The Bleaer House Ghost

edited by Asylum Seeker

*

(Scythe: A tool composed of a long curved blade fixed at an angle to a wood handle, used for mowing, reaping, etc.)

Cleave watched from across the field as the shiny new Volvo pulled up the weedy driveway leading to the Bleaker house. He'd already seen the white and green Bekins moving van depositing its load of fancy furniture and packing boxes, but this was the first sign of an actual human tenant. Cleave wasn't surprised. The legend of the Bleaker house ghost had run every single person out of that building since he was barely a teenager.

A slim-looking lady stepped out of the car and gazed up at the gabled windows. As she strutted up the front steps, Cleave sensed something different about this woman. She didn't seem like the other gals who had given up on the Bleaker house. The way she walked, with that air of confidence, he could tell she wouldn't be run off by a measly old ghost. She seemed more like the type who would give a ghost a run for his money, but he was okay with that.

He turned on his heel and headed for the tree line, the same tree line that intersected the backyard of the Bleaker house. Once he reached the shade of the cottonwoods he realized he was still carrying his scythe. He looked at it fondly. "You're staying behind this time," he said, as if it could talk. "But don't worry, you'll get your chance."

That rusty old scythe had done him right on many occasions, situations where any other tool would have been a second choice at best. Cleave would tell you, if a scythe is going to work right, it's got to be sharp. You try to slice with a dull scythe, you'll be there all day, sawing like a lumberjack. But if you sharpen that baby up, you can cut through a woman's satin slip just like a knife through butter.

He took his beloved tool and flung it at a fat gray tree trunk, where it stuck with a 'wang', just like a knife-thrower at a circus. Then he set his sights on the woman with the Volvo.

"The Bleaker house ghost has his eye on you, little lady."

He turned to spit, the green phlegm kicking up a miniature cloud of dust as it hit the dry earth.

******

Margaret made a cursory tour of the first floor, and then headed upstairs. "This is ridiculous," she whined, running her manicured finger along the dust-covered banister of the staircase. "I didn't see any dust in the internet ad." She took the creaky steps two at a time, anxious to see what surprises lay upstairs.

At the top of the landing the house seemed much bigger. The ceiling was two stories high above the front door, almost like a church. As she padded down the hall, the squeak of the floorboards seemed to cry for mercy. Could this be the reason for all the ghost stories? She knew the talk of ghosts was nonsense, but she could see how the creaks and groans of an old house could lead someone to believe there were apparitions about.

She stepped into the white tiled bathroom and was pleasantly surprised to find it quite charming, with a long, high window over the tub giving the room an airy, almost regal appearance. She turned the hot water spigot and after a brief wheeze water sprung forth, splashing into the tub with such velocity it spattered all over her gray pantsuit.

"This will work," she decided, unbuttoning her blouse. She ambled off to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes behind her. As she stepped out of her silk panties she spied the packing box that held her fine linens. She pulled out a monogrammed towel, grabbed her toiletries bag, and then returned to the bathroom.

"Perfect," she said, dipping a toe into the steaming water. She eased into the tub and closed her eyes, imagining her new life out in the countryside. She would throw grand parties, invite associates from the firm, impress them with homemade meals purchased from the locals. It would be the perfect weekend getaway from the cutthroat grind of the city.

******

Cleave heard the clanking of the water pipes as he eased through the basement window. "Perfect," he said to himself as he plopped down on the cement floor. He sauntered over to the abandoned laundry chute and tested the first rung of the ladder - still as solid as the day he'd put it in all those years ago.

Ghosts? How could these city slickers be so stupid? Didn't they ever stop to wonder why there was an abandoned laundry chute in the middle of their house? A laundry chute with louvered doors that latched from the inside? If they were that stupid, they deserved whatever calamity the ghost chose to curse them with.

He crept up the ladder, past the downstairs kitchen, and reached the second floor, where the louvers looked directly into the hallway opposite the bathroom door.

"Well fuck me naked!"

he said silently, staring at the bare shoulders of the woman relaxing in the tub. He climbed a little higher, so he could see over the rim of the tub.

"Nice,"

he sighed, checking out her puffy nipples floating up out of the water like twin bobbers at the fishing hole.

