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WARNING! This is adult oriented fiction of a strong sexual nature. If you are under 18 years of age or easily offended by such material, then click your browser's BACK button now. The copyright of this story remains with the author, Night Owl. This posting does not give you the rights to post this on any website without obtaining the author's permission first.

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The Haunting

By Night Owl

First Posted: 11/07

(Story Content: M/f, Horror, Bondage, Whipping, NC)

Part 1:

Jennifer had been tossing and turning in her bed all night, the sweat from her heated body dampening the black silk sheets. The moonlight came in pale ghostly beams through the edges of the curtains, casting strange shadows on the ornate wallpaper. In one corner of the room, the air conditioner made faint wheezing sounds. She had already adjusted the controls several times, but the compressor, as old as it was, could do no more than belch out wisps of faintly cool air. The heat wasn't the only thing preventing her from sleeping though.

Shortly after moving to New Orleans, Jen had agreed to house sit for a friend. Built in the old Victorian style so common in the area, the place seemed charming enough in the daylight, but after sunset, it took on an entirely different appearance. Every now and then, she heard creaks, not in the room, but from inside the walls themselves. There was also a nagging feeling that she was being watched.

"Just your imagination, kiddo," she consoled herself, "it's your first night alone in a creaky old house and it's psyched you out a little, that's all."

First night jitters or no, it was like trying to sleep on the set of some cut-rate horror movie -- a knock-off Gone With The Wind meets Freddie Kruger. She rolled over on her side and stared at the red numbers glaring out at her from the bedside clock. It was already 3:15 in the morning.

"God, I'll be getting up in just three hours," she groaned out loud, "I have to get some sleep!"

Jen turned away and pushed the sheets down past her breasts. After a week of percolating in the Louisiana heat, she couldn't abide to wearing clothing in bed, but sleeping in the nude only made her insomnia worse, because now she could feel her smooth flesh tingling and burning with every touch and press of the deliciously wicked, silk coverings. She wanted to masturbate in the worst way, but she didn't dare, not now, not in this place.

At some point, an hour or so before dawn, her restlessness finally gave way to sleep, though it was far from fitful. Her mind seemed to drift in and out of consciousness. It was then, that something very strange began to happen. Still drifting in that nether world between dream and reality, she felt her arms and legs being pulled to the corners of the bed. No one was in the room with her, but the feeling was unmistakable -- like four pairs of powerful hands pressing into her wrists and ankles, holding them down! Those wicked sheets that she had been wrestling with earlier, were now folded neatly back well-below her navel. With some effort, she lifted her head off the pillow. She couldn't tell if she was dreaming, or if this was really happening. Her mind seemed paralyzed and unable to summon her own limbs to fight off the unseen hands stretching and pinning her to the bed.

Then through the darkness, she noticed a black cloud of mist hovering off the ceiling near the opposite wall. It was about a foot square in size and seemed to be growing larger. The bed coverings began to slide down further . . . no, someone was pulling them down, inch by inch, past her open thighs, exposing the neatly-trimmed tuft of blonde hair guarding her sex. She became aware of an icy chill in the room. Her skin turned to gooseflesh, her pink nipples stood erect. The sheets slid down past her knees, and from the cloud, long tendrils of mist, like fingers slithered down the wall to the floor.

"Wake up!" she screamed to herself. "PLEASE WAKE UP!"

She could see her breath now, it was so cold! The mist wafted over the foot of the bed and crawled toward her, the tendrils wrapping themselves around her legs. A wrenching groan rose from her lips. The hair between her thighs bristled with excitement. She could feel (no see!) invisible fingers touching and kneading her breasts. Again, her nipples could not deny the sensations being forced on her body, and swelled dark red into hard, aching buds of need.

Suddenly, a dark cloud filled the room, as though a shroud had been draped over the bed. She felt the cloud settle on top of her. Then it was inside her! At first, it felt like a warm, wet mist slipping into her vagina, then it began to harden and turn into something solid.

This had to be a dream, but she was vividly aware of everything that was happening to her, every single nerve tingling with arousal. The thing inside was definitely male, but it didn't quite feel human. It slid deeper and deeper into her womb, growing larger, driving her to the most massive orgasm she had ever felt in her life! She screamed in ecstasy as wave after wave of pleasure swept through her, ripping away her cool demeanor in the process, and then just as quickly as it started, it was over. Limp as an old dish rag, with fresh sweat popping out all over her body, she awoke, barley able to move, all of her energy sapped by this presence. She tried to prop herself up with her arms, then fell back into a deep sleep, not even hearing the alarm clock's loud buzz later that morning.

