The reek of refuse mingled with the tang of the sea air once more assailed Morgan Reinhardt's senses. He thought he'd grown used to it twice already, but the pungent stench caused him to wrinkle his nose and hold his breath again.
Too fucking hot for October, he thought as he tried to ignore the stink caused by the trash floating all along the shoreline, the result of a garbage barge sinking for reasons unknown a few weeks earlier.
The breeze shifted, bringing welcome relief from both the heat and the odor. Brushing a strand of coal-black hair out of his brown eyes, he glanced down at his watch. Seeing that the time was after midnight, he stroked his goatee and tried to decide whether to move now, or wait a little longer.
As a few clouds passed in front of the moon, Morgan determined that he would have no better opportunity to approach. After more than a month of observation and careful planning, he truly doubted that his caution was even necessary.
Morgan left his place of concealment, creeping up on the blind side of the wall surrounding the mansion. The gentle slope behind the wall served to conceal everything on the seaward side. A quick peek through the gate revealed darkened windows and no sign of life, as usual.
With no alarm and no dogs, he expected this would be easy. The house was huge, and he'd observed only one resident who never appeared to leave. A lone woman wasn't much of a threat, even if she did discover him in the house when he wasn't ready.
The light posts on either side of the gate provided a ridiculously easy means of gaining the top of the wall. With strength and practiced skill, Morgan shinnied up the pole, grasping the top of the wall and carefully eyeing the house one final time.
His well-defined muscles bunching, he rolled over the top of the wall and dropped into a crouch at the base. With nothing to conceal him in the open courtyard beyond the wall, Morgan jogged in a crouch toward the house, his carefully placed footfalls making almost no sound.
Glancing through a nearby dingy window, he saw furniture covered in plastic. The disrepair of the home's exterior and the disuse within the room encouraged Morgan rather than discouraging him, however. He'd seen the opulence of the inhabited portion of the house through his binoculars often enough.
Snapping open a knife, he pressed the tip against the aged wood of the window, angling the razor-sharp blade upward and toward the latch. With measured pressure, he pushed the blade through the wood. The latch resisted his blade for a few seconds, but broke free with a quiet pop. The warped wood protested his attempts to raise the window after years of disuse, but also relented with a slight groan.
Morgan climbed in through the window and stuck his head back out to check left and right for any signs of someone having noticed him. Confident that he'd entered without detection, he closed the window and knelt down to pick up the slivers of wood dislodged during the break-in. He dropped them in his pocket out of habit to hide the obvious evidence of his entrance.
Creeping across the hardwood floor, he silently grunted in approval when the boards didn't creak alarmingly beneath his feet. Either the interior was far better maintained than the exterior, or the floors had been exceedingly well crafted. Still, he refused to commit his full weight to any step without care.
Kneeling in front of a dresser, he lifted the plastic covering and blew out a breath of surprise that would have whistled, had he allowed it. Pulling a tiny flashlight from a sheathe on his belt, he examined the delicate handles on the revealed drawers. Looks like fucking gold to me, he thought. If I ever see the guy that tipped me off to this place again, I'll have to buy him a beer. Crazy fucking drunk.
The door opened with only a minuscule creak, granting Morgan access to the remainder of the house. He crept down the hall toward the inhabited portion of the mansion, wishing he could carry away the paintings along the walls. People paid through the nose for artwork, and a lot of them would stay quiet about nearly anything to attain something truly unique.
The silence of the house was almost disconcerting. A building as old as this one should creak and groan almost constantly, especially in a breeze, but this place was as silent as a tomb. A smile spread across Morgan's lips as he stepped into the rear entrance foyer of the house, seeing the glint of precious metals everywhere in the moonlight filtering through the huge windows flanking the door.
The doors in this portion of the house were open, revealing magnificently carved furniture, obviously antique and expensive. Morgan felt like a kid in a candy store, unsure what to select when everything looked so good.