"We're going to have some fun, little lady,"

he mused, hooking his arm over the rung of the ladder so he would have one hand free. His cock had already grown from the size of a cheap cigar to that of a fat, ripe carrot, and it was vegetable-picking time.?

******?

Feeling decadently lazy, Margaret eased up in the tub and grabbed the green bottle of body wash. After lathering on the soap, she stood up to try the shower. With a couple of squeaks of the handle, and a flick of the chrome lever, warm water was spraying everywhere.

"Eeek!" she squealed, flinging the shower curtain shut. She found her shampoo, lathered up, and spent what seemed like an eternity under the fine spray, her body succumbing to the drumming of the water. Finally she rinsed and then shut the water off. But when she flung the shower curtain open and reached for her towel, it was gone.

"What?" she said, looking around the room. "I swear I brought it in here. I know I did."

She stepped out of the tub and stood there, dripping on the floor like a wet dog. After a moment, she crept to the door, where she spied her towel on a doorknob across the hall. "This is so weird," she said, suddenly overcome by the uneasy feeling that someone was in the house with her.

"Hello?" she called, her voice echoing down the stairs. She waited, but was greeted only by silence. Shrugging her shoulders, she grabbed the towel, went back into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, drying herself off.?

******

"The Bleaker house ghost strikes again,"

Cleave snickered silently, watching through the louvered doors. In spite of his glee at the woman's confusion, he was struck by how incredibly beautiful she was, like an Angel God Himself had sent from heaven. Her tits, especially, intrigued him, seeing as how they were at least as pretty as his sister Lu Anne's, and Lu Anne had prettier tits than any woman who'd passed through the Bleaker house in the last twenty years.

His sister Lu Ann's tits looked sort of like a pair of fat, lopsided radishes. They were so pointed, if somebody cast her body as a bronze statue, one of those puppies could put your eye out. And now, this new lady's tits were just as beautiful, but even bigger. Or maybe they just looked bigger because she was a little skinnier than Lu Anne. Not that Lu Anne was heavy. She wasn't. It was just that Lu Anne looked like she was built for comfort, while this new gal looked more like she was built for speed.

But the best part of this woman, besides her tits, was her privates, all trimmed down into a skinny little crew cut. It reminded him of his sister when she came back home from LA., her bush looking more like the manicured hedge at the mayor's house than a woman's hairy triangle.

As the naked lady crept towards the door, searching for her towel, he dangled lower on his perch so he could get a better view of her woman-parts. He was pleased to see that she didn't look like a turkey waddle down there. No, this gal was special, sporting a more refined look - shiny and smooth, like a red Christmas ribbon that had been bent in two and stuck between her legs. He hung his mouth open and stared, wondering what she smelled like down there - probably just like a bouquet of flowers from a church funereal.

At that moment, he swore on his dead sister's life that he'd smell this lady's cunt if it was the last thing he ever did. He'd not only smell it, he'd fuck it till it was plumb wore out.

******

It was an uneventful night at the Bleaker house; no more disappearing towels, no more creaks and groans in the hallway. "The Bleaker House Ghost," Margaret said to herself, "I swear, these country hicks can be so gullible. Ghosts are for TV shows...and movies, I suppose," she mused, her mind wandering to that Patrick Swayze ghost movie she swooned over as a gullible teenager.

After setting up her microwave and enjoying a scrumptious Marie Callender's entrée, she headed upstairs to retire. She had purchased a new flannel nightgown specifically for this occasion, but when she pulled it on it didn't fit right, bunching up under her arms. Since she was used to sleeping in the nude, and it was a warm night, that was exactly what she did, propping herself up on three pillows to read before turning out the light.

Her book was a bodice-ripper - the renegade Indian and the white squaw - and before she knew it, she had one hand on her vibrator and the other on her tit. She came quickly, imagining she was tied up on the bed, with some hard-bodied cowboy's cock inside her, pounding her pussy with the rhythm of a steam locomotive from the 1800s.

The thought of farm boys and rope was so inspiring, she was

tempted to try for another round with her vibrator, but she really was beat, so she shoved the pillows aside, pulled the covers up, and fell into a deep sleep.