When Jen finally came to, it was noon. She struggled into the bathroom, got under a cold shower, and tried to regain her senses. Wrapping herself in a towel, she still felt very weak and lethargic, so she called the office and told them that she wouldn't be in due to illness, then dressed and went to the kitchen to get something to eat.

"My God," she thought, "what on earth happened to me last night!"

She could still recall everything; how vivid it was. Although her love life wasn't exactly on fire at the moment, Jen had enough orgasms through regular sex to know how one felt, and last night, real or not, was much more intense. As creepy as it was, what she dreamt gave her the most incredible orgasm she ever experienced in her life.  

"Well it's over now, and with no harm done I guess," she opined to herself and commenced to cleaning up her lunch dishes. She then went out and ran a few errands, soon forgetting about the whole experience.

-------------------------

Jennifer Massey was truly blessed with both looks and brains. At first glance, one would have pegged her to be a model, or perhaps an actress, but certainly not an attorney. She had that slim, but curvy barbie doll figure, large baby-blue eyes, full luscious lips, and a wavy mane of golden hair. Her skin was very fair and smooth like ivory, making her appear as weak and fragile as a china doll, though she was hardly that.

After graduating from Princeton, magna cum laud, with a degree in English, she attended Harvard Law School. During the summers, she worked as an associate for two law firms -- one in Boston and the other in San Francisco. After Harvard, Jen worked as a Business & Technology attorney for the San Francisco office of Brobeck, Phleger & Harrison. The firm's clients ranged from then-red-hot dot.coms to well-established Fortune 500 companies. But after witnessing the changing business landscape and desiring to stay on the cutting edge, she transitioned into the area of securities litigation, where she was hired by Bradford & Polk; a small, but lucrative law firm in New Orleans. By then Jennifer had acquired a reputation for being somewhat of a "cold fish" and a very aggressive litigator, which suited her just fine. However, this grudging respect didn't come easily during those first years out of Harvard. After all, how could anyone take this doe-eyed, sexy blonde that seriously? Her dress appearance didn't help the impression much either. It wasn't until her second year at BP&H, that one of the partners took Jennifer aside and told her very bluntly,

"Ms. Massey, if you truly want to succeed with this firm, then leave the feathery blonde, Charlie's Angels look at home, and for god’s sake, dress appropriately. You're an attorney, and a very good one. You don’t need a low cut blouse and short skirt to get our attention.”

Jennifer took this criticism to heart, and from then on, always put her hair up and dressed more conservatively at the office and in court. A year later, she was on her way to New Orleans, and a new position with Bradford & Polk. She hooked up with her friend, who was a realtor there, with the hope of finding a good deal on a house. That was when Katrina told her about an old Victorian-style home she was currently showing on the market.

"The place is really a steal for the price," her friend assured her, "but even if you decide it's not for you, you're certainly welcome to stay there, rent-free, until we find another house for you. All you have to do is keep it neat and clean for my walk-throughs."

Jennifer accepted the offer. She saw the house for the first time after making the move to New Orleans, and was so impressed with its southern old-Victorian charm, that she was tempted to buy the place right off before someone else did. The location was perfect -- just eight blocks away from the historic French Quarter, and a twenty-minute drive to work in traffic. Half of the rooms were already furnished, including the living area and the master bedroom where she would be sleeping. The cellar was large and clean, with plenty of shelves for storage and even a wine rack that spanned one wall. Jennifer was surprised this place had been on the market for so long without drawing any interest.

"This is the slow season," Katrina told her. "I'm sure once it picks up again, the house will sell fast . . . that is unless you buy it first!" she teased.

But Jennifer had no desire to buy the house after that first night, and in the coming days, she would regret even stepping foot in the place.

-------------------------

On her second night, the temperature outside dropped a good 10 degrees, so she was able to tolerate a nightgown in bed. She also had no trouble falling asleep this time, but when she did, she dreamed, and in that dream, the mist came again, only this time, it actually spoke to her.

"Losyara . . ."

She shook her head and moaned.

"Losyara!" 

Its voice was that of a man, deep and rich, beckoning her.

"Get up, Losyara. Get up." 

Jen felt herself rise from the bed and approach the mist. She then saw the shadowy figure of a man inside. He was tall and dressed in a dark suit with a cloak hanging off his broad shoulders. His face seemed unusually long with sharp, chiseled features, like a sculpture that wasn't quite finished yet. His eyes were dark, almost black, and piercing. Despite his powerful stature, he looked pale, almost sickly.

"Come with me," he ordered.

