Things That Go Hump in the Night
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Paranormal,
Desc: Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A geneticist steeped in the hard sciences encounters a being he can't begin to account for. He's in for a whole different kind of education.
Have you ever seen a ghost? Personally, I've never believed in them, but lately I'm not feeling quite so confident. At least I've had to rethink what the term ghost actually means to me (more about that later). People like me who have a sound, science-based education generally aren't inclined to give any more credence to such beliefs and superstitions than recognizing them as a part of our cultural heritage. But the philosopher Joseph Campbell demonstrated through his research and writings that most myths weren't created out of thin air, they were very likely born of actual events, and then inflated to fantastical proportions through the ages with thousands of retellings. Those of you who are familiar with the rumor game know how that works.
We humans have always had a strong propensity for following the path of least resistance when it comes to belief systems, religious, social or political. Sages, profits and oracles of old knew that very well, and they used it to sway the masses to their own advantage. Politicians count on that weakness for their very political survival, and many religious leaders are masters at that kind of manipulation. Even now, practically every newscast tells stories of how large blocs of people, sometimes entire nations are willing to rise up and go to war, to carry out mass slaughter in defense of a belief that the people next door can't accept because they were taught something else as they were growing up.
When tales crop up from time to time about events that are unexplainable within our current level of scientific knowledge, things that many religions are inclined to classify as miracles or the work of the devil, I'm inclined to go along with Einstein's view that it's just a matter of time before a rational scientific explanation is uncovered.
But then Albert never completely bought into some the principles of quantum mechanics, even though his work helped set the stage for it. We know that quantum physics is often irrational in many respects, but it works. You wouldn't be reading this story on a computer screen if it didn't. Well, we can't be right all the time, can we?
The reason I bring up the question of ghosts is that I recently experienced (and am still experiencing) some things that make absolutely no logical sense. I haven't given up on a scientific explanation yet, but so far, my theories aren't any more provable than claims of the existence of spirits and poltergeists.
Well, enough of this rambling. Here's my ghost story:
I'll start by telling you a little about myself. If you were to ask some stranger on the street to take a quick look at me and pigeonhole me into some general category, they'd probably go with something like nerd or geek or dweeb. I readily admit that I look the part. According to my younger sister, my general appearance is so stereotypically nerdy that I might even be considered world-class. I don't go out of my way to look nerdy, but then I don't go out of my way to look like something else either. It's just that I'm a very plain-looking guy with the fashion sense of a fire hydrant, and for whatever reason, not being a slave to fashion has never caused me any social anxiety. Ergo, I feel no compulsion to expend a lot of cash and energy trying to impress others.
Try to picture it: I'm twenty-nine years old, I'm five feet eleven inches tall, I weigh one hundred sixty-six pounds, I have mouse-brown hair, I wear wire-rimmed glasses, and while my facial features aren't grotesque in any way that I'm aware of, I'm hardly what you would describe as handsome. Women aren't inclined to give me much more than a passing glance. I suppose the only things that aren't nerdy about my outward appearance are that I don't even own a pocket protector and my socks match.
I believe I can say with some confidence that my looks don't excite erotic thoughts in the minds of women or men. I'm straight by the way, but that doesn't mean gay people are lesser creatures in my eyes. It's just the way my genes are arranged, and I do know more than a little about that subject.
If I were gay, I might have enjoyed a much more active sex life since gay men are more inclined to respond to hormonal surges by actively seeking out readily available or even anonymous sex. I didn't learn that through personal experimentation, but that's what I've read and heard, and I have no reason to think otherwise since certain STD's are more prevalent among gay males than exclusively hetero males and females. The math kind of tells the story.
Not that I grew to adulthood as a total virgin, mind you. At the age of fifteen, I found myself in the clutches of my best friend's stepmother one day when I dropped by his house and he wasn't home. I guess the lady must have been very needy because her efforts to seduce me were incredibly clumsy. But however crude and artless they were, they were good enough, and I managed to actually get my dick inside her (just) before I went off. I think it was a disappointing experience for both of us. Since then I've had the occasional encounter, but I don't need all my fingers and toes to enumerate them. No womanizer, I.
I'm sure I have as much sexual drive as the next guy, and just like any young male with circulating testosterone, I'm adept at cruising the porn sites looking for stimulation. It's just that satisfaction of my needs is nearly always through self-manipulation. In layman's terms, I whack off a lot.
