The Ghost Writer

Disclaimer: This is a horror story, and in horror stories people die. There are a couple of scenes of violence that may shock or disturb some readers. Viewer discretion is advised.

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All right. First off, I suppose I should tell you a little about myself. I'm an author. I used to be a struggling author, but that was before I met her. Now I'm a multimillionaire, though I'd trade all the money in a second for my youth back.

I still have my youth, you might protest. After all, my Wikipedia entry says I'm only 31, and my TV Tropes entry doesn't contradict that. As online sources go, those are pretty damned reliable ones. But the pictures on those pages were taken when I was 27. And I already looked 31 then.

Now? Now I look like Robert Loggia. She still says she loves me, though. Maybe she does. Maybe she doesn't even notice what she's done to me.

She doesn't know I'm writing this. If she did, she would probably kill me. She's killed other people, I just can't prove it.

Why stay with her? Because she's the most beautiful woman that ever existed. I don't care if you're banging Rose Freakin' Byrne right now as you read this, Kaitlyn is still hotter than your girl. Makes a guy willing to put up with a lot.

The second reason is because I owe all my success to her. As corny as it sounds, she's literally my muse. I think that's actually her function, along with what I think of as draining the life force of her victims... she inspires them creatively. And I'd like to keep on writing until she finally grows tired of me and finishes me off. I love writing. If anything, it's the only thing I love more than her.

The third reason is because she's not human. I didn't realize this until it was too late, and by that point in time the first two reasons had made me fall in love with her.

All right, let's go back to the beginning so that this makes more sense. I was 26 years old, and about a year and a half ago I had published my first novel. It had peaked at Number 4 on the Bestseller List, making the publishing company millions of dollars and me personally a little over half a million. Everybody was, of course, very happy.

Until, that is, the well dried up. I had no ideas left for a second novel, and a short story in progress that had also stalled out. Well, two short stories in progress if you counted the one I was writing just for me... but that was an erotic fantasy about my editor's wife Crystal, and if it ever saw the light of day I'd probably have to run for my life. I'm not even sure I could get away with posting it on Literotica without him finding out about it.

So there I was, even my agent turning against me (the other day, he referred to me as 'dead weight' while I was standing right there in the room). Only my research assistant, Sabrina, still had my back, and I suspect that she had a crush on me. That might even explain why she suggested that we do what we wound up doing.

So you can see, even though it is rather stereotypically Irish of me, why I turned to drink. And that was when the real trouble started, for it was in a bar that I met her.

She sat right next to me, which was strange in and of itself. Beautiful women don't sit next to me. They sit next to handsome, athletic men with the brains and personality of a pair of used boxer shorts.

She ordered a shot of Bailey's and a pint of Guinness Stout in a beautiful Irish lilt. An authentic Celt, unlike me. I'm just half-Irish on my mother's side.

She glanced over at me for just a split second, her green eyes twinkling as if they contained actual emeralds. They were the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. "Put his drinks on my tab," she said as she turned back toward the bartender. He glared at me with a look that said 'You lucky bastard', then shrugged and did as he was told.

"I'm sorry. Did I hear you right?" I asked her. It was best to make sure... I was starting on my second bottle of Captain Morgan's. For all I knew I might even be hallucinating her.

"I'm buying your drinks," she said, enunciating very carefully. "Sorry, my accent trips people up sometimes."

"Not me. I think you have a lovely voice."

"Oh, thank you. You're very sweet. I'm Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn O'Meara."

"Danny. Danny Sheehan."

She smiled, and I knew she was thinking what everybody else thought when they put my first name together with an Irish last name. But I also had a feeling that if I heard 'Danny Boy' one more time, it wouldn't sound bad at all coming from her full, red lips (I later started to suspect that the red was a naturally occurring color, rather than the result of lipstick).

She uncrossed her legs briefly, allowing me what I thought would be a mildly teasing glance up her short skirt. She wasn't wearing any panties, and her pussy was completely hairless (once again, a naturally occurring condition) with puffy lips that flared invitingly and a glisteningly wet slit that seemed to be begging me to lick it.

