Читать книгу Short Stories: Long Way Around the Short End - James Hill - Страница 8

The Awakening of Amy

Amy and I met in a haunted house, a real one. And it was quite by chance and right next door.

My story started when I walked into the realtor’s office for the second time. I told her I had decided on the house and wanted to pay cash for it. She’s surprised for two reasons.

“That’s quite a feat for a man of such a young age.”

“I guess you could say I’m self-supporting. I invested in the stock market and invested wisely.”

“Well, you don’t have to come up with the whole sum at one time,” she explains. “We can offer a great financing rate.”

“The price is right in this market, and I see no sense in losing the savings by paying finance charges.”

She studies me for a minute. “I could use you for my financial consultant.”

I laugh.

“And what I told you Monday hasn’t discouraged you any?” she asks.

* * * * *

It was during the showing of the house. “I would be remiss in not telling you the reason this house is going at such a great price. The house next door is considered to be haunted,” she said.

“Oh, really?”

“Oh, yes. A young lady was murdered there three years ago, and you know how imaginations run wild.”

“I’m new to the area. What happened?” I ask, my curiosity aroused.

“The young woman, Amy Lynley her name was, was strangled there. They think the boyfriend did it, but not enough evidence was found to charge him. The distraught parents moved away and have been trying to sell the house ever since.

“But having the words ‘murder’ and ‘haunted’ tagged to it, it has been a tough sale. They have a yard crew that keep the grounds up, and a maid service comes for the inside.

“If you decide to buy and start hearing stories, I don’t want you thinking I misrepresented anything and put you with a ghost next door.”

* * * * *

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I tell her plainly.

She laughs.

We finish the transaction, and I start making plans to move in. On the third night in my new abode, my sleep pattern has changed. Not bothered to say or interrupted or made restless, but more like someone is reading my thoughts (or dreams), enjoying the pleasant ones I’m having, and comforting me when they’re not. Something inside my being tells me that it’s urgent to meet this person (or spirit), and it would be in my benefit to do so.

I awaken not knowing if this is a dream in itself, but almost sure it’s more than that. A dream would be a simple explanation. An inner need, more than a conscious effort, leads me to my bedroom window.

In the window across from my own, I see a twinkling of blue light pass by and then come back. It’s not a light really but more of a translucent glow. It senses me, comes closer to the window, and seemingly radiates its warmth out to me. I think now I’m fully awake and try to study this phenomenon in more detail.

The window rises at half mast on its own power, and the curtains blow in and drift out as if they are beckoning fingers urging me: “Come…come, John. See what I’m about.” I’m intrigued and apprehensive at the same time, but my legs carry me to the closet anyway. I grab my flashlight and make my way outside.

When I get to the house next door, I shine my light down both sides of it. Sometimes I have seen kids in the yard during the day but never at night and never inside the house. And I doubt that’s the explanation for the early-morning glow coming from it now.

I walk up the steps onto the porch and turn the knob. At the same time, I can feel help with it from the other side, like someone is unlocking the knob as I turn. I open the door slowly and walk in the same way, not knowing what to expect.

It’s cold this morning and very dark, but the front room is pleasantly warm, and a dim glow lights it even though I know power is not running to it.

“Please take a seat, John Parker,” an unearthly, but distinctly female voice says to me. I’m not sure if it is actually spoken or transferred to me mentally. “I’m glad you came to visit.”

There’s a sofa and a recliner seat in the great room, but for some reason, I’m sure she means the dining-room chair pulled out from the table. I sit down and notice dust on the furniture and cobwebs in the corners. It’s apparent the cleaning crew doesn’t come as often as the yard crew.

“Since you already know my name, may I ask yours?” I say to still air.

“Mine is Amy Lynley,” she says from the other end of the table. She didn’t walk from the other room or run down the hall, float down from the ceiling or crawl down the wall; she just appeared. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance, John Parker. We are of a kindred spirit, you and I.”

She must have been very beautiful in life because she is stunningly exquisite the way she is now. Although a bluish fog surrounds her, I can see that her hair is dark and flowing, and her eyes are dark but bright. And a sharply cut white robe exposes a delicate neck, porcelain shoulders, and the darkness of her cleavage contrasts with the ivory orbs of breast. A black and white portrait framed in a bluescape.

“How do you know my name?” I ask. “And more importantly, how do you know how I am?”

“Please don’t be mad at me, John. Spirits can sense these things, and after you moved in, reading your thoughts has been easy. I know a lot about you.”

“I can’t be mad at you…I hardly know you.”

“You know my history?”

I think back to what the realtor had told me.

I could lie to her to spare her feelings, but what’s the point? She can read my thoughts.

“I heard you died too young and died horribly.”

“It could have been worse, I suppose.” She watches a good-sized spider crawl toward my hand, snatches it from the table top, and pops it into her mouth. “Nasty creatures,” she says.