She followed the phantom mist down the stairs to the foyer where, suddenly, it disappeared. Jen was left alone, standing in her nightgown with the moon shining down on her from the window above the foyer. She then noticed the cellar door to her left was wide open. Again, she felt her body move forward to the top of the cellar steps. She looked down the narrow stairway. It was dark as pitch, so dark that the cellar didn't seem to exist anymore, just a drop off at the bottom step, and beyond it . . . nothing. The stranger's voice bubbled up from the black void,

"Down here, Losyara . . ."

The sound of it both excited her, and filled her with terror at the same time,

"We are down here waiting. COME DOWN AND FLOAT WITH US."        

Jennifer was aware of other sounds besides the voice -- a woman's muffled cries, faint and distant, the tinkling laughter of chains. She began to step back from the door, but suddenly, the mist shot up the cellar steps and seized her. Then everything went black.

Nothing happened in the dream after that, or perhaps her mind refused to retain the information. When she woke up that morning the sheets had been twisted off her, and she was lying stretched and face down on the bed, the nightgown pulled up around her armpits, exposing her naked body underneath.

Staggering to her feet, Jen went to the bathroom and pulled off her gown. She felt just as tired and drained as the previous morning. Then as she turned to the shower, she happened to catch glimpse of her refection in the mirror, and what she saw nearly threw her into a panic.

Criss-crossed diagonally up and down her back, were about a dozen angry red welts. She quickly moved to the mirror and reached around to feel one of the marks. They were warm to the touch, but they didn't seem to hurt at all. How did THIS happen? Had she been sleep-walking and fallen down the stairs? Maybe she decided to take a little stroll outside through the trees and forgot to wake up first? She examined her back more closely and finally concluded that neither stairs nor tree branches could have caused these marks. What they did resemble, though, were wounds one might receive after being beaten with a whip or belt, but that was impossible!

Jen debated with herself whether a trip to the hospital was necessary. If she did go, then how on earth was she going to explain this? After just a few minutes, the marks seemed to be fading, as if they were healing right before her eyes! She decided to hold off on getting any medical help until she took her shower first. After toweling off, she checked them again. The marks were completely gone!

"OK, am I seeing things or am I just losing my mind?"

There was little time to think about that now. She quickly got ready for work, knowing that she had a lot to make up because of yesterday's absence. She was tired and in a very bad mood from lack of sleep, but somehow she was able to make it through the day without chewing someone's head off. By the time her computer clock ticked to 5:45, everyone else had left, leaving her alone in the office. She was working on a motion that had to be filed with the courts the following morning. The clients her firm was representing, a group of seven shareholders, were filing suit to recover damages they sustained as the result of a securities fraud within their own company.

While Jen was typing the final summary, she began to notice the temperature drop in her office. Then came the feeling again, that someone was in the room with her, watching. Suddenly, she jerked her hands away from the keyboard. In a matter of seconds, the keys turned so cold, they felt like cubes of dry ice. For a few moments she just sat there, staring dumbly at the keyboard. Then she noticed movement on the computer screen. Her eyes darted up to it, and she gasped. Someone, or something was typing a message below her unfinished summary:

LOSYRA LOSYARA LOSYARA HOW I LONG TO TOUCH YUR FLESH AGAIN YOUR SWEET FLESH! OH LOSYARA LOSYARA YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFL MY LOVE! AND SOON YOU WILL BE MINE AGAIN! SOON WE SOON WE WILL BE TOGETHER AND YOUR FLESH WILL BE MINE AGAIN

The typing stopped. Jennifer stared wide-eyed with disbelief at the black print glaring out at her from the screen. How was this possible? Had someone hacked into her computer? The empty cursor blinked impatiently, as though it were waiting for her to respond to the cryptic message. She thought, hoped -- oh how she hoped this was just a sick joke! That the culprit responsible was sitting in his office nearby having a good laugh. Deep down though, she knew that couldn't be, because she hadn't told a soul about the dreams, or about the strange name the voice in the mist kept calling her -- Losyara. The cursor moved again:

WE ARE WAITING LOSYARA! WE ARE ALL WAITING FOR YOU! AN AND DOWN HERE WE FLOAT!! WE ALL FLOAT BECAUSE WE ARE DEAD! WE ARE IN THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD AND SOON AN SOON

Now the letters seemed to be screaming at her,

SOON YOU WILL FLOAT WITH US!! FOREVER LOSYARA! FOREVER!!!!

Jennifer had seen enough. She wanted to get up and run, but her body wouldn't respond. She couldn't move a muscle! Her office was like an icebox now, but in spite of the cold, she broke out in a sweat all over, and the wetness seeped into her powder blue blouse, creating dark half-moon patches under her arms.

