Part Three
The soft, bloated figure lay uncovered on the living room couch, clad in the loose shirt and trousers such pathetic excuses for men wore abed. His snores resembled a pig’s grunting, and the sight of him, vulnerable in his slumber, elicited nothing but revulsion. She had already primed the eldest daughter, filling her sleeping ears with entreaties to the filthiest acts an avenging angel like herself might envision. Now this…man had his part to play.Lightly she touched him, gliding barely tangible fingertips along his belly to the pathetic twig and berries he was no doubt so proud of. It wasn’t long before he stirred, lengthening, and if she had been capable of it, she would have vomited the bile of her loathing across his disgusting form. Just a little more, and he would be ready—
“Oh…” he whispered. “Oh, Penelope.”
The ghost froze. How did he know—
Pain transfixed her, an excruciation she had not experienced since she had been numbered amongst the quick. Looking down, she found that she had been stabbed through the guts by a pitted, narrow blade of steel.
Grinning, still gripping the impaling bayonet, the man sat up. “Worth every penny, Penny,” he said. “Amazing what you can get on eBay.”
How could he see her?
Unable to scream, she merely writhed soundlessly, like a worm on a hook.
“This is gonna be good. I’ve been waiting months for this.” She could see nothing behind his eyes. They were as dead and empty as a spider’s.
With a massive, agonizing effort, she pulled herself off the blade. How he could see her and cause her such pain were questions to be asked another time. As she unclenched her will, letting herself return to the cellar where she’d died centuries ago, she saw him get to his feet, still aroused.
It was no matter. She would revenge herself—
A new burst of pain surprised a shriek out of her, an animal howl that shook the dust off the basement shelves.
No!
Wearing only an open red coat, the man’s wife had rammed a cavalry saber through the ghost’s chest, and with a malicious curve of her mouth, began to twist it. Moisture dewed the woman’s thighs.
“Naughty, naughty, touching my husband. Lucky for you we have an…open marriage.” She licked her lips. “Of a sort.”
All the ghost could do was clutch at the saber, slicing her insubstantial hands on the edge.
“Started already?” the man asked, walking down the stairs. Freed, his tumescence bobbed with each step.
“Would I do that?”
He laughed, a high-pitched, yipping sound. “I wouldn’t blame you.” With a grunt and a sigh, he slipped the bayonet back into the ghost’s guts, eliciting a soundless scream that stretched her mouth to inhuman proportions. “God, she’s tight.”
“Feel familiar?” the wife asked her. “We went to a lot of expense to find these blades, sweetheart. Went through a lot of collectors, a lot of fakes. Shame we could only find two. I think there were four who killed you. Or was it five?”
No, the ghost begged. No.
Shaking his head, the man said, “And after all you put us through. Our children. Months of waiting, planning. Still…” He dropped his body weight, the blade slicing from her stomach through her sex. Ectoplasm, thick and glutinous, gushed from the wound.
Over her renewed screams, he said, “We’d’ve done this anyway. It’s just how we get off.”
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