The Haunting

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WARNING! This is adult oriented fiction of a strong sexual nature. If you are under 18 years of age or easily offended by such material, then click your browser's BACK button now. The copyright of this story remains with the author, Night Owl. This posting does not give you the rights to post this on any website without obtaining the author's permission first.

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The Haunting

By Night Owl

First Posted: 11/07

(Story Content: M/f, Horror, Bondage, Whipping, NC)

Part 1:

Jennifer had been tossing and turning in her bed all night, the sweat from her heated body dampening the black silk sheets. The moonlight came in pale ghostly beams through the edges of the curtains, casting strange shadows on the ornate wallpaper. In one corner of the room, the air conditioner made faint wheezing sounds. She had already adjusted the controls several times, but the compressor, as old as it was, could do no more than belch out wisps of faintly cool air. The heat wasn't the only thing preventing her from sleeping though.

Shortly after moving to New Orleans, Jen had agreed to house sit for a friend. Built in the old Victorian style so common in the area, the place seemed charming enough in the daylight, but after sunset, it took on an entirely different appearance. Every now and then, she heard creaks, not in the room, but from inside the walls themselves. There was also a nagging feeling that she was being watched.

"Just your imagination, kiddo," she consoled herself, "it's your first night alone in a creaky old house and it's psyched you out a little, that's all."

First night jitters or no, it was like trying to sleep on the set of some cut-rate horror movie -- a knock-off Gone With The Wind meets Freddie Kruger. She rolled over on her side and stared at the red numbers glaring out at her from the bedside clock. It was already 3:15 in the morning.

"God, I'll be getting up in just three hours," she groaned out loud, "I have to get some sleep!"

Jen turned away and pushed the sheets down past her breasts. After a week of percolating in the Louisiana heat, she couldn't abide to wearing clothing in bed, but sleeping in the nude only made her insomnia worse, because now she could feel her smooth flesh tingling and burning with every touch and press of the deliciously wicked, silk coverings. She wanted to masturbate in the worst way, but she didn't dare, not now, not in this place.

At some point, an hour or so before dawn, her restlessness finally gave way to sleep, though it was far from fitful. Her mind seemed to drift in and out of consciousness. It was then, that something very strange began to happen. Still drifting in that nether world between dream and reality, she felt her arms and legs being pulled to the corners of the bed. No one was in the room with her, but the feeling was unmistakable -- like four pairs of powerful hands pressing into her wrists and ankles, holding them down! Those wicked sheets that she had been wrestling with earlier, were now folded neatly back well-below her navel. With some effort, she lifted her head off the pillow. She couldn't tell if she was dreaming, or if this was really happening. Her mind seemed paralyzed and unable to summon her own limbs to fight off the unseen hands stretching and pinning her to the bed.

Then through the darkness, she noticed a black cloud of mist hovering off the ceiling near the opposite wall. It was about a foot square in size and seemed to be growing larger. The bed coverings began to slide down further . . . no, someone was pulling them down, inch by inch, past her open thighs, exposing the neatly-trimmed tuft of blonde hair guarding her sex. She became aware of an icy chill in the room. Her skin turned to gooseflesh, her pink nipples stood erect. The sheets slid down past her knees, and from the cloud, long tendrils of mist, like fingers slithered down the wall to the floor.

"Wake up!" she screamed to herself. "PLEASE WAKE UP!"

She could see her breath now, it was so cold! The mist wafted over the foot of the bed and crawled toward her, the tendrils wrapping themselves around her legs. A wrenching groan rose from her lips. The hair between her thighs bristled with excitement. She could feel (no see!) invisible fingers touching and kneading her breasts. Again, her nipples could not deny the sensations being forced on her body, and swelled dark red into hard, aching buds of need.

Suddenly, a dark cloud filled the room, as though a shroud had been draped over the bed. She felt the cloud settle on top of her. Then it was inside her! At first, it felt like a warm, wet mist slipping into her vagina, then it began to harden and turn into something solid.

This had to be a dream, but she was vividly aware of everything that was happening to her, every single nerve tingling with arousal. The thing inside was definitely male, but it didn't quite feel human. It slid deeper and deeper into her womb, growing larger, driving her to the most massive orgasm she had ever felt in her life! She screamed in ecstasy as wave after wave of pleasure swept through her, ripping away her cool demeanor in the process, and then just as quickly as it started, it was over. Limp as an old dish rag, with fresh sweat popping out all over her body, she awoke, barley able to move, all of her energy sapped by this presence. She tried to prop herself up with her arms, then fell back into a deep sleep, not even hearing the alarm clock's loud buzz later that morning.