She recrossed her legs while her emerald eyes twinkled knowingly at me. Her little black dress hugged her body tightly and exposed enough cleavage that nearly half of each big, perky breast was revealed. Her slender legs seemed to go on forever, and were exposed slightly past mid-thigh by the minidress.

We chatted for a while, and during the conversation she started casually touching me. She never went anywhere near my dick, but her hands still managed to bring my dick to life. It grew painfully hard, constricted by my pants and boxers as it was.

I confessed my writer's block to her, gesturing to the still-empty notepad in front of me (the one I took everywhere, just in case I needed to write down an idea for a book), and she said, "I think I can help you with that." Then she leaned forward, and her lips touched mine.

While I kissed her back, I caught the bartender's glare intensifying out of the corner of my eye. After she broke the kiss, I said, "I'm not quite sure how that helped, but I appreciate it all the same."

She handed me a ballpoint pen. I kept it... I still have it in my inner jacket pocket. It was my lucky pen there for a while, though I now believe it to be cursed. At any rate, the ideas -- and quite a few of them were really good ideas -- flew forth from this pen almost the moment it touched my hand. I filled up that whole notepad, and I still had a couple of other ideas I hadn't had a chance to write down yet bouncing through my head.

"How the fuck did you do that?" I said.

"I don't know. I guess I'm your muse." She smiled coyly. "Unless you don't believe in that kind of thing."

My first published work had been a horror story, and I had followed that up with a novel-length fantasy epic. I probably -- from a purely karmic standpoint -- couldn't afford to admit that I didn't believe in that kind of thing, even if my beliefs were firmly certain at that point in my young life (which, as is the case with most young people, they weren't).

"I think we're no longer welcome here," I said instead, nodding in the bartender's direction.

She smiled, but this one seemed almost predatory. "Let's go back to my place, then," she said, standing up. She turned away from me and bent down to retrieve her purse from the empty barstool next to her, making sure to bend far enough that her skirt rode up and temporarily revealed her perfect ass. It was big and round enough for 'baby got back' status, but firm and toned rather than flabby.

Then she straightened, and it seemed that she led me out of the bar rather than the other way around. She acted as if I was her arm candy, even though anyone who looked at us could instantly tell that she was so far out of my league we weren't even playing the same sport.

Maybe that was why the bartender had seemed so jealous... he wasn't Brad Pitt or anything, but he was slightly better-looking than me, and probably thought he had more of a legitimate shot with her. Maybe he should have been an author instead.

By the time we got back to her place, after making out passionately in the back of a taxi on the ride home (I got my hands up her skirt and fingered her to what felt from her reaction like a pretty good orgasm, but I hadn't gotten to cum yet), my cock was not only the hardest it's ever been but steadily leaking precum. I remember being worried it would stick to my boxers and skin would be torn off of it when I stripped.

After the door of the house closed behind us, she removed her dress in one smooth, fluid motion and stood before me naked. I felt my balls tighten, and was unable to stop my first load from spraying on the inside of my boxers. Fortunately, I was able to get it up again after a few minutes (while I was waiting I licked her pussy and gave her another orgasm, much more powerful than the one she had had in the cab; she tasted wonderful) and actually enjoy her body.

She didn't mention the premature ejaculation. I assumed it probably happened to her a lot. We fucked off and on for most of the night. I don't think that any other woman has made me feel the way she did. All of her holes were tighter, warmer and wetter than anything I had ever experienced before, and extremely sensitive to stimulation... even when I came in her mouth, it triggered a small orgasm in her as well.

Eventually, I was fucked out and passed out next to her while she was fingering herself to sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, she was gone. If not for the fact that I was still at her place, the black pudding on the stove (she had actually made me breakfast), and the note on the nightstand thanking me for a lovely time last night, I would have thought I hallucinated the whole thing.

After finishing breakfast, I put my clothes back on and headed back to my place. I wrote nonstop for the rest of the day, finally turning in at three in the morning after having finished two short stories and about three-quarters of my next novel.

