Chapter 1

The house had many owners in its one hundred-plus years of existence. Some stayed for years, others didn’t last six months. Whether it was out of fear or embarrassment, no one ever explained why they left, or passed their experience on to the next owner. The only one who had an inkling was the real estate broker, who was only too happy to keep making money off the continual resale of the property. The original broker passed the business down to his son, who cared even less about the rumors than his dad. As far as they were concerned, it was all a silly fairy tale. Besides, no one who lived there ever died, or was known to have been hurt.

The only exception was its original owner, Bart Jerrod. In life, he was a huge, powerful man - six foot five - around 250 lbs. In the 1940s, he played football in one of the Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs). Once he graduated, he explored one of his other major passions as a musician, playing trumpet in various Jazz bands.

But, his true obsession was White women, preferably married ones. He sought to seduce as many as he possibly could, with his oversized eight inch-plus penis. With each conquest, he grew more and more bold, taking particular pride in his ability to impregnate the women. And, as one might imagine, this dangerous hobby of his was rumored to be the thing that ultimately lead to his demise.

Decades later, his ghost still roamed the house.

It was Joan and John Simmons’ first night sleeping in their new home. The four-poster bed groaned under their weight, its ancient frame protesting with every thrust. Forty year old John’s breath came in ragged bursts, his hands gripping Joan’s hips as she arched her back beneath him. “Oh, John,” his thirty eight year old wife moaned, her voice low and throaty, her nails scraping down his back. He knew that moan and began driving harder, faster, chasing the heat building between them. The room was warm, but the air seemed heavier than usual, almost electric.

Joan’s body tensed, her legs wrapping tighter around him. “Harder,” she whispered, her voice breaking. John complied, his movements growing even more urgent, his skin slick with sweat. The sound of their breathing filled the room, mingling with the rhythmic creak of the bed. He could feel her getting closer, her muscles tightening around him, and he focused on that - on her - on the way her lips parted as she gasped his name.

Then it hit him - a surprising, warm wetness sliding across his balls like a tongue. He faltered for a moment, his rhythm stuttering. “Did you feel that?” he asked, his voice strained, his body still hovering over hers. Joan barely registered his words, her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers clutching the sheets. “Feel what? Just keep going,” she urged, pulling him back down.