Chapter 1

Let me tell all you readers out there that I am not the sort of person that actually believes in ghosts. Sure, I like a good ghost story just like most people, but to put a label of reality on any of that foolishness is not my cup of tea.

I had to say that up front because some of this story might seem a bit concocted like it was made up out of sheer fantasy and a will of a wisp. Please allow me to reassure you that every detail is exactly like I personally witnessed or heard first hand from one of the witnesses to those incidents that happened before I was caught up in the cobweb of lies, deceit and downright nasty business. In a way, I have to agree that poor Leslie Strong had a right to be filled with revenge after the way her life was taken from her and her hope, ambitions and plans for the future were stripped from her like the bark from a tree destined to become part of a new house adding to the clutter of civilization staining the landscape along the Pacific highway.

My name is Harry Morgan and I have been living out here on the West Coast for almost two decades of uneasy existence. My sense of restlessness was more attributable to the risk of earthquakes and floods than to the manifestation of the occult into my limited sphere of influence. I had been doing mostly footwork leads for the Sacramento press even though the compensation was barely enough to pay for my meager expenses. Then, I was “promoted” to the obituary column with the title of “editor in chief”. Now that was really a joke because I detested most editors with whom I never saw eye to eye with regard to the line-up of words in a sentence of raw content. I guess being editor in chief for an obituary column does not result in too many complaints from the people reported on since they were in no position to protest inaccuracies or misrepresentations. The bottom line was nobody else wanted the job and it represented a sizable increase in salary at a time when my landlord was giving me the eagle eye each time I left for work in the morning or returned home at the end of the day.

My landlord was actually a “landlady”. Her name was Agatha Smith and she was a mite touchy about the last name because so many people just shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads when she told them she belonged to the “Smith” clan with a straight face. I never thought much about it because in my line of work, I ran into an awful lot of “Smiths, Jones, and Browns” with nervous looking glances to catch my reaction.

It was approaching the realm of impossibility to ignore the pointed suggestions from my landlady Agatha that a “full body” massage or even a “happy ending” with her legs wrapped around my torso would forestall any pressure for prompt rental payments. I succumbed after a long dry spell of female companionship and allowed her to mount my supine body with her middle-aged feminine torso at a time of short cash and rent due like yesterday.

She told me to relax and close my eyes as she relieved me of the stresses of the world around me.

Of course, I must admit I loved the feel of her naked body rubbing on me all over and I enjoyed the oil she spread on my skin with consummate skill.

I knew it was all wrong because I was just turning thirty and the landlady was easily in her mid-fifties at that time of my life.

Things progressed quite rapidly and before I knew it, the moment of truth arrived in the form of her clever hand wrapped around my hardened shaft and her other hand cupped around my cum swollen balls below. The simple fact is that I imagined it was the beautiful Lolita of my daydreams in charge of my privates and I allowed my emotions to fixate on the beautiful Lolita solving my sex deprivation problem with her talented fingers.

The landlady was on my back now and she reached underneath me to firmly grasp my dick and use it as her personal play toy. I felt the familiar rise of my precious bodily fluids churning deep inside my sacs and she rubbed the wetness on the tip of my cock all over my privates with her hidden desires to own me body and soul.

In all honesty, I confess that the landlady was a still attractive female although she was not what I would describe as being a hot number. Her warm flesh was pressing into me like a hot iron making me shudder with fast approaching tingles of excitement that I knew would truly relax me as she had suggested.

The romance minded Mrs. Smith whispered in my ear, “Turn over, you bad boy. I want you to do me now missionary style and tell me I am a fucking slut when you drain your load up into my cunt with your beautiful cock.”

I was a bit surprised at her words because up to that point, Mrs. Smith had been prim and proper in her conversations with me, and it was completely out of character for her to speak in suck direct terms about sex.

I opened my eyes and was greeted by the sight of her closely shaven feminine folds with her knees spread wide open in an inviting position waiting for the insertion of my hardness right into the pulsating vaginal opening below.

I looked up into her deep blue eyes and saw the hunger and lust hidden until this moment and I slowly lowered my groin into firing position searching for the comfortable fit that I suspected she wanted most of all.

It was a bit startling to find her slit was much tighter than I would have expected for a woman of her age and experience. I tested her back door with my naughty finger and discovered that her sphincter was even tighter than her feminine folds.