Ghostly Spirit Seeks Revenge Ch. 01

Slender fingers trailed along his erection. Slowly, they fluttered over and around the bulbous head, before enclosing the whole throbbing shaft, and with maddening . gentility began sliding backwards and forwards with only a caressing touch. Over and over again, until he was sure his penis had grown extra inches.

Then came the tongue, licking hungrily around the head, probing at the little slit in the end., before slurping back down the whole erection to the hilt, as the fingers lifted it upwards to give access for the tongue to lap along the underside vein.

Eagerly he was waiting for the next stage, the lips, the mouth, and he wasn't kept waiting. Firmly, positively, the lips moved along his penis, with the tongue trailing its ecstatic presence between them. Several lascivious strokes, until, on reaching the very tip, the lips surrounded the head, which was immediately drawn into the succulent strangely cool mouth, which sucked it deep to the back of a throat, while the tongue worked feverishly, around it. Slowly the rate of movement was increased, almost frantic, in its demand. He became aware of long hair tickling on his upper thigh.

Suddenly, the baffling question came into his head. Who was doing this to him, or for him? He had no idea, how or when it had started. He slightly raised his head from the pillow, trying to see in the deep gloom of the room. All he saw was blonde trailing hair, which hid the action of the mouth, and briefly he caught a vague sight of a slender hand, with long finger nails, before it disappeared behind the hair, and he felt his scrotum, being lightly squeezed..

The pressure on his erection became unbelievable, as the mouth adopted a more definite sucking motion. He had to see that mouth absorbing his penis, had to know who this woman was. Trying to raise his body, he reached down, and his fingers pushed the blonde hair to one side.

Instantly, a number of devastating things happened. He saw his erection disappearing into the mouth of an unknown woman, who, in the same instant raised her head, and her mouth gaped in a devilish snarl, with his penis lying stiff on her lower lip, while long-nailed fingers clawed into his scrotum, tearing at it.. That mouth, in a face of pure evil, clamped shut viciously on his erection.. He gave one agonised scream.

David Turton opened his eyes in terror. The room seemed to reverberate with the fading sounds of his scream. He was in his bed, and he blinked up at the ceiling for a moment. Light showed on the new curtains. A dream? More correctly, a nightmare. More intense than any nightmare he had ever had before. So intense, in fact that he was almost frightened to look down at his genitals. But his semi erect penis looked perfectly normal, lying across his naked thigh, and he reached down to ensure his scrotum was intact.

A bloody horrible dream. He lay for a few moments allowing his perspiring body to cool. Not the way he wanted to spend his first weekend in his new house. He guessed it could have been brought on by the story he had been avidly told in the village pub the previous evening..

"You're very brave taking on the Brooksley Cottage. Seven years since the murder there, and it has stood empty since then." A middle aged local had told him, over a cool pint. It was nothing he didn't know already. The estate agent had been bound to admit why the bungalow had stood empty for so long.

"A young lady, I heard," David told his companion.

"So you knew? Aye, just twenty eight, she was. Nobody knew her very well. Kept herself to herself, pretty much. Police never found anybody for it, and never gave much information." The man took a quaff of his ale, his head shaking. "Reckon it had been pretty brutal. Rape, according to the coroner. But with no hard information all kinds of tales have grown up. Especially the way that tramp was found."

"Tramp?"

The stranger's eyes lit up, "Oh, you don't know about that," he said, almost delighted that he had some new information to throw at David. "Aye, Joe Summers, he's a farmer owns the fields back of your place. One morning he noticed that the back door had been forced—"

"Tramp broke in?"

"Aye, looking for somewhere to doss. Joe says he threw up at what he found."

David wasn't sure he wanted to hear more of this, but he still asked, "Bad?"

His storyteller took a quick glance around the crowded bar, lowered his voice, pointed down his front, as he said, "His genitals were gone. Like they'd been torn or bitten off, and there was lots of blood about his mouth. Coroner later confirmed his tongue was gone too." The eyes studied David, looking for response before switching direction completely."There'll be some work for you to do out there, eh?"