The next day the writer's block set in again, but I had submitted the short stories to the appropriate periodicals for publication and given the publishing company some pages from the novel I had nearly finished so everyone would at least be off my fucking back for a week or two.

I tried to get some serious writing done, gave up, turned to my stroke story about the editor's wife, and gave up on that too after getting only a couple of lines written.

That night, a knock came at the door. It was a bit late for visitors, so I answered the door wearily, replica of Lurtz the Uruk-hai's sword (from the Lord of the Rings films, for those not nerdy enough to get the reference) in hand just in case this was a home invasion or something (most burglars would think twice about robbing some psycho who answers the door with a sword).

It was her. She was wearing a black leather bustier and a miniskirt so skimpy it might as well have been a pair of panties. Her perfect legs were encased in fishnet stockings tonight, and looked even lovelier than I remembered them.

We didn't bother with words... our bodies did the talking just fine. The sex was even better this time than it had been before, almost like an addictive drug that makes you feel better each time you take it in order to increase your dependency on it (that was, I realized later, pretty much exactly what she was doing to me).

We experimented with positions that we hadn't gotten to try the other night, getting somewhat kinkier, and at the end of our tryst she even fulfilled one of my greatest fantasies by letting me cum on her face, something no other girl had ever let me do before.

Just like the last time, when I awoke the next morning she was gone. I wrote all day again, finishing the novel I had gotten mostly through two days ago and churning out a second one in its entirety as well as finishing the short story about my editor's wife Crystal.

Weeks passed with the same routine, her visiting me off and on and always curing another bout of writer's block, before I found the first white hair on my head. It weirded me out a little bit... I wasn't even 30, I shouldn't have white hair! But I didn't think much about it one way or the other until a second white hair appeared a week later, and then a third a couple of days after that.

I was learning more about my ancestral homeland, perhaps due to the fact that Kaitlyn had piqued my curiosity, with the help of my research assistant Sabrina (who was much better at the fact-finding stuff than me, and willing to do loads of it). It was her who found out what Kaitlyn was.

She came to me with an old Celtic legend she had uncovered, from back in the olden days before Peter Pan when fairies were still badass. The story she had found was about a creature called the Leanan Sidhe (pronounced lanawn shee), which immediately fascinated me because of its similarities to Kaitlyn.

The story said that the Leanan Sidhe was a muse that attached herself to writers, poets, painters... pretty much any artistic type would do. She inspired creative energy, and in a weird form of vampiric symbiosis she then fed on that creative energy. The legend of the Leanan Sidhe apparently had its roots in fairy folklore, meaning that Kaitlyn may or may not have been a fairy.

As I thought about what I already knew about fairies, I figured some things out. First off, the reason I never saw Kaitlyn during the day was because, like the fairies in the movie Don't Be Afraid of the Dark, she was nocturnal and hated bright light. Second, like the fairies in my own stories she was ageless, and never grew any body hair below the neckline (this was the first time I thought of her sweet pussy as being naturally hairless rather than shaved).

I started researching the legend more, leaning on Sabrina for help occasionally, and started to realize that if I was right about Kaitlyn, she was going to kill me eventually... the Leanan Sidhe myth appeared to have been created as an explanation for why all the Gaelic poets died young. I worked out different ways to get her out of my life, and Sabrina finally suggested the one I first tried.

"Make her fall out of love with you," she said.

"How the hell do I do that? I don't even know how she fell in love with me."

"Well, there's one way that usually works." She raised an eyebrow suggestively.

"Cheat on her?" I asked, raising my own eyebrows in surprise. "Even if I wanted to, it's not like I could just pull a willing girl out of my ass."

"Are you that fucking blind?" she said irritably. When I didn't respond immediately -- to tell the truth, this was the first time I had thought about her in that way and I was caught off guard a bit -- she grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me.

After Kaitlyn, I had thought that no other woman could make me feel any sort of truly intense passion. But Sabrina was an excellent kisser, and I found myself eagerly tongue-wrestling her after less than a minute. Two minutes in, we had pulled each other's shirts off and I was undoing her bra while she fumbled with my pants trying to pull out my rapidly hardening cock.

