aware of him, her breath hitched when his fingers trailed lower. Everywhere he touched burned, it ignited a path down her spine and directly to her core.

Movement brought her attention back to the man that danced. She watched as he moved suggestively, femininely, his hips thrusting forward and moving in a circle. His eyes never left the Sultan’s. It was a dance for him.

The topless woman joined the dance, her body wrapping around the man like a snake. She slid down his body, her hands on his chest, moving her body in a wave of motion, even though she was in a squat position. She moved to her knees in one fluid motion and looked up from the supplicant position at the big man above her. She took him into her mouth and Sierra moaned. This was the first time seeing another couple engaged in anything sexual. It was so carnal. So intense she felt her insides clench in want. Her core flared with arousal and she chewed her bottom lip, wanting it to be her mouth on the man. Her lips wrapped around his huge length.

She couldn’t remember another time when she was this turned on. None of the boys she had been with before had made her feel this way. The rushed and fumbling sex she had in the past, in dorm rooms and the backseat of cars, was nothing like what she was witnessing.

“My house is pleasure,” the sultan said in his rich and sexualized voice. He smiled at Sierra and lifted himself from the pillows. Sierra's eyes were drawn to the tent of his pants and the obvious sign of his erection. “Everything here is about pleasure. If you are here, within my walls, you shall be about pleasure too.” He crawled across the pillowed ground and pulled the woman’s skirt to the side, revealing her slick and ready sex. The Sultan got to his knees and maneuvered behind her, blocking the view of what they were doing from Sierra. As the Sultan's body began to move back and forth in exaggerated thrusts it was obvious what they were doing.

Sierra was disappointed her view was blocked but quickly forgot as Owen’s hot lips touched her neck. The feel of them burned her skin and she gasped. She turned to him. She didn’t want his lips on her neck. She wanted them on her own lips. She pulled his head up to hers and took his lips with a hunger that couldn’t be sated. He kissed her hard. He was just as hungry and much more eager. His mouth scorched hers and his tongue pushed past her lips, delving in and claiming her. She moaned into his mouth, her whole body heavy with desire. She was wet with need, dying to be taken like the topless woman. Her need was so great that she trembled under Owen’s kiss.

He fumbled at her back, the bells of her costume jingling everywhere he touched her. He continued to kiss her as his fingers unclasped her top and the sparkling bra fell away. She was drunk with need, thrusting her naked breasts up for him to touch. She wanted him to taste them. He broke away from her mouth with a gasp and sucked a nipple into his mouth.

“Yes, yes, yes!” she moaned gripping his hair and pushing him to her breast.

He bit down on her nipple and sucked it into his mouth, rolling his tongue across the sensitive nub. He moaned against her hot skin and wrapped his arms around her body. He pulled her onto his lap so her breasts were aligned with his face and her hot core was right on his rigid cock, trapped within his jeans. Sierra cried out from the sensation and she ground against him, wanting the material gone. Owen palmed one breast while he licked the other. He pinched her nipple with his fingers and chuckled as Sierra moaned loudly and rubbed herself against him.

“Bring her pleasure,” the Sultan purred.

Sierra wanted the pleasure. She wanted every ounce of it. It was all she had ever wanted. All she could think about.

Pleasure.