******

Cleave watched from his kitchen window, drumming his fingers on the cast iron sink. When the upstairs light in the Bleaker house finally went out he sprung into action, sticking the flashlight in his pocket and hooking the fancy new stun gun on his belt. In the old days he used chloroform, but what a boring way to subdue a woman - no kicking, no screaming, no pissing their pants, just a sort of sad slumping into unconsciousness. At least with the stun gun there would be some action - convulsions, gasping for breath - which would make it much more exciting. Actually, this was all conjecture on Cleave's part, since he'd never used his new stun gun.

What puzzled Cleave was, why did the Bleaker house women have to ask for it in such an obvious manner? It was like they were holding a sign up by the side of the road, saying: "Strip me naked and fuck my brains out". That Munston gal who used to sunbathe in her thong in the back yard? Didn't she know he could see her just as plain as day through his rifle scope? And Mrs. Paulson, who answered the front door holding nothing but a towel up in front of her when he came a knockin' early one Sunday morning? Didn't she know that he could see her bare-nekkid hip poking out the side of the towel?

Yes, those women deserved everything they got - not that they actually remembered what they got. After the chloroform wore off they'd wake up, wondering why they were out in the barn, and why their clothes were all cut up into shreds. And if they bothered to call the sheriff, as soon as they'd mention the Bleaker house, he'd just laugh, thinking they were making up more ghost stories, just like all the other women before them.

Old Cleave had a pretty good thing going over at the Bleaker house - not as good as what he had going with his sister, but better than watching the weeds grow, which was the alternative.

It only took Cleave two minutes to sprint from his back porch to the basement window, and two more to crawl up the secret ladder to the second floor. He crept down the hall, listening for any change in the lady's breathing. The floor squeaked a few times but the raspy sound of her silent snore remained constant. When he reached her bedside, he stood there for a long time, taking in the luxurious smells of her room; the faint hint of her flowery perfume, the rich smell of her leather handbag, the lingering scent of her fancy lady-shampoo.

Her bare shoulder poking out of the covers reminded him of the white, porcelain statue that used to sit on his mama's mantel. He had broken it one day in a fit of anger, although for the life of him he couldn't remember what provoked him to hurl the thing across the room. Sometimes he wondered where his rage-sickness came from. Was it Jesus, making him atone for his many sins? Was it a reaction to his mom deserting him and his sis and moving to Vegas to live with a retired Elvis impersonator? Was it the ghost of his father, haunting him from a cell in San Quentin? Was it the guilt he felt over his sister, who now waited patiently for him in Heaven, her arms open, her Sunday dress cut to ribbons, laying at her pretty feet? What did it matter? He wasn't feeling rage now, just awe and curiosity, marveling at this pretty lady braving the Bleaker house ghost.

He gently lifted the corner of the comforter that covered the lady and pulled it away. By the time it was down to her knees, the pungent odor of her woman-smell was stronger than cotton candy at the fair. With a flick of his wrist he unbuttoned his Levi's and pulled out his aching pecker. He stared at her satiny-white body, so perfect she could have been a model in a Sears catalog.

He stroked his cock slowly, wondering if it would be safe to ease her legs apart so he could get a better view of her slit. Just as he was about to open her up, she stirred, making a soft, snorting sound. Then she pawed at the air, perhaps reaching for her blankets and not finding them.

Lunging like a hound dog after a bird, he made it out of the bedroom just seconds before she switched the light on.

"Damn"

he said silently, dodging into the empty room across the hall. He waited there for a moment before peering through the crack in the door as the lady padded down the hall and disappeared in the bathroom.

He heard the tinkle of her pee in the toilet, the swoosh of the

flush, the creak of the faucet, and then she padded back to the bedroom, her naked form silhouetted in the moonlight. Seeing her that way brought back a similar scene from long ago; his sister, skinny-dipping down at the swimming hole, her luxurious body lighting up the night like the Statue of Liberty.

Her best friend Martha was there too, her tits looking like ripe cantaloupes ready for the harvest. Damn shame Martha up and moved away before he got a chance to taste 'em. But he sure did get a fine taste of his sister's tits. It was right after church, and she still had that expensive perfume dabbed on 'em. Made his nose itch, at least during that first day. After that, the sweaty smell came back and he could've just as easily had a pig tied up as a woman.