When Jen finally came to, it was noon. She struggled into the bathroom, got under a cold shower, and tried to regain her senses. Wrapping herself in a towel, she still felt very weak and lethargic, so she called the office and told them that she wouldn't be in due to illness, then dressed and went to the kitchen to get something to eat.

"My God," she thought, "what on earth happened to me last night!"

She could still recall everything; how vivid it was. Although her love life wasn't exactly on fire at the moment, Jen had enough orgasms through regular sex to know how one felt, and last night, real or not, was much more intense. As creepy as it was, what she dreamt gave her the most incredible orgasm she ever experienced in her life.  

"Well it's over now, and with no harm done I guess," she opined to herself and commenced to cleaning up her lunch dishes. She then went out and ran a few errands, soon forgetting about the whole experience.

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Jennifer Massey was truly blessed with both looks and brains. At first glance, one would have pegged her to be a model, or perhaps an actress, but certainly not an attorney. She had that slim, but curvy barbie doll figure, large baby-blue eyes, full luscious lips, and a wavy mane of golden hair. Her skin was very fair and smooth like ivory, making her appear as weak and fragile as a china doll, though she was hardly that.

After graduating from Princeton, magna cum laud, with a degree in English, she attended Harvard Law School. During the summers, she worked as an associate for two law firms -- one in Boston and the other in San Francisco. After Harvard, Jen worked as a Business & Technology attorney for the San Francisco office of Brobeck, Phleger & Harrison. The firm's clients ranged from then-red-hot dot.coms to well-established Fortune 500 companies. But after witnessing the changing business landscape and desiring to stay on the cutting edge, she transitioned into the area of securities litigation, where she was hired by Bradford & Polk; a small, but lucrative law firm in New Orleans. By then Jennifer had acquired a reputation for being somewhat of a "cold fish" and a very aggressive litigator, which suited her just fine. However, this grudging respect didn't come easily during those first years out of Harvard. After all, how could anyone take this doe-eyed, sexy blonde that seriously? Her dress appearance didn't help the impression much either. It wasn't until her second year at BP&H, that one of the partners took Jennifer aside and told her very bluntly,

"Ms. Massey, if you truly want to succeed with this firm, then leave the feathery blonde, Charlie's Angels look at home, and for god’s sake, dress appropriately. You're an attorney, and a very good one. You don’t need a low cut blouse and short skirt to get our attention.”

Jennifer took this criticism to heart, and from then on, always put her hair up and dressed more conservatively at the office and in court. A year later, she was on her way to New Orleans, and a new position with Bradford & Polk. She hooked up with her friend, who was a realtor there, with the hope of finding a good deal on a house. That was when Katrina told her about an old Victorian-style home she was currently showing on the market.

"The place is really a steal for the price," her friend assured her, "but even if you decide it's not for you, you're certainly welcome to stay there, rent-free, until we find another house for you. All you have to do is keep it neat and clean for my walk-throughs."

Jennifer accepted the offer. She saw the house for the first time after making the move to New Orleans, and was so impressed with its southern old-Victorian charm, that she was tempted to buy the place right off before someone else did. The location was perfect -- just eight blocks away from the historic French Quarter, and a twenty-minute drive to work in traffic. Half of the rooms were already furnished, including the living area and the master bedroom where she would be sleeping. The cellar was large and clean, with plenty of shelves for storage and even a wine rack that spanned one wall. Jennifer was surprised this place had been on the market for so long without drawing any interest.

"This is the slow season," Katrina told her. "I'm sure once it picks up again, the house will sell fast . . . that is unless you buy it first!" she teased.

But Jennifer had no desire to buy the house after that first night, and in the coming days, she would regret even stepping foot in the place.

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On her second night, the temperature outside dropped a good 10 degrees, so she was able to tolerate a nightgown in bed. She also had no trouble falling asleep this time, but when she did, she dreamed, and in that dream, the mist came again, only this time, it actually spoke to her.

"Losyara . . ."

She shook her head and moaned.

"Losyara!" 

Its voice was that of a man, deep and rich, beckoning her.

"Get up, Losyara. Get up." 

Jen felt herself rise from the bed and approach the mist. She then saw the shadowy figure of a man inside. He was tall and dressed in a dark suit with a cloak hanging off his broad shoulders. His face seemed unusually long with sharp, chiseled features, like a sculpture that wasn't quite finished yet. His eyes were dark, almost black, and piercing. Despite his powerful stature, he looked pale, almost sickly.

"Come with me," he ordered.