A look in the dining room revealed flatware that he was sure was pure silver, and real bone china. The dining room would easily seat twenty, and the various cabinets around the room housed enough settings to fill that room a dozen times without washing a single fork.
A vanity within one of the guest rooms had scrimshawed, ivory-handled brushes and combs sitting atop it, alongside ivory boxes trimmed in silver and gold. More of the same resided within the drawers of the vanity. Morgan felt as though he were creeping through a museum at night, rather than a home. There's definitely something not right about this place, he thought.
Only one set of double doors was closed, which Morgan guessed opened into the master bedroom. Now here's the real prize, he thought with a mental chuckle. Behind that door was what had originally attracted him to the old place, and his main goal for the evening. Whatever he could steal was just a bonus.
His cock twitched in anticipation as he approached the doors, remembering how hot the woman had looked through his binoculars. He couldn't believe that such a sweet treat was out here all alone, where nobody would ever hear her scream, surrounded by wealth that he would soon take his share of as well.
The door was unlocked, and easily swung open on well-oiled hinges. The room was just as opulent and archaic as the rest of the house, and he had no doubt that it actually held far greater treasures than anywhere else. If the jewels he'd seen adorning the woman were any indication, she had a treasure trove hidden in jewelry boxes somewhere in this room.
She lay on the bed in a nearly transparent nightgown, only her lower legs covered by a sheet. The material left little to the imagination, her nipples and the hair between her legs plainly visible even in the moonlight, which shone in on her through a window like a spotlight in a store window. An evil grin of anticipation spread across his angular face as he approached the bed.
Somehow, she sensed his presence. She sat up with a slight start, but then relaxed and said, "Oh, have you come to tell me your story? Do you want to relive your life with me? I know it hurts, but I'll help you. I just knew that one of you would come for All Hallows, so I wore something pretty to bed."
What the fuck? Bitch is fucking crazy. "You just stay nice and quiet and don't fight me. Maybe you'll even have a little fun, too."
"I won't fight you, unless you need me to," she responded. "You're different from the others. My name is Denise. What's yours?"
"Peter Longcockings," he sarcastically lied and reached down to unbutton his pants, jerking down the zipper. His eyes were filled with her body — young, tight, and begging for a good fuck. He caught a hint of musk in the air, the distinctive scent of womanly arousal. He jerked down his boxers, freeing his cock from confinement.
"Oh, such a nice cock." Her eyes widened then as he moved into the moonlight, climbing onto the bed. "You're a real man," she whispered with surprise in her voice.
"You got that right. Never had a real man before? You will now," Morgan chuckled as he moved over her, the scent of her need now filling his lungs. Damn. Almost takes all the fun out of it. This bitch wants it.
She arched her back and gasped as he grabbed her legs to roughly jerk them apart. "You're so hot — oh, so hot."
Looking down for a second to guide the flared tip of his cock inside her, he saw wetness glistening in the moonlight. When he made contact, the wet warmth he felt confirmed what he saw. He groaned as he pushed forward, his cock sinking into her with a moist crackle. "Hell yeah. You've got a tight little cunt."
"So big. So hot. Fuck me," she gasped as he violated her.
Tightly gripping her thighs, Morgan shoved the last of his shaft into her, his balls settling against her ass. "You've got a dirty little mouth, too. I like that."
Her lips clung to him as he withdrew, seemingly seeking to keep him buried inside her. Her juices coated his shaft in a sheathe of milky wetness, indicating just how turned on she was. Morgan thrust back inside her, slamming his cock home.
Her teeth clenched, and her eyes locked on his cock stroking her, she gasped, "Fuck me hard."
Morgan pounded her pussy mercilessly, his flesh colliding with hers in a fast chorus of loud smacks. Her almost pained expression and the sight of her firm tits bouncing in a jerky rhythm spurred him on to even greater efforts. "I ain't pulling out. You're getting a load of cum up in that pussy," he grunted as he continued to thrust.
"Oh," she moaned, "I want it. I want your hot cum inside me."