David shrugged, "I have my own business in town. Turton's Building and Decorating. Set up by my father. I took over when he passed away just over seven years ago. Have a staff of twelve, all kinds of skills. Some of our men, have been fixing the cottage up for me.New kitchen. New windows and doors. But I'm keen to do the internal decorating myself—that's my speciality. And that starts tomorrow."

Walking home the three quarters of a mile that night with the September moon hanging high in the clear sky, David was able to ponder what he had just heard. Not attractive, but the extra news hadn't upset him too much. He was much too rational to believe in superstition or fate. Although, that seven year gap had, even before that night, aroused unwanted memories in his head.

Seven years ago he had been in the middle of a mad motoring tour of the USA. Sent there by Sam Connor , his deputy, to help him get over the deep grief after his father's death. "Get yourself away," Sam had ordered. "Get your head sorted. You'll be no good here in your present state.

. Now, sitting on the edge of the bed, he sighed, and reckoned that given what he had heard last night, it wasn't surprising that he was having weird dreams in his new house. He looked around him at the faded, peeling, rose patterned wallpaper, which must have been there at least seven years. So the decorating work would start now n this first full day..He already had pale green vertical lined replacement wallpaper, which matched the duvet he'd brought from his flat.

Out of bed, he drew aside the curtains to view a fine bright September day, and the open field that led up to the main road to the village. The bungalow was just remote enough for him to have the peace and quiet that he craved. With the business running well, ably managed by Sam Connor, David intended to indulge himself with some writing. Something he had been keen to follow for a long time. He intended to start with an article, or maybe a book, on that USA motor tour, and maybe the events that led up to it. It might lend a touch of humanity to the work.

By ten o'clock he had step ladders, a scraper and a pressure steamer for softening wallpaper. It gave him a good feeling to get the job underway. By two thirty all the rose paper was down, apart from the three length section behind the bed. He hauled the bed to the centre of the room. Like all the rest, the paper came away in pleasing large strips which he immediately bundled into a black plastic bag. He freed the edge of the last strip, and started to pull it away by hand. Immediately he noted the red printing on the bare wall. .

Sara Burnley October 1971

That discovery made him feel terribly sad. He imagined her pride in decorating her own bedroom, as though she had decided to make her mark on this property. Never knowing that within months, at twenty eight years of age, she would be brutally put to death. Was it in this room? Had she known her assailant? A deeper sadness seeped into David's bones..

Thoroughly depressed, he cleared the removed paper away. Leaving things ready for the following day's activity, he could not stop considering that poignant name on the wall, and the sudden impact it had made on him. He felt compelled to learn more about her. When he visited his works office on Monday, he resolve to go to the library and look up the newspaper pages for 1972.

Late after noon he drove to a favourite restaurant in town serving exquisite pork chops with a special sauce. So, well-fed and more relaxed than he had been in the afternoon, he was home and changed into more casual jeans and T shirt. Sitting down at the desk he had in the small back bedroom, he began making a few notes about the USA journey. It was turned eight o'clock and dark outside. He kept the lighting dim, only just enough to read his own notes..

Some time later he became aware of a sound, a sound he couldn't distinguish. David turned from his note-taking, and listened. It came from the front of the house. Just a little chilled, he stood, and he moved quickly into the hall. From here he was certain it was coming from the main bedroom, and it was the sound of someone sobbing.

Tentatively, he opened the bedroom door, reached for the switch. Until he hit it the sobbing continued, but the moment he turned it on the sound stopped. He stepped into the room. Nothing there. Wallpaper rolls were untouched. Pasting table was where he had set it up. The bed actually looked very inviting. He began to wonder whether the sobbing sound might have been something from outside. Up on the road maybe, or some creature outside. Anyway, it wasn't there now. He began to close the door when his eyes were drawn to the written name high on the wall.

"I've got to know what happened here, Sara," he murmured, and immediately felt stupid. Who the hell are you talking to? The sorrow engendered by his first encounter with the name on the wall, had obviously not left him.