Anyway, I'm drifting away from the story. The only reason I mention all this stuff is to show that I'm unaccustomed to the attentions of beautiful women, and that's what initiated the events I'm about to describe.
A little over a year ago, I landed a fairly lucrative position with a research laboratory. I hold a doctorate in genetics, a specialty in high demand nowadays and the salaries are commensurate. The accompanying big boost in bucks allowed me to consider buying a house of my own, so I began searching newspaper ads and cruising neighborhoods looking for FOR SALE signs. The areas of town I was most interested in were the older, often run-down ones.
I didn't really have my heart set on moving to the slums, but those older neighborhoods were where I was most likely to find the kind of house I wanted. I have a thing for old architecture, and in particular, I like the old two and three story Victorian homes that were popular in the late 1800's. Most of them have long since been torn down and replaced with parking lots and strip malls, but there are still some isolated places near the downtown area where a few of them survive. Almost all of them are in the "fixer-upper" category, meaning they're about to be condemned.
After searching for over a month, I finally found a house that looked promising. It was a three-story Victorian with a widow's walk. At first glance, it appeared to be in remarkably good condition considering the neighborhood and the likelihood that it was probably more than a hundred years old. There was an eight-foot cast-iron fence surrounding the large corner lot and a carriage house in the rear.
I squeezed my thin body through the chained gate across the driveway and walked around the place peeping into a couple of windows from the L-shaped porch. I couldn't see much through the dirty windows, but it seemed to be furnished with old pieces from the period. Judging from the thick layer of dust and dirt on the porch and windowsills, it probably hadn't been occupied for several years. As I turned away from the window, I thought I saw some movement inside, but when I looked again, there was nothing. I decided it had to be a reflection of the light coming through the branches of the huge elm that filled up the front yard.
I copied down the phone number from the FOR SALE sign on the gate, and I was just about to get into my car and head back to the lab when I saw an old black lady slowly making her way down the front steps across the street. She must have been in her nineties, and she had to negotiate the steps very carefully using the handrail and her cane for support. I walked across the street and asked if she could tell me anything about the property.
Shakily pointing her cane across the street, she asked, "Dat place? Whachu wont wid dat place?"
"Well, I might be interested in buying it if the price is right."
She shook her head vigorously and announced, "No suh! Y'all don' wanna buy dat place! It gots haints!"
"I'm sorry Ma'am, but what was that?" I'm no expert on dialects, but I thought she sounded like she was fresh off a southern plantation.
She looked up at me through her thick glasses and repeated, "Ah sez it gots haints!"
I was still not getting it and she read the confusion on my face.
"HAINTS, boy! Lak dead foke! Ain't you nevah heered o' haints afo'?"
"Oh, haunts! Like in ghosts! You're saying the place is haunted?"
"'Coss it is! Evabody know dat!"
"But surely there are people who have been living here. The house looks pretty well preserved."
"Ah'm tellin' ya nobody wont t' mess wid it; not fo' long, anyways. Why, muss be fo' o' fi' famblies buy dat place in da lass sisty yeah, n' none uv 'm stay mo'n a munt afo' dey jess pack up n' move agin."
The power of superstition, I thought to myself. "Well, thanks for your help, Ma'am. You have a good day, now."
As I turned to go back to my car, she looked down at her shoes shaking her head and said to herself, "Lawdy, Lawdy, ain' nobody be crazy lak a wite man be crazy!"
When I got back to my office, I called the agent whose name was on the sign and made an appointment to meet her at the property after work. I thought it was peculiar that she asked me twice to verify that I was talking about the three-story Victorian on the corner of Franklin and 23rd Street.
The agent was a lady in her fifties dressed in gray slacks and a navy blazer over a white blouse. Her sensible shoes completed the picture of a no-nonsense businesswoman. Her smile seemed a little forced as she stuck out her hand and said, "Steven Weber? My name is Alicia Trevino."
She had one of those cold, limp handshakes. "Ms. Trevino, it's a pleasure. Shall we take a look around the place?"
"Of course." She unlocked the padlock on the gate and swung it open. As we walked up the drive, she said, "You should probably know that this place has some history behind it, Mr. Weber. In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that some people in the neighborhood even think it's haunted." The chuckle that escaped her mouth with that revelation sounded more nervous than mirthful.
"Yes, so I learned from the lady across the street."