"Filthy little whore," he half growled, half grunted.
Little squeals and yelps erupted from her lips amongst a constant stream of the words: yes, fuck me, harder, faster. Morgan obliged her, the tight squeeze of her pussy building the itch in the tip of his shaft that foreshadowed his impending eruption.
Her scream as she came was almost ear-splitting in volume and pitch. She flushed rosy red from her face down to her taut stomach, her eyes tightly closed and her face pinched in an expression of agonized ecstasy. A fresh flood joined her already abundant wetness, her juices squirting out around his fast thrusting cock.
Morgan shook his head to dislodge a bead of sweat hanging from the tip of his nose, and dug his fingers into her thighs. Her head lashed back and forth on the pillow as he neared his own explosion.
With a loud cry of release, he jammed his cock inside her a final time, spewing his seed against the entrance of her womb. "Fuck yeah," he growled before a second pulse of his organ within her further filled her clenched canal with cum.
She laid a hand over her mound and tummy, softly moaning, "It feels so good. It's so hot inside me."
The rhythmic clenching of her walls around him from her aftershocks proved too much for his over-sensitive cock, and Morgan jerked from her with a hiss. He had every intention of rising immediately to tie her up and leave with a bag of ill-gotten gains, but the lethargy of his climax caught him unawares.
Morgan awoke to his strained bladder demanding attention. He winced as he rolled out of her arms, and then the bed, the zipper and button of his still-dropped pants having left stinging impressions on his skin. He shook his head in disbelief at the hot little blonde curled up in the bed with a smile on her face. Crazy fucking bitch. Good fuck, though.
The temptation to take her one more time was strong, but his sense of self-preservation and greed overwhelmed simple desire. He jerked up his trousers, leaving them undone, and headed for the bathroom.
Morgan looked around as he drained his bladder, almost in disbelief of the bathroom. The tub would easily allow two people to stretch out in it. Gold and silver trimmed fixtures and decoration met his eyes throughout the room. The room was almost as big as his apartment.
After a sigh of relief and a final shake, he zipped up his pants and stretched. Fuck it. She's dead asleep. May as well take my time finding what I want, and then tear that pussy up one more time. Hell — crazy bitch might be good for another night some time, if she doesn't report anything.
A pillowcase stitched with what he suspected was gold thread served him well as he emptied jewelry boxes. Even at fence prices, this shit's gotta be worth a hundred thou. Fuck me — I'm rich, he thought with a chuckle.
Now curious about what else he might find in the house, Morgan decided to go exploring. He noticed bar latches on the outside of the double doors to the bedroom and thought. That's pretty fucked up. With the phone lines cut, that should keep her where I can find her.
Closing the doors and latching them, he moved down the hall into the inhabited portions of the house that he hadn't checked out yet. Now completely without worry, he kept his flashlight on, shining it on anything that looked interesting in the rooms along the hallway.
"What have we here," he muttered, stepping into a huge room at the end of the hall. The walls were lined with trophy heads. Everything from a deer to a black bear adorned the walls, a stuffed zoo of senseless violence and greed. Smaller animals stood on shelves around the room. "Somebody was out to kill one of everything," he chuckled. As he crossed the room, he felt as if the eyes of the animals were following him. Never liked these goddamn things.
A large group of small paintings adorned the wall between two massive fireplaces, the focus of the room. Morgan examined them and wondered what kind of weird taste had selected them. One showed a funeral, titled Images of Sorrow according to the gold plate on the frame. Another showed a woman's face, her mouth open in a wide, insane looking grin. Pictures of Delight, the plaque named the painting. Endless Days of Summer, Longer Nights of Gloom, Waiting for the Morning Light, Morgan read from the plaques as he looked at the paintings, each a little more disturbing than the last.
No fucking wonder she's ape-shit, he thought, shaking his head and walking away. As he turned, he noticed a bar just beyond the macabre art gallery with several crystal decanters arranged upon it. After examining one in the light, he removed the stopper and sniffed. Eyes lighting up, he took a sip. Oh, fuck yeah — scotch. Good shit too.