She followed the phantom mist down the stairs to the foyer where, suddenly, it disappeared. Jen was left alone, standing in her nightgown with the moon shining down on her from the window above the foyer. She then noticed the cellar door to her left was wide open. Again, she felt her body move forward to the top of the cellar steps. She looked down the narrow stairway. It was dark as pitch, so dark that the cellar didn't seem to exist anymore, just a drop off at the bottom step, and beyond it . . . nothing. The stranger's voice bubbled up from the black void,

"Down here, Losyara . . ."

The sound of it both excited her, and filled her with terror at the same time,

"We are down here waiting. COME DOWN AND FLOAT WITH US."        

Jennifer was aware of other sounds besides the voice -- a woman's muffled cries, faint and distant, the tinkling laughter of chains. She began to step back from the door, but suddenly, the mist shot up the cellar steps and seized her. Then everything went black.

Nothing happened in the dream after that, or perhaps her mind refused to retain the information. When she woke up that morning the sheets had been twisted off her, and she was lying stretched and face down on the bed, the nightgown pulled up around her armpits, exposing her naked body underneath.

Staggering to her feet, Jen went to the bathroom and pulled off her gown. She felt just as tired and drained as the previous morning. Then as she turned to the shower, she happened to catch glimpse of her refection in the mirror, and what she saw nearly threw her into a panic.

Criss-crossed diagonally up and down her back, were about a dozen angry red welts. She quickly moved to the mirror and reached around to feel one of the marks. They were warm to the touch, but they didn't seem to hurt at all. How did THIS happen? Had she been sleep-walking and fallen down the stairs? Maybe she decided to take a little stroll outside through the trees and forgot to wake up first? She examined her back more closely and finally concluded that neither stairs nor tree branches could have caused these marks. What they did resemble, though, were wounds one might receive after being beaten with a whip or belt, but that was impossible!

Jen debated with herself whether a trip to the hospital was necessary. If she did go, then how on earth was she going to explain this? After just a few minutes, the marks seemed to be fading, as if they were healing right before her eyes! She decided to hold off on getting any medical help until she took her shower first. After toweling off, she checked them again. The marks were completely gone!

"OK, am I seeing things or am I just losing my mind?"

There was little time to think about that now. She quickly got ready for work, knowing that she had a lot to make up because of yesterday's absence. She was tired and in a very bad mood from lack of sleep, but somehow she was able to make it through the day without chewing someone's head off. By the time her computer clock ticked to 5:45, everyone else had left, leaving her alone in the office. She was working on a motion that had to be filed with the courts the following morning. The clients her firm was representing, a group of seven shareholders, were filing suit to recover damages they sustained as the result of a securities fraud within their own company.

While Jen was typing the final summary, she began to notice the temperature drop in her office. Then came the feeling again, that someone was in the room with her, watching. Suddenly, she jerked her hands away from the keyboard. In a matter of seconds, the keys turned so cold, they felt like cubes of dry ice. For a few moments she just sat there, staring dumbly at the keyboard. Then she noticed movement on the computer screen. Her eyes darted up to it, and she gasped. Someone, or something was typing a message below her unfinished summary:

LOSYRA LOSYARA LOSYARA HOW I LONG TO TOUCH YUR FLESH AGAIN YOUR SWEET FLESH! OH LOSYARA LOSYARA YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFL MY LOVE! AND SOON YOU WILL BE MINE AGAIN! SOON WE SOON WE WILL BE TOGETHER AND YOUR FLESH WILL BE MINE AGAIN

The typing stopped. Jennifer stared wide-eyed with disbelief at the black print glaring out at her from the screen. How was this possible? Had someone hacked into her computer? The empty cursor blinked impatiently, as though it were waiting for her to respond to the cryptic message. She thought, hoped -- oh how she hoped this was just a sick joke! That the culprit responsible was sitting in his office nearby having a good laugh. Deep down though, she knew that couldn't be, because she hadn't told a soul about the dreams, or about the strange name the voice in the mist kept calling her -- Losyara. The cursor moved again:

WE ARE WAITING LOSYARA! WE ARE ALL WAITING FOR YOU! AN AND DOWN HERE WE FLOAT!! WE ALL FLOAT BECAUSE WE ARE DEAD! WE ARE IN THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD AND SOON AN SOON

Now the letters seemed to be screaming at her,

SOON YOU WILL FLOAT WITH US!! FOREVER LOSYARA! FOREVER!!!!

Jennifer had seen enough. She wanted to get up and run, but her body wouldn't respond. She couldn't move a muscle! Her office was like an icebox now, but in spite of the cold, she broke out in a sweat all over, and the wetness seeped into her powder blue blouse, creating dark half-moon patches under her arms.