He went back to writing notes, and felt that it was going so well that it might be worth setting something out on his laptop. But that would be next time, because by ten o'clock he found himself feeling drowsy, so he packed up and went to bed. Sometime through the night he had the sensation of a woman's fingers passing along the length of his body. Nothing else. Only that solitary touch.. .

He awoke early on Sunday morning, feeling refreshed and comfortable within himself. One glance at the name on the wall and then he was up, dressed, breakfasted and into the wallpapering. He was good and well practiced, and quick.. By three in the afternoon he was pasting the last strip, the piece that would cover Sara Burnley's name for a very long time, and he felt a strange pang as he brushed it into place.

He cleared up, and had the bedroom looking spick and span. He spent a couple of hours at his laptop, finding the recounting of the trip USA surprisingly easy. From this window he could view the newly laid garden, and beyond the tree lined field that led down to the river..

The writing went so well, that prepared himself a light meal from the fridge. Then he wrote until nine o'clock and feeling very pleased with himself, poured a glass of malt whiskey, and sat there in the small office slowly savouring it, and enjoying the silence.

By ten fifteen he was in bed, relaxed, and quickly asleep. He didn't know how long he had slept, but somehow he was suddenly aware that there was a figure standing by the side of the bed, and a cool hand rested on his upper thigh.

Was that a voice, hissing, "Help me. Help me find—"? The next sound he heard was himself yelping in fear, and he sat up, his body going cold. There was nothing. Nothing to see. No hand touching him..Nothing. Another dream? It had to be, the figure had been so vague, the voice so uncertain. Yet the touching hand had been convincing.

It took him a long time to get back to sleep, as he waited for the pounding of his heart to ease. Eventually he did sleep and awoke at seven fifteen with a sense of normality. That is, until he looked over his head to see that one strip of wallpaper had peeled away from the top just enough to reveal that name and date. And he knew for certain that should not have happened. It hadn't happened anywhere else. A cold uneasiness settled about him.

Before leaving the house he repasted the paper into place, and then he drove to the building yard, encountering a wagon pulling out just as he turned into the gateway. It stopped alongside him and the window was wound down. He wound down his own, seeing it was Harry Bennet at the wheel, one of his trusted bricklayers, a fixture since his father's time.

"Hey, boss, you settled in okay?" The question was genuine, and David couldn't help wondering how many times he'd encouraged Harry to use his first name. . .

Avoiding the uneasy events, he told Harry that things had gone well, as he noticed that Joe Stoner, Mick Donley and Vince Coulby were in the back of the wagon. Joe was another old timer, in his late fifties, but losing none of his joinery skills. Mick and Vince were two of the more recent members of his crew, taken on about three years ago. Mick was their first step into taking on a coloured worker. David knew his father, a dyed in the wool racist, would never have tolerated that. But both men had settled well and were good workers.

The wagon moved on, and David went in to the main office to exchange pleasantries with Sam Connor, before checking out the various work schedules. He took David quickly through on-going and up-coming work. "All very stable," Sam reported.. "So you can get yourself back to your decorating."

David drove directly to the library. The assistant, a middle aged, pencil thin lady, who looked old before her time, was most helpful. When he told her what he was looking for in 1972 records her face became very serious.

"Oh, an awful crime, that was. Happened in this month too. September, yes. That will help refine your search. Probably further on for coroners report and any follow up."

When he told her what promoted his interest, her eyes widened but she made no comment. She showed him how to use the microfiche machine and left him to it Quickly getting the hang of it, he began at the first of September and began going through the many headlines. .So glad he had the month because that alone took ages, but eventually there it was:

YOUNG WOMAN FOUND MURDERED IN OWN HOME

The body of a 28 year old woman, Miss Sara Burnley, was found yesterday morning in her own cottage near the village of Ricall, by the local postman, Mr Stan Turner. He had been asked by police not to reveal too many details at this stage but was able to inform this reporter that he had been suspicious because the lady's car was still on the drive. He had peered through the letter box, and given the design of the house, was able to see that the back door had been left ajar. He said he had gone around, called out, but there being no response went inside. Miss Burnley's body was found in a bedroom. That was all Mr Turner could tell us, except that he didn't think he'd rest easy again. Police later revealed that it had been a particularly brutal crime and they were asking for anyone to come forward if they had any information. Miss Burnley's sister had been contacted to identify the body