Then it started happening again. She could feel the mist, invisible now, wafting up her skirt, between her legs, only she wasn't dreaming this time. She was wide awake! Trying to stop it, she struggled to break away, but it was no use. She couldn't move. Once again, she was being swept along by some unseeing force, far more powerful than she was capable of resisting. Her panties grew damp followed by the aroma of fresh sex. Something hard and wet slipped into her vagina. It was a man's cock, and it seemed to have a life of its own. It slithered past her cervix, deeper then she had ever felt before, filling her, touching off every nerve as it passed. She felt the invisible fingers underneath her blouse and skirt, touching, fondling her breasts; tweaking her pointed nipples. No human being had ever made Jen feel so feminine, so sexual! She screamed as she was rocked by the most intense orgasm she had ever experienced in her life. Her body jerked in her chair. She threw her head back, closed her eyes and screamed again. Then like a flash, it was gone. 

When Jennifer finally opened her eyes, the janitor was staring at her from the door to her office.

He cleared his throat, "are you OK, miss?"

Her face grew flush with embarrassment. How long had he been standing there?

"Y-yes . . . I must have fallen asleep and had a nightmare," she told him, though she didn't believe a word of it.

When the janitor left to go back to his work, she looked at the computer screen again. The mysterious message was gone, the cursor blinking after the last entry she had typed in her summary.

"This CAN’T just be in my head," she thought, "whatever is happening to me is real!"

Jennifer was still very weak, but had just enough strength to wobble to the elevator and make it to her car. She barely remembered the drive back to her house. After a long, hot soaking in the tub, she felt immeasurably better -- at least physically. She threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, then ordered out for dinner and switched on the TV for company. Later that evening, she decided to call Katrina and set up a lunch date the next day.

"Sounds great," her friend said. "Let's go to that little Cajun place on Bourbon Street. This one will be on me. Does 12:30 sound good?"

"Sure . . . any time is good for me."

"Is something wrong?" she then asked. "You're voice sounds funny."

"No, I'm fine. I just have a lot of work to do and I haven't been able to get much sleep lately."

Jennifer didn't want to discuss her experiences over the phone, but it was her intention to bring up the subject of the house during their lunch date, and find out if there was anything associated with the place that might explain what was happening to her. She didn't believe in ghosts; she never even gave the subject much thought, but she couldn't explain what was happening to her either. Maybe Katrina would tell her the house had cockroaches or a bad foundation -- anything to explain why it really wasn't selling. As for the dreams? Most-likely the result of too much work and not enough play -- or so she hoped. Whatever the case, Jen was going to find some answers, and maybe get a little reassurance from her friend. She kept the phone call with Katrina short, then fell back on the couch and tried to relax. The droning sound from the TV, along with two glasses of wine certainly helped, and before she knew it, she was sound asleep on the sofa.

Almost immediately, the dream came to her again.

This time, Jennifer was no longer in her living room, nor anywhere in the house for that matter, but in some sort of mid-evil dungeon. She was completely nude, and suspended by shackles around her wrists and a rusty old chain, with her feet only inches off of the stone floor. There were screams and moans all around her, and the crack of whips. She could feel a heat on her body, but wasn't certain where it was coming from. The room she was in was complete stone, black and gray stone, and very dark. Her long golden hair was nothing more than wet strands now that fell over her face and shoulders. She was also very wet between the legs, very aroused, and her nipples, hard as pebbles, throbbed for attention. The smells of blood, sweat, fear, and sulfur were in the air. The screams grew louder. They were the screams of women in pain, and they seemed to filter in through the walls. Her head slowly dropped, and gazing down at herself, she became alarmed at how pale her body looked, bloodless, like a corpse. She also discovered where the heat was coming from. There were fresh welts all over her, some, open wounds with blood seeping out of them.

Jennifer's screams in the dream woke her up. She was still lying on the couch, still fully clothed (thank God!), but her heart was beating like she had just run a marathon. She got up slowly and went to the kitchen to get a drink of water and some aspirin. For some reason that she couldn't explain, her eyes dropped down to the hollow drain in the sink. She just stared at it; unable to look away, as if she were in some trance. Then from somewhere in the drain, deep down in the pipes, it bubbled up to her -- the voice. At least she thought it was, because the sound of it was so faint and almost indistinguishable,

"We are waiting for you, Losyara. Come. Come down and float with us . . ."

Jennifer shook her head and stepped back from the sink. The voice disappeared, and all she could hear was the TV in the next room. Needless to say, she didn't get anymore sleep that night!

(continued)

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WARNING! This is adult oriented fiction of a strong sexual nature. If you are under 18 years of age or easily offended by such material, then click your browser's BACK button now. The copyright of this story remains with the author, Night Owl. This posting does not give you the rights to post this on any website without obtaining the author's permission first.

