I am a writer and recluse. My name is Ismael Brookes. I decided to come to Jacob’s Harbor with the intention of finishing my book so I could be done with my contract. My publisher and editor, Hazel Moore had me locked into a one-sided contract. One that would end once I finished this book. I had developed a bit of writer’s block. Hazel suggested I come here, “that she knew of a house that was perfect for finishing the book”, “where no one would bother you.” She told me it was a house were “writers like me belong.”

No one was out here. There were not really any neighbors. I also found the fact that the small hamlet it was in was one of the oldest towns in the state. I relished in learning history, this location seemed like the best way to serve multiple purposes.

About one week after moving in I was pretty much set when I heard a noise coming from the other side of the house. I grabbed a fire poker and wielded the tool not realizing what might happen next. It would not be the first time someone tried to take my life. I was still fearful whomever might find me, I was scared to go out in public now. It was getting less but not enough to feel safe.

A little history before I continue. About four years ago, I wrote an op-ed and stupidly put my name on it. It was one of the most unpopular pieces ever. Seriously, I offended just about every woman in America and some men too, and I did it on a dare from a fellow author, a female author ironically enough, who bet that I would not write publicly what my characters say in my books. She was trying to prove a point, to get me to tamper down my fictional stories.

In my hubris and my own gender bias, I took her bet and wrote a piece that was the most obnoxious version of the most male dominant views ever devised. It seemed I was so convinced she was wrong I wanted to leave no doubt. I wanted her to see that,” She was being emotional.”

She was not wrong.

What I wrote came across as one the most hyper-misogynistic pieces in history. Seriously my op-ed became discussion of more than one Gender Studies class. It was that experience that I truly learned that ‘can’ and ‘should’ are two different things.

The two years that followed saw four attempts on my life. I am not kidding; one was a dad who claimed his daughters were hurt by a man who read my op-ed. I became the face of every male wrong in America, anyone of them could supplant my face with whoever did a person’s wife or daughter wrong and find me an easy target. I tried to combat this by becoming fit and working out. I became very fit and strong. It also made me start to become more like the characters in my stories. I was becoming resentful towards all women. I echoed these thoughts in interviews my publishers would book for me. I became a pariah. I lost all my deals, and it looked like no one would want to publish my stories, until Hazel.

I was surprised that a publisher still wanted to sign me. I was even more surprised that the publisher was a woman. Not only that but one who was a respected feminist. Hazel Moore was one of the most outspoken advocates of women’s rights. She told me that everyone deserves a second chance. So, she hired me despite my reputation. It was not totally altruistic, my books made lots of money for her, less for me, it was hands down one of the most one-sided contracts of my life, but who was I to argue, she was my last hope of salvaging my career. Hiring me was a boon for her in the standing of the leading feminist. As they admired her act of ‘teaching me’

Despite this I clutched the fire poker. For some reason I just knew someone was in my house and their intentions for me were sinister. I would not go down without a fight I told myself.

I hesitated before cautiously approaching the source of the noise. As I rounded the corner, I was surprised to see that the door leading to the library was slightly ajar.

I cautiously pushed open the door and stepped inside, holding onto my fire poker tightly. And that is when I saw it - three shelves filled with books scattered all over the floor.

My jaw dropped in shock as I took in the chaos. It looked like someone had purposely knocked over and thrown every single book off the shelves. But who could have done this? There was no one else here besides me.

As I slowly made my way through the mess, carefully stepping over books and trying not to trip, I could not help but feel unnerved. This place had been abandoned for years, and there was no logical explanation for why this would suddenly happen.

And then, just as I reached the last shelf, I heard it. A soft but distinct feminine chuckle coming from behind me.

My heart leapt into my throat as I quickly spun around, brandishing my fire poker like a weapon. But there was no one there.

I scanned the room, trying to find any sign of another person or an explanation for what just happened. But everything was silent and still.

Shaken by what had just occurred, I quickly made my way out of the library and back to my own room. It took me a while to calm down enough to continue working on my book.

But even as I sat at my desk, typing away at my laptop, a small part of me could not shake off the feeling that something or someone unknown was watching me from within those walls.

Two days later...

I went to go scrub a stain off the floor when I heard clicking on the hardwood floors. But not just any clicking, I could swear I heard high heel shoes clicking on the floor. I turned around but no one was there. I chalked it up to exhaustion.

The next night I closed my eyes as I had trouble sleeping. The house made these noises constantly I was considering moving when I heard the water turn on.

I bolted upright in bed, my heart racing as I listened to the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. At first, I thought it must have been a leaky faucet or a broken pipe, but the longer I listened, the more it sounded like someone was preparing a bath.

Feeling both curious and uneasy, I got out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. As I walked down the hallway, I could not help but feel like someone was watching me from within the shadows.

Pushing aside my fear, I slowly pushed open the bathroom door and stepped inside. And that is when I saw it - the bathtub was filled with warm water and bubbles.

I could not believe my eyes. There was no logical explanation for how this could have happened. The house had been abandoned for years and there was no one else here besides me.