David read the short piece, but could not keep himself from glancing at the picture of Sara Burnley, even as he read. What a strikingly beautiful woman she had been. The black and white rather grainy picture probably did not do her justice But that long blonde hair, the honest gaze in the eyes, the high cheek bones, full voluptuous mouth made it clear that she had been a stunner. Suddenly he was recalling that first night dream. Blonde hair, but the ferocity of eye and curl of the mouth disguised all that beauty. He had to remind himself that he did not believe in ghosts

He checked the date. The paper was for the twenty second, so the body had been discovered on the twenty first. That was three days away. Some horrible anniversary.

David went on leafing through the pages. There was a brief reference that the police were still no closer to solving the crime and were asking for .anyone who may have seen anything in the vicinity of Brooksley Cottage on the date in question to come forward..

He found a report on the Coroner's findings in mid October. Death was by asphyxiation, possibly caused by the blockage of airways. The nasal passage was blocked with congealed blood, most likely from a blow. The nose was not broken. There was a quantity of alcohol in her body, which suggested it might have been a drunken orgy that went out of control. The amount of semen would maybe confirm that. But multi-rape was not out of the question.

"Jesus," David said out loud, and hoped no one had heard him. He returned the microfiche to the librarian. Then he called in to a local cafe for a light lunch, before heading straight back to the bungalow.

All the way he could not stop thinking about Sara Burnley, and the manner in which she had died. He already had some indication of that, but now he had the image of her face to magnify the horror of it. Such a beautiful face.

As soon as he arrived home, without any real consideration, he went directly to the bedroom, looked to ensure that the wallpaper had not been disturbed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Sara Burnley, I am so sorry this came to you."

For the rest of the day, made a list of rooms to be decorated in order of priority.Then he settled down at his desk to carry on with his writing, feeling better about that all the time. By ten thirty he was in bed, with just the fringe of his mind on the tragedy that had taken place in this very room.

The scream had him immediately awake. A wild, frantic, piercing, scream, had him immediately awake. A scream laden with fear. David was over the side of the bed without any thought. Pitch darkness surrounded him, his elbow struck against the side cabinet and pain flashed down his arm. No dream this. He was awake and the scream seared into him. Suddenly it was a mere gurgling, choking noise. David had the voice , a quiet voice pleading, inside his head, "Find them. Please. Please."

In all the blackness around him David was sure, was positive, that something moved near him. He leapt to his feet, terrified. It was there in front of him, he was sure. But out of sight. "It wasn't a dream!" he swore into the darkness.

His mind teemed with wild thoughts until daylight brightened the curtains. If he hadn't dreamed, where had the scream come from? And such a terrible cry, agonised and despairing. What of the way it came to a stop? As though blocked, silenced deliberately. David could make nothing of it. That voice, asking him-to find them? What could that mean? Could it be a genuine request?

In the end, he dozed for about half an hour, before rising, just after seven. He had breakfast, sat sipping coffee looking out over the misted fields down to the river. Agitated, he took a stroll around the garden, pretending to himself that he was deciding which plants would be good choice, but his mind was still churning.

At ten he poured himself another coffee, and tried to sit and do some writing. He knew he should be making a start on the hall. Hell, last night's events had completely thrown him. Desperately, he tried to channel his thoughts into his USA travels.

At precisely five minutes to eleven, he was startled by the doorbell ringing. Having no idea who could be coming to his door at this hour, he thought first of work. No, Sam would have surely phoned him. Still in a sense of agitation, he went through to the front door and opened it.

A lady in a short blue coat stood there, blonde hair down to her coat collar, her back to him, as she looked up at the road. "Can I help you?" David asked.

She turned, "Oh, sorry," escaped her lips before David staggered back, his knees threatening to buckle. That face, the face of Sara Burnley, was looking at him, from green eyes. His whole body trembled, as he clutched at the door for support..