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The Haunting

By Night Owl

First Posted: 11/07

(Story Content: M/f, Horror, Bondage, Whipping, NC)

Part 2:

The next morning Jennifer went to work as usual, but after three sleepless nights, it was going to be struggle just to stay awake. She was already convinced that the strange and ghostly experiences plaguing her had something to do with the house, but she wouldn’t go as far as to admit to herself the place was haunted. There had to be some rational explanation that a Princeton/Harvard Law grad, like herself, could accept.

Ghosts or no, she was ready to move out, and soon. First, she wanted some answers, so later that day, she met Katrina at the Cajun restaurant they had talked about over the phone. It was located at the heart of New Orleans -- the bustling French Quarter.

Katrina Campins, or "Kat", as everyone called her, was attractive, but not as beautiful as Jen. Her long, somewhat prominent nose, narrow brown eyes and thin lips received mixed reviews from men; but nonetheless, there was a sex-appeal in her mannerisms and style of dress that often drew looks in her direction whenever she entered a room. That day she showed up at the restaurant in a gray dress suit with a very short skirt that showed off her impressive legs. She was slender like Jen, though not quite as curvy. Her skin was an almond color as opposed to her friend's china doll complexion, and her dark chestnut hair, fell straight around the shoulders. She really had a knack for appearing both business-like and alluring at the same time.

“Hey girl,” Katrina smiled and took off her coat to reveal a white sleeveless blouse and an impressive set of willowy arms. As she took her seat, her smile suddenly turned to a frown.

"Wow, you weren't kidding about not sleeping, were you?"

"What do you mean?" Jen asked.

"Those dark circles under your eyes. You look like you haven't closed them in a week."

"I know. We have a big case coming up," Jennifer tried her best to lie. “It's been keeping me up nights."

The two women had lunch and dispensed with the usual girl talk for a while until Kat finally asked her about the house.

"So how to you like the place," then she smiled, "Ready to buy it, yet?"

"Oh, it's really nice . . . but I think I'm going to keep looking. It just isn't the right for me, you know?"

"I understand," Kat sounded disappointed, but she didn’t seem surprised either.

"Speaking of the house," Jen continued, "has anything . . . well . . . WEIRD ever happened in that place?"

"What do you mean weird?"

"Well . . . anything out of the ordinary, you know, regarding its history?"

"Mmm, you must have heard about the scandal."

"What scandal?"

Katrina crossed her arms in front of her and leaned in close. In doing so, Jen noticed the deep V in her blouse opened up a little to show-off her cleavage. She had known her friend since high school, so it was no secret that her breasts had been 'fixed' since then.

"Well," Kat began, "it had to do with a man by the name of John Richter. He was the original owner, and lived there back in the early 1900s."

Katrina shifted her body a little, making the blouse open a little wider.

"Now what I'm about to tell you, Jen, is what I've just heard from some of the locals. So I'm not sure if this is true or not. The fact is, the place has acquired a bit of a reputation, which is why I've been having so much trouble selling it. I even checked the town records and newspapers to find out if the stories were really true, and found nothing about it. Personally, I think it's just a case of town gossip run amuck."

"What?"

"Well, this guy Richter was a bachelor, and a good-looking one at that; very popular with the ladies. Apparently though, he was also into some really kinky stuff -- you know, like bondage, whips and chains, that sort of thing."

Just then, Jennifer thought her heart had skipped a beat, "Go on."

"Rumor has it, that he even had a secret dungeon located somewhere under the house. He would take his lady friends down there a do all sorts of things to them, real mid-evil stuff, like chaining them up in shackles, putting them in racks, and other weird-looking contraptions; even whipping them."

"And they went along willingly with this?"

Kat nodded 'yes', "I guess the guy was a real charmer, but then he met this woman and they fell in love. She was very pretty, from what I hear."

"I can imagine what the sex was like," Jennifer tried to laugh.

"Me too, but then it got really ugly."

"What happened?"

"They got married, and on the surface, they became the most respected and admired couple in the French Quarter."

"But behind closed doors . . ." Jen added.

"Uh-huh, he still liked the kinky stuff. Only Richter became obsessed with it. He began treating his new wife like a slave. Then one night, he killed her!"

"How?"

"No one knows for sure. Rumor had it that he lost control of himself during one of their little kink sessions and overdid it. Regardless of how it happened, he was tried and convicted of murder then sent to prison for three years. I guess he was really grief-stricken about the loss of his wife too."  

"So what happened next?"