"You must be talking about Daisy Jefferson. She's a sweet lady, but she has some very strange notions. I wouldn't put a lot of stock in her opinions."
"I suppose you're right. You said the place has some history. What's that about?"
"Oh, nothing all that exotic, really. Back in the early 50's, Mrs. Jefferson kept complaining to the police that there were some 'evil doin's goin' on', as she called it. When they finally got around to following up on her complaint, they discovered the house had been turned into a high-class brothel. So one night they raided the place, and among the dignitaries arrested were a municipal judge and the minister of the Episcopal Church down the street. The Madam wound up paying a big fine, and she sold out a couple of months later. She left all the furnishings behind when she moved out."
I laughed, "Wow! I guess that must have been a scandal of the first order!"
"It was. There was even a big splash in the papers, but that wasn't what gave the place its haunted reputation. One of the young ladies who worked here as a, um, hostess went missing and never turned up again. Of course the story was investigated but no evidence of a crime was ever found. Anyhow, the stories just grew and grew through the years, and now some of the locals actually believe the girl died somehow and chose to stick around to cause mischief."
"Well I'm a scientist, Ms. Trevino. Ghosts make for interesting fantasies and folktales, but that's about all they do. Local superstitions aren't going to influence my decision to buy or not to buy."
"I'm so glad to hear that, Mr. Weber." She unlocked the front door and led me into a foyer. "Shall we do the tour?"
The first thing that struck me was the furniture. I couldn't imagine why it was still there. Why hadn't the original owner or the subsequent owners taken it when they moved away; especially since every stick looked like a beautifully preserved antique from the nineteenth century?
There was a walnut-framed settee upholstered in royal blue velvet, a beautifully carved coffee table, and some matching wing-backed chairs arranged around what was once called a parlor. The dining room was furnished with a massive round oak table, eight ladder-back chairs and a matching sideboard. The furniture alone must have been worth a bundle, but I didn't think it wise to comment on it before we talked about price. Everything was dusty, but not nearly as dusty as I expected it to be. Either the windows and doors were incredibly tight for an old house, or somebody showed up occasionally to give the place a once-over.
There were four bedrooms and a large bath on the second floor, and one bedroom, a half bath and a large storage closet on the third, although those rooms were small and had pitched ceilings. From that top bedroom, there was a door leading to the widow's walk. I'd already decided that room would be my man cave if I bought the place.
The furnishings in the bedrooms were the equal of those downstairs. There was an incredible assortment of carved bedsteads, beautifully inlaid chests of drawers and night tables. It wouldn't have surprised me if the furniture appraised for more than the house.
Ms. Trevino noted my interest in the furnishings and said, "The Madam of the house felt the Victorian motif would have a certain quaintness that her patrons would find appealing; kind of like some of the old gentlemen's clubs in jolly old England."
I looked around and had to agree, "It does have an atmosphere of exclusivity, doesn't it? So why didn't any of the previous owners take the furniture when they moved away? Leaving all this behind just doesn't make any sense."
The question seemed to make her a little uncomfortable. "I really couldn't say, Mr. Weber. I guess it just wasn't to their tastes."
The kitchen was relatively modern. By that I mean the appliances were probably sixty years old, but they were modern compared to everything else in the house. The kitchen and bathroom floors were laid with the old hexagonal black and white ceramic tiles.
There was a large storage area over the carriage house. I was happy to see that since the house didn't really have an attic, and the small basement was pretty much filled with an ancient oil-burning furnace. It would definitely have to be replaced, and I figured that could be used as a bargaining chip when we started dickering over price.
I wanted it. As we arrived back at the heavy oak front door inset with a large oval of etched-glass, I put on my best poker face and said, "Well, it needs work for sure, but it does have possibilities. What are you asking for it?"
She opened her pitch with, "Well, it's true the house is quite old, but you must admit it's in very good condition. The lot itself more than half an acre, and the yard could be made to look quite lovely with a little work. What kind of an offer did you have in mind, Mr. Weber?"
"I thought it worked the other way; you give me an asking price and I try to whittle it down to something I can afford."
"Let's dare to be different, shall we? Make me an offer."
"Don't the people you represent have a base price?"
"My agency owns the property, Mr. Weber, so I have a free hand with the negotiations."
If that's the game she wants to play, I thought, I might as well start with a ridiculously low opening bid. "OK. I'll offer seventy-five thousand."
"I accept! Let's go to my office and get started on the paperwork."