He took a long pull, just enough to warm him and give him a little buzz when it kicked in. After a few seconds of experimentation, he found that the decanter fit within the deep pocket of his jacket. Seeing a wooden cigar box, he opened it and examined one of the cigars within. Cubans. I'd bet my left nut on it. Crazy bitch has somebody smuggling for her. Three cigars went into each of the two breast pockets of his jacket.
A glitter at the end of the room caught his eye, drawing him toward it. Oh, hell yeah — jackpot, he thought as he beheld the display case full of coins. These will sell just as well as any of those paintings. A pirate's booty to go with my blonde booty for the evening.
Finding that the case wasn't even locked, he swung open the doors and let his makeshift bag fall open. He plucked the coins from their places, depositing them within the pillowcase one-by-one, whistling a song he'd heard in a pirate movie once.
Help me, someone. Let me out of here.
Morgan whirled toward the faint voice, drawing a gun and aiming. Though the words might very well match the plight of the woman down the hall, the voice sounded masculine. Though he saw nothing, he didn't think he could have imagined the voice.
Dropping into a crouch, hoping to utilize the furniture as cover, he moved back through the room, his gun held before him at the ready.
As before, the voice was quiet and had a quality like wind howling through trees. As best as he could determine, the voice had emerged from somewhere near the doorway through which he had entered the room. Training his weapon on the doorway, he moved more carefully, his eyes and ears straining against the gloom.
The voice sounded like that of an old man this time, croaking and more insistent.
Three more times Morgan heard the words, always coming from the doorway toward which he slowly moved.
This time, the voice had the timbre of a shouted command, but the volume of a whisper — inches away from his ear.
Morgan whirled, backing away from the voice and nearly firing his weapon at nothing, for that is all he saw as he stumbled, falling into a chair.
Breathing heavily and unsure whether to be pissed off beyond words or scared shitless, Morgan looked and listened. Only silence greeted him, the unnatural silence of the old house. Goddamn, what was in that fucking scotch — LSD? Fucking spooky old shithole has me imagining ghosts.
Levering up from the chair, he waited for the voice to protest again. After a minute or so, he shook his head with a snort and defiantly crossed the room back to the display case. Despite his adamant refusal to accept anything supernatural, he couldn't help but glance up at the huge boar head above the case frequently as he deposited coins in his bag. The disembodied head appeared to be staring down at him in accusation.
He kept his gun in hand.
Giving the bag a twist to secure it, he extended his middle finger to the leering boar and spun on his heel. Tucking the gun back in its holster, he defied the weird hallucination with another pull from the decanter of scotch. "Here's to you, spooks. Fuck you and the headless horseman you rode in on," he sneered under his breath.
The satisfying jingle of the bag in his hand chased away any thoughts of ghosts and disembodied voices. He stepped back out into the hall, his manhood twitching with the first signs of awakening as he thought about riding the blonde one more time before leaving with his haul. Bend her over and grudge fuck that cunt this time, he thought as his cock stiffened.
He threw open the bolts, and had just pulled the doors open when something moved in his peripheral vision.
Morgan turned and froze in terror. Rising up through the floor, he saw a man-shaped shadow. The apparition drifted slowly toward the ceiling, and then leveled out to move toward him. A second shadow seeped through the wall, and then a third. Yet another emerged from the ceiling.
He raised his gun in an unsteady hand, tracking the spirits for a few seconds, until the hallways were so filled with shadows that it was difficult for him to distinguish individual specters. The apparitions drifted aimlessly, accompanied by a whispered cacophony of unintelligible words.
Morgan jerked and fell against the doorjamb when one of the shadows brushed his hand in passing. The touch chilled him to the bone, and for a fraction of a second, reality vanished. The shadow-filled hallway became a swing set in a back yard with two children whooshing down the slide. He felt a swell of happiness rush through him, and then the vision was gone.