"Well," Katrina looked around the room, then leaned forward again as if about to reveal a juicy piece of gossip, "he became seriously ill while in prison, and almost died there. Then after getting out, he moved back into the house. By then, he was still pretty sickly and didn't look anything like the man he was before. Not long after he came back though, women started disappearing, first in New Orleans, then from some of the towns nearby. The girls ranged from nineteen to twenty five years in age, and all of them, very attractive . . . you know, like his wife."

Jennifer gasped, "How long did this go on?"

"About two years, I think," Katrina guessed, "but then one night, a woman went to the city police and told them about how she had been abducted by John Richter, and kept a prisoner in his house. According to her story, he locked her in a small cage, then raped and tortured her for over a month in that dungeon of his before she finally escaped. At first the police didn't believe a word of it, because this guy was still a prominent, well-respected businessman, despite what happened with his wife. But the woman pressed charges anyway, and the police were forced to go to his home to search the place."

"What did they find?"

"Not a thing! No cages, no shackles, no whips. Just a riding crop in the stable out back, and being it was still the horse and buggy years, those were pretty common back then. They even searched the cellar for this so-called dungeon the girl mentioned, and found nothing.

"A secret room?"

"Maybe," then Katrina shook her head, "but I doubt it. "I've searched that cellar a dozen times myself. All that's down there now are wine racks and storage shelves."

Jennifer had to agree. She had been down there herself and saw nothing out of the ordinary. But Katrina continued,

"The police started investigating this guy anyway, because a half a dozen women had disappeared so far, and Richter was the only suspect they had. Unfortunately, he died shortly after, so the investigation never even got off the ground."

"You mean they never found out if that woman's story was true?"

"No. All they had was her word, with no physical evidence to support it, but after he died, there were no more disappearances."

Jen was silent. She didn't have to hear anymore. She didn't have to be convinced that the story was true, because she was sure of it now.

"There's more . . ."

"What?"

"After John Richter died, his brother took over the house. I guess he had the interior remodeled from the ground up, then sold it to a young couple."

"And what happened?"

"Well," Katrina paused a moment, "the deal fell through. Apparently the couple stayed there only a few days and moved out, claiming the place was haunted."

"I see," Jen felt her heart jump again. "Go on."

"Not much more to tell after that. The brother put the place in moth balls for about 20 years, then it was finally sold after he died. Two or three families have lived there since."

"Any troubles?"

"None that I know of, but the history and the rumors that followed have given the place a bad reputation, even to this day, making it a hard sell whenever it goes on the market. The story goes, according to some the locals anyway, is that John Richter's spirit has been lying dormant all these years, waiting for an attractive, young girl to move into the place . . . you know, like his next victim," Katrina then laughed, "So you better watch yourself, kid!"

Jennifer didn't see the joke. She didn't even smile, only gazed out the window and watched the people walk by. Katrina could tell by the thousand-mile stare that her friend had something serious on her mind.

"Jen, are sure everything's all right?"

"Yeah, sure . . . or no," she stammered. "I think I'm going to move out of that house, Kat. Maybe stay in a hotel until I find something else.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just . . . that place kind of gives me the creeps, that's all. You don't mind me running out on you like this, do you?"

"No. Of course not," Katrina reassured her. "I guess I should have told you about the house's history and all the rumors, but I honestly thought you didn't believe in that sort of thing."

"I didn't."

Then Jennifer paused for a long moment, and asked her friend the obvious question she wasn't sure she wanted to hear an answer to,

"Kat . . . what was the wife's name?"

"Losyara."

Her heart was doing somersaults now.

-------------------------

After lunch, Jennifer went back to work, with a plan to leave early so she could pack and find a hotel that evening. She had no intention of spending one more night in that house. Unfortunately, a meeting she had scheduled with a client went longer than expected, so she didn't get out of the office until 7:00. She decided to skip dinner and go straight home to pack.

The house loomed above her against the moonlit clouds as she drove up.

"Don't go in there," a little voice told her. For a moment Jen actually considered turning around and heading straight for the hotel, but she wanted to grab her things and get it all over with. Most of her belongings were still in storage across town, so there really wasn’t much to pack. Quickly she got out of the car, unlocked the front door, and turned on all of the lights.

By 9:30, she was ready, but just as she closed the last suitcase, Jen suddenly felt tired, so profoundly tired, that she could barely keep her eyes open. She decided to take a quick shower first, hoping the cool water would wake her up.

It didn't though. In fact, she felt worse -- like all of the energy had been drained from her body. After drying off, she managed to threw on a pink satin robe, then sat heavily on the edge of the bed, hungering now for the touch of her pillow.

"I have to get going," she thought, but I'm afraid I'll faint if I try to get up. Maybe if I just sit here a rest for a minute."