He wondered if the naked woman down the hall would have perfume that would make his nose itch? He stepped out from behind his door and stood there, still as a statue, listening. After her snoring revved up to a steady pace, like a tractor out in the field, he crept into her room for one last look. By this time he'd put away his pecker. He was determined to try a new approach with this sweet-smelling city girl. Surely he could charm her into a date. That would be much more fun than scaring the crap out of her the way the Bleaker house ghost would be inclined to do.

******

Margaret awoke to a horrendous bashing sound, as if someone was breaking down the front door. She sat up, holding the covers tight against her nakedness, and then realized it wasn't some crazed killer trying to break in, it was just a polite knock on the door magnified by the high ceiling in the stairwell.

She checked her watch. Seven-thirty a.m. Shrugging on her satin robe, she stepped into her furry slippers and shuffled down the stairs, wondering who could possibly be calling at this early hour. She swung the door open, making a mental note to get one of those fisheye peepholes installed.

"Morning ma'am," a seedy-looking gentleman said, hat in hand, his hair parted in the middle and plastered to his head like a 40s black and white movie. "Name's Cleave. I live over yonder." He pointed across the field to a ramshackle homestead, weathered gray, with tarpaper flapping on the roof. "I would like to offer my services ma'am. I fix plumbing, I'm handy with the nail, and I can haul the brush out of your back yard for only twenty dollars, ma'am."

Margaret took a step back, recoiling from his stale bacon-breath. "Why thank you Cleave. That's very neighborly of you." She pulled her robe tighter, chilled by the gaze of his beady rat-like eyes. "I'm Margaret."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Margaret." His hand shot out, scabs on his knuckles, dirt under his fingernails.

She took it firmly, trying to think of a polite way to get rid of the guy. No need pissing him off for no reason. "I'll talk to my husband about the brush."

He released her hand and straightened his stance, puffing up his chest like a school yard bully. "You ain't got no husband."

"Excuse me?" she snapped.

"I said you ain't got no husband ma'am. Lookee there." He pointed at her left hand, where long ago she'd removed a very expensive wedding band.

"We're still friends," she said coldly, reaching for the door handle so she could shut it quickly if she had to.

"You're still friends?" he said, hooking a thumb into his belt. "That don't sound right ma'am. Nobody around here is friends with their exes. I murdered my ex-wife when I found out she was bangin' my brother. Took her head off with a chain saw." He gave her an amused grin, and then laughed. "That's a joke ma'am."

She nodded her head, relieved that at least Cleave had a sense of humor, even if his idea of a joke wasn't the least bit funny.

Cleave continued, with a forlorn look on his face. "I ain't got no brother, Miss Margaret. Had a sister for a while, but she's long gone. She's with the angels now."

"I'm so sorry," she said, not sure whether to pity him or call the cops.

"Well okay then," he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "I'm gonna run on into town for church, but after that, I'll just be over yonder if you need anything."

"Thank you Cleave," she replied. "I'll keep that in mind." She gave him a fake smile and eased the door shut, clicking the dead-bolt quietly as he sauntered down the front steps. "Jesus," she moaned, "what a nut job." She watched him plod across the field, wondering if perhaps leasing the Bleaker house had been a mistake. "Screw him," she snarled. "I'll buy a gun, and if he gives me any shit, I'll blow his balls off."

******

Cleave stood at his kitchen counter staring out the window at the Bleaker house.

"Goddamn bitch thinks she's too good for me."

He took a swig of his root beer, and then flung it across the room, where the bottle shattered on the ancient wood stove.

"Well, she ain't too good to be hogtied and fucked like a pig."

When he returned from church a couple of hours later, Miss Margaret's Volvo was gone and it occurred to him that perhaps she was only using the house on weekends since it was, after all, coming up on Sunday night. He sat there anyway, watching, waiting, hoping she might return. She didn't return but it was time well spent. His scythe needed sharpening, and by the time he gave up on waiting for Miss Margaret, that blade was sharper than the quill on a porcupine.

What he really liked about the scythe was the fact that it demanded respect. He figured it was the angle of the blade that scared a woman the most. It could look surprisingly like a cock, or it could snuggle up nicely under a breast, if the breast was big enough. It also did a damn fine job of slicing through a bra strap, or turning a pair of high-waisted panties into a fringed skirt.