I wondered, as we undressed and I entered her tight, wet hole, why I hadn't thought to do this with her before... now that I had truly looked at her as a woman, I realized she was extremely attractive (granted, not quite the goddess that Kaitlyn was, but gorgeous by any human standard). Her dark brown hair, while not as long or shiny as Kaitlyn's jet-black tresses, was still pretty, and her big brown eyes were downright adorable, especially when she put on her reading glasses. Her slender, petite body benefited from regular exercise and just the right amount of freckles adorning her otherwise smooth and unblemished cream-colored skin, and her athletic legs and toned ass would have been the envy of any woman.

Only her breasts made her noticeably different from Kaitlyn... they were 32Bs, what would be considered 'flat' by many men. I thought they were fine; anything larger would have looked too big on her thin frame, for one thing. For another thing, her nipples were extremely sensitive, and I made her cum just by sucking and licking them, without even going down south yet. It was a huge turn-on to be with a girl so passionate that she could orgasm just from titplay.

And then when I fucked her, and she came almost nonstop over and over again the entire time, it felt like heaven. We were enjoying it so much we didn't stop after I shot my first load... it turned into a marathon fucking session like I had with Kaitlyn. Before our stamina started flagging, I had shot three loads inside her pussy, two inside her ass, one in her mouth and one on her tits (she wouldn't let me cum on her face).

She told me she loved me, then went back home.

I was expecting another visit from Kaitlyn that night, but she never came. I wrote a couple pages of my next novel and the details of my encounter with Sabrina just in case it would make good erotica, then I hit a creative wall. Apparently, sex with Sabrina wasn't quite as inspiring as sex with Kaitlyn, even though it had felt nearly as good.

With no late-night writing to do, I turned in early. I was awakened shortly after dawn by an earsplitting shriek right outside my house.

I quickly threw some clothes on and hurried downstairs to find my housekeeper, Yolanda, standing -- no, more like wobbling -- by the pool. She looked like she was going to faint, so I grabbed her to hold her steady. Then I saw what she had seen.

The water in the pool was no longer blue. It had turned red from the blood of the nude female corpse floating facedown in it. I recognized the butterfly tattoo on the left asscheek. The body was Sabrina's.

There was a slight current in the pool... enough to flip the body over without either of us touching it. There was no stopping Yolanda from fainting this time, and I wished I could join her.

Sabrina's face was gone. The flesh had been gouged out, in some places so deep that you could see bone. Her torso had been ripped open as well, and it looked like most of the organs and viscera had been removed.

After vomiting what felt like a week's worth of meals into the pool, I called the police. I would apologize for contaminating their crime scene when they got there.

The conversation with the detectives is still a blur. I think I was in shock... I don't even remember their names. It occurred to me only after they left that Kaitlyn had killed Sabrina.

She visited that night. I almost didn't answer the door, but when I looked through the peephole (that's right, I could afford a place with a peephole now), I saw that once again her outfit was skimpier. It would be a stretch to call this particular little black dress a negligee, as little as it covered.

"Hey there, sexy. Ready to party?" she asked, her eyes twinkling playfully.

"No." She tried to slip around me and get inside, but I blocked her entry.

"No? What the bloody hell do you mean, no?" Now the twinkle in her eyes had been replaced by a steely glint. She was pissed. Good.

"I mean I'm not ready to party. I lost a dear friend today. I'm mourning her."

"Oh, you're upset about that? That cunt had it coming. Now let me in!" She tried to push past me again.

I pushed back this time, shoving her back out onto the porch. "No," I repeated, more forcefully than before.

She raised her hand to push me back, and we both looked at it in surprise. It had contorted well beyond the traditional human shape, and where there had once been perfectly manicured red-lacquered fingernails there were now curved claws with razor-sharp tips, each about five inches in length.

She recovered from the shock of her apparently involuntary transformation first. "You don't say no to me, you sodding wanker," she said, pointing at me angrily with one of those lethal-looking claws. "You'd be nothing without me. I made you, and I can unmake you too. Just like I unmade that bitch."