A strange feeling then hit Jen like a wave and quickly spread through her, causing her to lay back on the bed. It wasn't like being pushed down, but more of a tranquilizing effect. Both her mind and body were instantly calmed and the urge to flee dissipated. Now she felt almost totally relaxed. She might have been able to move if she tried, but had no motivation to do so.

The next thing she remembered was hearing the voice.

"Losyara . . ."

She moaned and shifted her body uneasily on top of the bedding, then awoke just as the clock on her bed table rolled to 2:15 a.m. Four hours had already passed, but to her, it seemed like mere moments!

"Come down, Losyara."

"No . . . please," she pleaded softly, "don't do this."

"It is much too late to say no, my sweet one," the voice seemed to whisper in her ear. "Now come down to us. We are waiting."

Jen rose obediently to her feet and smoothed the silky robe around her hips. The air was so warm and sticky that night, it seemed hard to breathe. The carpet felt like wet moss under her bare feet. In the corner of her room, the ancient relic that was her air conditioner continued to moan and wheeze, then suddenly it stopped completely.

"Come!" the voice hissed a third time, sounding displeased.

Jennifer's natural instinct of resistance disappeared immediately, and she found herself responding to the preternatural call before the little voice inside her could talk her out of it. She descended the stairs down to the foyer and moved to the cellar door. She placed her hand on the doorknob. It was ice cold. As she swung the door open, cool, dank air rushed out to caress her face and legs. She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes to breath in the stale, musty scent of the house's belly. It smelled like an open grave. For a moment, she thought to herself that wearing just a short satin robe with loose sleeves seemed a little inappropriate. She thought of those low-budget B-horror movies, when the pretty damsel always went to investigate some eerie noise while dressed in a scanty nightgown, and of course, there was usually someone, or something waiting for her around the corner.

"Down here, Losyara," the voice sounded faint and distant down the stairs. "We are waiting for you."

She started to descend the cellar steps. The air became even colder, moving up her bare legs, and seeping under her silk robe. She took each step carefully until she reached the bottom of the stairs, then holding her arms out, she moved slowly forward. It was black as pitch now, and the room seemed to go on forever, much larger than she remembered the cellar to be -- at least, in the light of day.

She noticed how the floor began to change underneath her feet. It was wet now, and uneven, as though made of stone. The space also seemed to close in around her. Instinctively, she stretched her arms out to her sides, and her groping fingers found two walls in the blackness. Jennifer knew then that she was no longer in the cellar, but in some narrow corridor leading to . . . a dungeon?

"Come girl," the voice beckoned. "It is not much further."

Jennifer stepped forward with her hands brushing against the walls to guide her through the darkness.

"That's it. Follow my voice."

The tone was soothing, hypnotic, and it's pull seemed to grow stronger as she approached, like it was draining any energy Jennifer might have had left to resist it. She barely noticed the silky brush of cobwebs against her body, or the smell of blood and sulfur in the air.

Suddenly, the walls gave away. Her blue eyes blinked several times, as if awakening from some daze. Reaching back, she tried to find the corridor again, but it didn't seem to exist anymore. Deep down she knew there was no going back now. The secret corridor had closed its doors, locking her in.

"It is good to see you in the flesh, my love," the voice was close. "Now you belong to ME, to do with whatever I please."

Jennifer could feel the presence of others in the room. Many others, and all eyes were on her now. She stood in the blackness like a statue, arms down at her sides, not daring to move. Then, slowly but very surely, she felt a touch on her skin. A shape, a hand-like shape rubbed her left cheek, cupping it, caressing it as if to console her. She caught a brief glimpse of the face she had seen in the mist two nights before - long, pallid, as white as a corpse, with dark piercing eyes -- then it disappeared and the touch was gone.

"Now, raise your arms, girl. Raise them high."

She did so, allowing the loose sleeves of her satin robe to slide down past her shoulders and bare her arms. She immediately felt something lock around each wrist -- restraints, cold and hard, like steel. Her submission had begun. The rusty chain above her pulled, raising her, stretching her body and lifting her feet off the cold, wet floor.

Now suspended, she wriggled expectantly and waited for the sound of His voice again, but all was silent.

"Master?" she heard herself call. Her voice sounded disembodied, like someone else's voice. She called again, but there was only silence. Her head was a jumble of emotions - fear, eager anticipation, sexual excitement, wonder. Where is He? Why did I come here? What is going to happen to me? Am I already dead?

Suddenly she felt something sharp, tearing through the robe down along her spine. A knife . . . a very sharp knife. It ripped again into her sleeves, and the torn silk rags slid off her body. Jennifer was naked now as she hung there, helplessly stretched and shivering in the dark. Finally the silence was broken by the sound of female voice.  

