Chapter 1

Amanda climbed the creaking, narrow staircase to the dusty old attic and paused at the top of the stairs in front of the double locked attic door. She had the key to the regular door lock but no key for the padlock that was affixed to the rusty old hasp nailed in a sloppy and unprofessional way to the sturdy frame.

It was a disappointment because she had been visualizing the hidden treasures the attic might hold in this house that she had inherited from a spinster aunt she had never physically ever been in contact with in her entire 35 years of existence. She shouted down the stairs to her 17 year old daughter Claire,

"Bring me the hammer from the kitchen counter, honey. We need to make some adjustments to this door if we want to get into the attic."

The plaintive voice of a totally disinterested teenager wafted up from the main floor,

"Mom, I'm on the phone. Can't it wait?"

An exasperated Amanda sat down on her pretty rump on the worn stairs and slowly counted to 25. She had learned this trick in anger management classes when her daughter turned 13. Then, she shouted once again down the stairs.

"Claire, sweetie, mama has been thinking about cutting back on expenses and I think your cell phone is an unneeded luxury that we simply cannot afford. Are you sure you don't have time to fetch me the hammer?"

The sounds of her daughter scampering up the stairs with the hammer brought a smile to Amanda's face. Her pretty daughter was not even breathing hard and her pert upturned breasts were swinging freely inside her customary "inside the house" sports bra. The distressing thought flashed across her mind that it was unfair for her teenaged daughter to have bigger boobs than her. She hoped it was a girlfriend on the phone and not one of those Lotharios from the bowling alley downtown. Claire was wearing her favorite short shorts with the ragged edge on the bottom. The effect of her pretty ass inside the tight shorts was accentuated every time when she bent over at the point of release of the bowling ball on the highly polished alleys. Every male eye in the establishment was on her bottom whenever she went up to the line. Her firm backside never jiggled, it just flowed like melting snow making its way down from the mountains in spring.

Claire looked on with studied lack of interest as her mother smacked the lock with an energetic swing. When Amanda was unsuccessful, she pushed her out of the way, saying,

"Give me the hammer, mom, you got to get it from the side at just the right angle."

The young teenager positioned the lock the way she wanted it and in one swipe broke not only the lock but managed to rip out the entire hasp at the same time.

Amanda wanted to ask her daughter where she had acquired the expertise in the breaking of locks but remained silent, reluctant to find out the answer.

They made their way into the attic.

It was filled with furniture and stacked boxes. Amanda licked her lips in anticipation. It was a veritable treasure chest of loot for flea markets, garage sales, or even an antique shop. She had a sudden thought of opening an antique store in the shed near the front entrance to the grounds drawing in the tourists who flocked to the coast in the summer season.

Claire was looking at an old framed photo dating back many decades of two men, one old and the other young, flanking a pretty young thing dressed all in black with the saddest eyes Amanda had ever seen.

"Who do you think they are, mom?"

Amanda felt a draft of chilled air pass over her head and she shuddered before answering,

"I think they are the original owners, dear. My aunt Miranda bought this house at a tax sale because they disappeared without a trace many years ago. She moved in here and never left until the day she died."

"I think the young guy looks a little cute, don't you?"

Amanda scoffed at the question and told her daughter,

"You better make certain all your homework is done before you go to bed tonight, honey. Don't forget you graduate in less than two months."

Claire made a face like somebody had just farted and walked back down to her bedroom with an exaggerated swing to her hips that made her look like one of the girls at the "pole dance" place on the other side of town.

Amanda bent over to pick up a photo album from the floor and felt her bottom being groped by some invisible force. She gasped and looked around for someone playing a trick but she was alone in the attic. Her heart was beating fast and she had a sudden urge to get out of the attic as quickly as possible. When she closed the door and stumbled down the stairs, she thought she could hear evil laughter on the other side of the door.

She didn't mention anything about the incident to her daughter because she didn't want to upset her the very first night they were sleeping in the old house.

She sat in the parlor reading a nice Historical Romance story about a girl taken prisoner by pirates and found she was falling asleep with the book still in her hands. That was enough to make up her mind to head for bed and get a good night's sleep.

Settling down in a strange bedroom made Amanda a bit on edge and she checked all the corners and even in the dark empty closet just to certain nothing or nobody was hiding in the dark recesses. It was so silly that she laughed at her own foolishness. She had checked on her daughter Claire and confirmed the pretty teenager was sleeping soundly wearing only her smiley face panties and the comfortable sports bra that she seemed to favor best of all.

Some nights Amanda wore her pajamas to bed and other times she wore only her panties. She really had no need of a bra because her breasts were on the smallish side. However, she was quite proud of her prominent nipples with crowning erect nubbins that were the trigger to her erotic passionate nature. Usually, men discovered that fact very early on with her and she made sure that they paid ample attention to her upper body before hitting pay dirt down below. When she did not like a man who was getting up close and personal with her, she told the poor soul that she was far too sensitive there and to avoid touching her breasts at all. It was a way that she could maintain complete control over the automatic responses of her sensual flesh. Occasionally, she would strip down nude and sleep in the raw because she liked the sense of complete freedom. For some reason, she decided on the latter mode of sleeping and chose to sleep totally naked.