Then it started happening again. She could feel the mist, invisible now, wafting up her skirt, between her legs, only she wasn't dreaming this time. She was wide awake! Trying to stop it, she struggled to break away, but it was no use. She couldn't move. Once again, she was being swept along by some unseeing force, far more powerful than she was capable of resisting. Her panties grew damp followed by the aroma of fresh sex. Something hard and wet slipped into her vagina. It was a man's cock, and it seemed to have a life of its own. It slithered past her cervix, deeper then she had ever felt before, filling her, touching off every nerve as it passed. She felt the invisible fingers underneath her blouse and skirt, touching, fondling her breasts; tweaking her pointed nipples. No human being had ever made Jen feel so feminine, so sexual! She screamed as she was rocked by the most intense orgasm she had ever experienced in her life. Her body jerked in her chair. She threw her head back, closed her eyes and screamed again. Then like a flash, it was gone. 

When Jennifer finally opened her eyes, the janitor was staring at her from the door to her office.

He cleared his throat, "are you OK, miss?"

Her face grew flush with embarrassment. How long had he been standing there?

"Y-yes . . . I must have fallen asleep and had a nightmare," she told him, though she didn't believe a word of it.

When the janitor left to go back to his work, she looked at the computer screen again. The mysterious message was gone, the cursor blinking after the last entry she had typed in her summary.

"This CAN’T just be in my head," she thought, "whatever is happening to me is real!"

Jennifer was still very weak, but had just enough strength to wobble to the elevator and make it to her car. She barely remembered the drive back to her house. After a long, hot soaking in the tub, she felt immeasurably better -- at least physically. She threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, then ordered out for dinner and switched on the TV for company. Later that evening, she decided to call Katrina and set up a lunch date the next day.

"Sounds great," her friend said. "Let's go to that little Cajun place on Bourbon Street. This one will be on me. Does 12:30 sound good?"

"Sure . . . any time is good for me."

"Is something wrong?" she then asked. "You're voice sounds funny."

"No, I'm fine. I just have a lot of work to do and I haven't been able to get much sleep lately."

Jennifer didn't want to discuss her experiences over the phone, but it was her intention to bring up the subject of the house during their lunch date, and find out if there was anything associated with the place that might explain what was happening to her. She didn't believe in ghosts; she never even gave the subject much thought, but she couldn't explain what was happening to her either. Maybe Katrina would tell her the house had cockroaches or a bad foundation -- anything to explain why it really wasn't selling. As for the dreams? Most-likely the result of too much work and not enough play -- or so she hoped. Whatever the case, Jen was going to find some answers, and maybe get a little reassurance from her friend. She kept the phone call with Katrina short, then fell back on the couch and tried to relax. The droning sound from the TV, along with two glasses of wine certainly helped, and before she knew it, she was sound asleep on the sofa.

Almost immediately, the dream came to her again.

This time, Jennifer was no longer in her living room, nor anywhere in the house for that matter, but in some sort of mid-evil dungeon. She was completely nude, and suspended by shackles around her wrists and a rusty old chain, with her feet only inches off of the stone floor. There were screams and moans all around her, and the crack of whips. She could feel a heat on her body, but wasn't certain where it was coming from. The room she was in was complete stone, black and gray stone, and very dark. Her long golden hair was nothing more than wet strands now that fell over her face and shoulders. She was also very wet between the legs, very aroused, and her nipples, hard as pebbles, throbbed for attention. The smells of blood, sweat, fear, and sulfur were in the air. The screams grew louder. They were the screams of women in pain, and they seemed to filter in through the walls. Her head slowly dropped, and gazing down at herself, she became alarmed at how pale her body looked, bloodless, like a corpse. She also discovered where the heat was coming from. There were fresh welts all over her, some, open wounds with blood seeping out of them.

Jennifer's screams in the dream woke her up. She was still lying on the couch, still fully clothed (thank God!), but her heart was beating like she had just run a marathon. She got up slowly and went to the kitchen to get a drink of water and some aspirin. For some reason that she couldn't explain, her eyes dropped down to the hollow drain in the sink. She just stared at it; unable to look away, as if she were in some trance. Then from somewhere in the drain, deep down in the pipes, it bubbled up to her -- the voice. At least she thought it was, because the sound of it was so faint and almost indistinguishable,

"We are waiting for you, Losyara. Come. Come down and float with us . . ."

Jennifer shook her head and stepped back from the sink. The voice disappeared, and all she could hear was the TV in the next room. Needless to say, she didn't get anymore sleep that night!

(continued)