"Her flesh is so warm, so ALIVE. May we taste it, Master?"

"You may."

Jennifer whimpered as the ghostly hands ran up and down her body, followed by invisible wet kisses. The lips were female, but they felt cold and clammy, like the lips one might find on a corpse that had been lying bloated in the wet earth for some time. In spite of that, her body reacted eagerly to their attentions. Her breasts swelled like ripe melons as the hands groped for them. Phantom tongues lapped at her arms, legs, back and belly. Like hungry infants, they suckled her nipples, turning them into taut buds of pink flesh. Jennifer moaned and swayed on the chains, and just as she thought she would go mad, the ghostly hands and lips were gone.

"She is ready for you, Master," the female voice announced.

"Ready to receive the whip?"

"Yes, Master."

Almost immediately, Jennifer heard the whistle of leather through the black space around her, then felt a line of stinging pain across her breasts. 

"Ohhhhhhh . . ." she threw her head back and groaned out loud.

Blow after searing blow sliced across her bare flesh. The red pain morphed into white heat that spread throughout her body. Her genitals twitched with excitement. In her mind, she visualized the deep red marks the phantom whip probably made. Rivers of moisture rolled off her, but she couldn't tell if it was her own sweat or fresh blood from her many wounds.

Finally, Jennifer could no longer contain herself. Fireworks exploded in her mind's eye as her vagina spasmed and erupted. She shook violently, screaming, the gritty chain rattling ominously above. She felt herself leaving her own body, her spirit abandoning the flesh that was being decimated by the whip. She was free, but she knew it would not last long. Her Master would want her to return to her own body for more punishment. As she hovered in the darkness, a voice in her head seeped up from recent memory,

"Down here, we float, Losyara. WE ALL FLOAT!"

-------------------------

The next day Katrina stopped by the house to get it ready for a scheduled walk through. She tried the doorbell first, and when no one answered, let herself in with her own key. The house was immaculate, thanks to Jennifer, so there was very little she had to clean up. When she entered the master bedroom, she saw her friend's suitcases and a few boxes sitting next to the door. Apparently Jen had decided to stay the night after all. She pulled out her cell and dialed her friend's number. The phone rang in her purse sitting next to one of the bags.

"Strange," she thought, "She must have forgotten her phone when she went to work."

Katrina took her things and put them in one of the storage closets so they would be out of sight, then went to the kitchen and left Jen a note, telling her where they would be when she came back. When she moved into the living room, though, she stopped dead in her tracks. The temperature had suddenly dropped at least 20 degrees in a matter of seconds. It was like walking into a wall of cold air. She checked the air conditioner. It was off. Katrina knew some of these old homes had drafts, but it was at least 90 degrees outside!

"Great," she brushed her arms to rub away the gooseflesh, "now how am I going to explain this one."

Before she could finish the thought, the cool air went away just as quickly as it came, but it left her with a weird, creepy feeling that she couldn't shake off, like someone was watching her now. She recalled Jen telling about a "creepy" feeling she also had when in the house. Where WAS she anyway?

Katrina stood silent for several minutes, half-expecting someone to come walking into the room. Nothing happened, and like the cold air, the feeling went away. She shook her head and laughed nervously.

"OK girl, get a grip on yourself."

She decided there was still time to grab a quick lunch before the 1:00 walk-through, and hoped the couple would be here waiting when she got back. Grabbing her briefcase and coat, she quickly headed for the front door. It was then, she noticed the door to the cellar standing wide open.

“Odd. Wasn't that closed when I first came in?”

She set the coat and briefcase down, then went over to the door and stood at the top of the steps.

"Jen?" she called out. Silence.

She tried the light switch on the wall but it didn't work.

"Probably the circuit breaker outside," she thought to herself. "That's easy enough to fix."

Katrina then reached for the door to close it, when suddenly, a breath of icy air wafted up the steps and brushed against her silk blouse. She drew a breath. She felt a tinge of arousal course through her body, with the same force one might feel after receiving a shock from touching an empty light socket. Her nipples tightened and pressed against her bra. She wanted to move away from the door, but she couldn't. Something was holding her!

"Get out of there!" her own voice inside warned, but it sounded far away, and weak.

She stood in the doorway for what seemed like an eternity, looking down into the black void. Looking past it. If Katrina could see herself, she would have recognized the same thousand mile stare she saw in her friend's eyes the day before. She took one step forward, then another. She paused a minute and waited for her voice to warn her again, but it was gone, replaced by another voice; a masculine voice. She continued again, down the dark cellar steps.

"I'm coming," she whispered, and the door closed behind her.

End