If he's going to be stranded anywhere, a good place to be stranded, Tommy was happy and sexually excited to be stranded without power with 20 whores and a madam in a whorehouse.
Continued from Chapter 2:
Unless they were given directions to it and/or knew exactly where it was, no one would ever find Clayton House, especially the police. Originally built in 1827 as a hotel, two-hundred miles north of the battlegrounds of Gettysburg, the whorehouse was located and operated on the private grounds of a refurbished, huge, old mansion, once owned by William Henry Harrison Clayton in 1882. Set a mile back from the main road, unless they're invited guests, intruders would never get by the 24-hour, electronic security and the armed guards at the front door.
Turned into a whorehouse in the early sixties with the Beatles and Rolling Stones filling the night with music, dozens of men were serviced by twenty, sexy, and beautiful women. If these walls could talk, the sexy, sexual secrets they'd tell. From celebrities passing through, to powerful and influential politicians, to rich, old, white men, they were all here one time or another fucking and being sucked by promiscuous women.
The interior of the mansion was destroyed in a fire in 1969. With beds carried downstairs from upstairs and everyone sleeping during a horrific rainstorm, all were huddled together in the great room. Someone lit the fireplace to keep warm and to stave off the chill of the cold and windy night.
Twenty-three people lost their lives that night. Twenty prostitutes, their madam, and two-armed security guards died in their sleep when they failed to open the flu. A fortunate comfort to their loved ones, instead of being burned to death, they died of smoke inhalation before the flames turned their bodies to piles of smoldering ashes.
Located deep in the overgrown, State Forest of Pennsylvania, even those who knew where it was and/or those who found it quite by accident needed a pass code to open the front gate. Even then, the entrance inside was flagged by two, armed, burly doormen who patted down patrons for weapons. Obviously, there was something more to this than this once being a hotel. This was more than just a residential home. Morphed again with the times, definitely, this was some sort of illegal business, a drug house, or an illegal gambling casino, perhaps.
Tommy hoped there was someone there to give him shelter from the storm. Barely able to see through the fog and the rain, even with his truck window lowered, he leaned and stretched out his arm in the pouring rain to push the intercom button at the main gate. When no one answered, he pushed the intercom button again.
Accustomed to the drive-through teller at the bank, he wished this box had an overhead covering to protect him from the rain. Desperate for help to find his way out of this storm and home to his sexy, MILF of a mother, with this his only hope, he pushed the intercom button again and again. With the possibility of falling trees from the saturated ground the last place he'd want to sleep was in his cold truck.
"Hello? Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? Hello? Hello? Can anyone hear me? Hello? Hello? Hello? Can you help me? I'm lost. Hello?"
Finally, he heard an unintelligible, ghostly, scratchy, and muffled voice that crackled over the loudspeaker as if far in the distance. Such an odd feeling, with this gate surrounding the property and looming tall, he felt as if he had stopped in front of a checkpoint at President Trump's border wall. Suddenly, while being denied admittance, he felt helplessly and hopelessly powerless. He felt in the way that those illegal immigrants must feel when trying the cross the border in hopes of living a better life.
# # #
The camera mounted on the top of the 12' iron gate turned from the road to his direction and intrusively zoomed in on his driver side truck window for a better look at him. He wondered if this building was a secured, secret military site, or a safehouse. Unable to tell by the outside of the huge building, with no signs identifying what was inside of the building, he wondered what this impressively imposing place was.
Such an odd place to put huge mansion in the middle of the forest that was in the middle of nowhere. Yet, when this was built nearly two-hundred-years ago, perhaps, the forest wasn't as overgrown as it is now. Perhaps, the grounds were better cared for, mowed, landscaped, and manicured. Before becoming the Clayton House and then a whorehouse, if he had guessed that this was an exclusive, resort hotel in the 19th century, he'd be right.
Perhaps, because of the storm, but this place was as spooky and scary as the haunted, Pennhurst Asylum, in Chester County, Pennsylvania. There were lots of old and abandon buildings in Pennsylvania. There were lots of terrible things that happened to people in many of those old buildings because they were mentally ill, criminally insane, or just elderly, and their family were unable to afford to care for them. Instead, put away in a mental institution, locked in a room, and drugged for the rest of their lives, but for their screams, many of these people were never heard from again.
Suddenly, a chilling sound, as if hearing the cacophony of screams of all of those desperate people, he imagined hearing frantic screams in the night. Chalking it up to his imagination and to the wind rustling through the leaves of the trees, this was one place that he wouldn't be out walking alone. Hopefully, there was someone inside who could help him. Hopefully, there was someone inside who would allow him to spend the night to ride out the storm.
"Hello? Help! Please, someone help me. I'm lost. I have no idea where I am and where I'm going," he said staring up at the camera. A good and positive sign, for the camera to move in his direction, there must be someone inside. "Can you help me," he asked staring up at and waving to the camera? "Hello? Can you tell me where I am and how to get to the main road from here?"
While wondering again what this place was, wondering if it was a secret, secured military site, he heard a click and the gate buzzed open. As if the front gate hadn't been opened in 50-years, he watched the gate automatically and slowly part open with a loud and continual, eerie squeak. Piercing the night air as if it was an injured animal or a loud, barn owl diving down to swoop its prey, if this building wasn't scary enough, the sound of the gate slowly squeaking open added yet another dimension to the macabre.
# # #
Stephen King could have written a story about this place, called Horror in the Forest or The Haunting at Clayton House. As if he was given admittance to Heaven, Hell, or to the Hotel California, he was met by three, scantily dressed women, a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. They stood between the armed, security guards on a brightly lit, front porch while seductively staring at him. An unexpected, sexy surprise on such a dismally cold and damp night, each woman was more beautiful, sexier, and colorfully dressed than the next.
Not knowing where to look, he looked from one sheer and sexy nightgown to the next. Now, instead of unnerved by the storm and instead of being worried about finding the main road, his mind was filled sex. His mind was filled with naked breasts, naked asses, and naked pussies.
He had been horny since his MILF of a mother had flashed him her naked body by dressing and undressing with her bedroom door wide-opened. He had been horny since his mother sat on her dressing table chair and brushed her hair in front of him while naked. He had been horny since she walked to her bedroom door naked and closed her door while seductively staring at him. Now, after seeing these three, nearly, naked women, they attributed even more to his horniness.
Obviously, hitting the sexual lottery, if he was to hazard a guess, he'd guess that this was an illegal whorehouse and these three women were whores. Eager to have a closer look at and meet these three, sexually alluring women, he parked his truck, pulled his hood over his head, and ran through the rain for the front door and to the women. With the rain and the fog acting as a mirage and adding to the illusion of seeing three, sexy women in their short, sheer, and low-cut nightgowns, he wondered if he was imagining seeing them or if they were real.