I could jump and run, but where to and what from? I don’t think she’s an evil phantom or a vengeful presence. She seems sad to me, one that desires company and deserves sympathy. And for some reason, I think she has developed a fondness for me.

I am entranced by her absolute beauty and can’t help but stare and explain the reason for it. She thanks me for the compliment and tells me I’m not so bad myself.

“I also heard your boyfriend was responsible for your death. Do you want me to get him for you? I know a good private eye.”

She looks intently at me. “I know what the small minds around here think, but Jody didn’t murder me. It was my first cousin.” She goes on to tell me that her Jody died a few months ago in a car crash, that her cousin will get what’s coming to him, and that I should let it go because she doesn’t want to lose me too.

I don’t really know how to take this last statement, so I let it go. I tell her that since he has passed on, that maybe they could be reunited. She imparts to me that there are many phases of the afterlife, that it can be hard to find someone you knew in real life, sometimes impossible.

“I thought it was the big three: heaven, purgatory, or hell,” I say to her. “Couldn’t you narrow it down some?”

“Those are the places. But there are many pathways to take and stopping-off points along the way before getting to your final resting place.”

I haven’t boned up on religion lately. “Oh, I didn’t know that.”

“Besides that,” she continues, “your feelings can change from the ones you had in real life. The ones I had for Jody are more neutral now. And who knows what he would feel for me now? There’s no way to say if we could rebuild a relationship by meeting here.”

I gaze into her deep, dark, lovely eyes. “Unless Jody got his brains scrambled in his accident, he would be hard-pressed to explain why he parted with such beauty.”

“You are so sweet, John,” she says and glides over beside me and kisses my cheek.

The kiss is like a charge to my internal motor. The initial contact is very cold but intensely hot at the same time. If that doesn’t make much sense to you, I’m sorry, but that’s the only way I can describe it. It spreads a warmth throughout my nerve fibers and does other things to me mentally and physically, like being stung by a jellyfish or snakebit in the brain, but in a way that feels so sensual. Still not making much sense.

For the second time tonight, I am excited. A straitlaced man addicted to a wondrous new drug, waiting for the next fix.

She moves around and gives me another one on the lips, more passionately this time. The coldness of her lips brings a numbing sensation followed by a pleasant warmness that settles in special places. It could be the feeling of slowly being poisoned.

When she pulls away from me, she says, “Oh, John, I’m so excited. Are you?”

I nod my head weakly.

“Let’s see how much so.”

The bluish glow that emanates around her dims somewhat, and her white robe disappears, displaying the most perfect female form I have ever seen.

“You like?”

Again, all I can do is manage a weak nod.

Suddenly, my clothes have vanished as well. I see them over on the reclining chair, folded neatly, even the tops of my socks rolled together the way I do them.

I feel shock, the coolness of the room on the back of my neck, but no embarrassment.

“Oh, yes. My John is definitely excited. Come,” she says. Amy takes my hand, pulls me up, and leads me over to the couch.

I still haven’t found any words to speak, not sure I could if I did. She gently pushes me all the way down and slides on top of me. The rest of what happens is a little hazy, but I do remember thinking how ridiculous it would look in a house with ceilinged mirrors. I’m pretty sure she would not give off a reflection, leaving me lying naked on the sofa, my love wand upright, hands holding onto nothing, and my arms making a large zero in the air with my face showing sexual gratification. Laughable…right?

* * * * *

I awaken the next morning, groggy as from lack of sleep, believing that such a realistic dream must have caused my fitful rest.

Then, I find the note inside my pants pocket:

My dearest John. For the first time since being in my transition, you showed me what I miss from having a real life. Last night, I experienced the emotions of feeling, of needing, of caring again. And most of all, the real thrill of what true lovemaking can bring.

I hope you are feeling the same way this morning. And I hope we can keep our appointment for tonight. Who knows? By your showing me how life can truly be, maybe I can come back again.

PS: I’ve found and eaten every spider in this house so no harm will come to you tonight.

I fold the letter in a state of shock and confusion and put it in my nightstand drawer. I begin getting dressed.

Appointment? What have I promised Amy, a young murdered woman who is now a needing, wanting spirit?

After slipping my shoes on, I travel back to the nightstand and open the drawer again. The paper is still there, and I unfold it to see that the words are still the same. This is confirmation for me that I am back in reality again.

Come back again. Have I crossed the line between the afterlife and this real one? By making love to a troubled presence, have I shown her a pathway for coming back to this world and living out her life? Surely this isn’t the first time such an incident has occurred…or is it?

The questions are endless as are the possibilities. And who can answer these questions, and how would you go about finding out? I guess this is one situation that has to be played by ear. But I have to admit that the outcome could be fascinating or scary—take your pick.