But as much as I wanted to dismiss it as some sort of strange coincidence or a prank by one of my friends, deep down I knew there was something more going on in this house.

Feeling both intrigued and unnerved, I reached out to touch the water in the tub. But just as my fingers brushed against the surface, a cold breeze swept through the room causing me to jump back in fear.

That is when I heard it - a faint whisper that seemed to be coming from within the walls themselves. It was too quiet for me to make out any words, but it sent shivers down my spine.

Trying to keep calm, I quickly turned off the water and drained the tub before making my way back to bed. But even as I tried to fall asleep, all I could think about was what just happened and who or what could be causing these strange occurrences.

The next morning, after having barely slept at all, I decided to do some research on the history of this house. Maybe there would be some answers hidden within its past.

But as I dug through old newspaper articles and documents, there was nothing out of the ordinary. I decided to call my friend George if he still had his cottage open. He said he did after the phone call I called Hazel to tell her that I was going to move out of the house, but no answer came and worse, her voicemail was full.

Shit! I started to feel cold, there might be a breeze coming from somewhere I thought. I went into the basement with my phone flashlight to see if there were any hidden tunnels or anything else of the like. As I made it to the bottom of the stairs. I heard the door close behind me. What the hell?? I thought. The next thing I knew something cold and very strong pushed me back hard when I tried to go back to the stairs.

I fell on the hard concrete of the basement floor. The musty smell was strong here. Before I could process what happened the lights turned off. It was pitch black, worse; I had no idea what happened to my phone after I was pushed.

The basement echoed with an unseen presence. Disoriented, I began to raise my arms, but invisible hands seized my wrists, forcing them behind my head.

“Straighten!” A spectral voice commanded. I complied, standing at attention. Then I felt my shirt being ripped from my body and my shorts being yanked down hard and fast.

In the pitch darkness, ethereal fingers wrapped around my erect member. Fear melted into a confusing blend of arousal as the ghostly woman stroked me, her touch sending icy sparks through my body.

“Such virility,” she murmured, her tone dripping with desire. “You’ll serve my purpose well.”

Her grip tightened as she worked my shaft, her otherworldly technique simultaneously teasing and gratifying. The surreal pleasure of this supernatural encounter was undeniable.

Incorporeal hands explored my form, tracing my contours. She appraised me, commenting on my physique with approval.

“A worthy addition to my collection,” she breathed against my neck.

Before I could question her meaning, her ministrations intensified. Pleasure mounted until I climaxed with a guttural moan, spent in her ghostly grasp.

She continued, extracting every drop. Satisfied, she released me and retreated.

“Merely a prelude,” she intoned cryptically, vanishing.

The lights flickered on. My phone materialized nearby. Still dazed, I moved to dress, only to feel a sharp slap.

“NO CLOTHES!” The command reverberated. I obeyed, ascending the stairs unclad.

Two days passed. I learned swiftly. Attempting to dress the next morning, spectral hands yanked me to my bed. She flipped me effortlessly, administering a harsh spanking. I apologized profusely, likely appearing deranged to any observer - bent over, rear reddened, pleading with thin air. The reality was far more chilling.

The pattern persisted.

She would sneak up on me at random times to grab my cock and whisper in my ear, “Mine”. This was usually followed by her jerking me until I came. It was very emasculating. I am not even sure I could fight back if I tried, she pushed me around like I barely had any strength.

Other times she would push me against the wall, pin me so I could not move then hiss into my ear, “Slut!”, spanking my naked ass possessively only to disappear. I made the mistake of trying to throw a punch at her, she caught my hand twisted behind my back and grabbed my balls hard, then my ear and yanked, “Say it”, growling with menace. I closed my eyes and gasped out, “I am a slut.”

My friend called back to ask if I still wanted to move out of this house. She nearly ripped my dick off, or that is how it felt. She grabbed my cock and balls and squeezed hard until I reneged on my intention of leaving the house. My friend asked me if I was ok, I told him that the weather was a little disagreeable but other than that I needed to stay here to finish my book. She eased up on the pressure but not the grip.

She proceeded to march me up the stairs naked in my home to the mirror in my room. I realized how I looked to anyone coming in. She was not visible in the mirror but the pain on my face existed. She grabbed hard and made me talk to my reflection.

“You love this house! You love me!” She hissed into my ear. I did not immediately respond. So, she squeezed again so hard I thought my diaphragm would burst.

“Say it” The voice growled.

She made me say that “I love this house, that I love her” for a solid hour. She teased my body the entire time. I could feel caresses on my chest and butt as I said those words.

I went to the shower immediately, I could only cry. I did not know what to do. My morbid sense of the world was totally askew when confronted with the reality of what I write. I write many tales where the man in my stories is incredibly dominant to the females of my stories. I never experienced what I was putting my female characters through. As if on cue I felt soap on my skin rubbing my balls. The bitch was washing my balls for me. I could not do anything about it. She jerked me off while I was in there. As I came, she laughed into my ear and growled, “Slut”.