Anyway, I go about my day in the same usual way. But I think of Amy at various times, ask myself more questions at other times, and come to two conclusions by day’s end: I have to be with Amy again, and there are no more answers to any more questions.

* * * * *

Night has fallen, and I’m sitting at my bedroom window staring across at the neighboring one. It’s not long until I see the blue glow appear. At first it flutters about the house, making its way through each room as if just getting home. Then, it settles in the window across from me and says in a voice that I’m sure is telepathic rather than audible: “My dear John, I have missed you so much. Are you coming over tonight?”

I waste no time in getting there. No sooner do I close the front door behind me, the presence pushes me against it with her knees straddling my waist. She tells me it’s good to see that I have missed her too and gives me another cold and hot kiss that numbs my tongue and warms my heart.

We engage in our second round of lovemaking, and I’m not as entranced this time and able to remember much more about it. Not only is it a sexual experience that is otherworldly, but it is all-encompassing. Whereas normal sex is performed for its physical pleasure, ghost loving is more spiritual with a feeling of want and need. It’s hard to explain really: even though the warmth of body heat is missing, you still get the physical excitement, and by the act itself, I guess the spirit gains a physical aspect it has been missing. And by doing so, you gain a more complete love: one that is more spiritual for you, one that intensifies and fulfills any void in the soul of the spirit.

* * * * *

Every night for one week straight, I have enjoyed some of the best loving on this world or anywhere else. But as the old saying goes, all good things must come to an end. So, I decide to rest on the eighth night.

On the ninth night, I’m back at my window waiting to see the blue glow. After a time and none appears, I figure Amy is needing a break too. I start getting ready for bed.

I’m having another peaceful sleep; although, I drifted off with a tinge of disappointment. Somewhere during the early part of it, that inner voice comes to me, My dear John, have you forsaken me? I wanted to see you again before I depart.

Even though it comes to me in a dreamlike manner, I know by now it’s not, and my eyes pop open immediately. I’m fearful she means moving on to the next phase in the afterlife, and I dress in a hurry. I grab the flashlight and run next door. Amy is standing by the kitchen table when I enter the house.

“Hey, baby,” she says with a smile on her face, with it more aglow than the rest of her. “I was beginning to think you had grown tired of me.”

I look at her fondly, relieved that I had not missed her. “I could never grow tired of you, Amy.”

She looks at me sadly. “That’s why it hurts me to have to tell you this.” She pats the back of the dining-room chair. “Have a seat, John.”

I take it saying, “I understand your having to move on to the next phase of your spiritual life. I knew it would come, but you showed me how wonderful true love can be.”

“It’s true,” she says. “I am wanted to move to another phase, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

I look at her in a curious way. “How’s that?” I ask.

“I ran into Jody…he was passing through my stage.”

“That’s good,” I tell her. “I’m glad you were able to be reacquainted. How is he adjusting to his spiritual life?”

“Oh, it seems he hasn’t missed a beat. In fact, he still cares as much about me as he did in real life.”

“That’s nice,” I say, not really knowing what else to say.

She gives me the look a teacher gives a student who just isn’t getting it. “He’s moving to a new phase in this life, and he wants me to come with him, to show him around, and to see if we can have what we had in real life. I told Jody I’ve met someone and wanted to run it by you first.”

She waits for my reaction. I don’t show much of one because, for some reason, I have already figured a love affair between two worlds could not be maintained—one that’s way past long distance.

Maybe I can come back.

“I can’t tell you what to do, Amy. Only you know what’s best for the rest of your journey.”

“Oh, John…John,” she whispers in a lower, sexier voice. “Decisions can be difficult even in this life.”

She takes my face in both her hands, my cheeks warmed by her inner glow. “I know if I leave here, I’m going to miss you.” I take one of her hands and hold it lightly, knowing that if I grip it any firmer, my hand will just pass through.

“I feel I’m the interloper here, Amy. You and Jody are reunited in this world now. Maybe it wasn’t meant for two beings from other worlds to intermingle.”

She looks me solemnly in the eyes. “You love me so much you try to make my decision easier.”

I kiss her lips for the final time. “I will miss you too.”

She blinks her eyes and her robe flashes away from her beautiful body. “Would you like to love me one more time?”

“I don’t think that will help either of us,” I tell her. We kiss our last kiss. I pick up my flashlight and leave the haunted house for the final time.

* * * * *

Several days have passed, and a blue light doesn’t appear at night anymore. And I don’t sit by my bedroom window anymore. But I do think of Amy quite often, wondering how things are going with her.

I am a young man, reasonably attractive, and have money; finding female companionship has never been an issue. I could go back to the single bars or resume chatting online, but I decide to put those things behind me. Amy could return. Once a spirit has had you in the sack, you can try, but you can’t go back.