The Skinwalker

Yet another cautionary tale. Be careful what you wish for.

If you need a refresher on characters, please check out

target="_blank">One of These Nights

It was late October, and the annual Halloween party at Ray's Tavern was in full swing.

The Allman Brothers 'Blue Sky' played on the juke box and the bar was filled with costumed patrons. There were sexy nurses, maids and spectacled librarians with very tight and short skirts.

On the other end of the spectrum, there were cowboys in spurs and chaps, Roman gladiators and muscular Highway Patrolmen. Liquor and cold beer flowed like the animated conversations.

All Hallows Eve.

When the veil separating this world and the beyond was thinnest. When the most strident spirits were thought to be able to cross the boundary.

Vinny Garoppolo sat at his usual spot at the bar, nursing a cold draft beer and taking in the luscious scenery. The interior was well lit and warm. The flesh was pressing close for refills of whatever they were drinking.

A nearby woman with cat ears and drawn whiskers in a tight leopard print dress stepped up to the bar.

"I'd like a vodka soda." She said.

"I can sell you the soda." said the bartender. "You're on your own for the vodka."

"I don't understand."

"We only have license to sell beers. You bring your own liquor and we can mix your drink.

The drawback is that once you break the seal, you can't legally transport the bottle. You either have to leave it here or finish it off.

We can't sell a drink, but we can sell a drunk."

"That's insane!" said the woman.

"Welcome to Utah. Please set your clocks back 20 years."

the bartender laughed.

Vinny said, "Give her a shot of my stash please Johnny."

The bartender pulled a bottle of Grey Goose from beneath the bar and mixed a drink.

"Thank you, kind sir," Kitty said. "I'm Cassidy. Cass."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Vinny. Pickle to my friends."

"There has to be a story behind that." She said.

"Vinny Garoppolo. Vinegar Oppolo.

I've had the nickname since Jr. High."

"And who are you dressed as tonight, Pickle?"

"I'm Kokopelli. Spirit god. Bringer of rain and abundant crops. Most of the tribes in the Southwest recognize him in one form or another. He's seen in petroglyphs and

Native American artwork as far south as Northern Mexico.

Pickle was wearing a daypack. There was a flute attached in a pouch alongside. His hair was shoulder length, braided in corn rows.

Cassie noticed the flute. "Are you a musician?" She asked.

"More of a trader. A sojourner."

"What do you trade?"

"New songs for old. Good fortune for kisses."

Cassie smiled a wary smile. "Is that all?" She asked.

"For the most part."

"What's in your backpack?"

"Seeds for a bountiful harvest. Blessings. Bundles of Joy."

"But we've barely met." She purred.

"Fortune favors the bold," Said the trickster. "Would you favor me with a dance?"

The pair coupled up on the dance floor. 'Oh, Darling' by the Beatles was the tune. They rocked in rhythm to the song. Pickle felt her firm breasts occasionally graze his chest as they danced and she gently held him around his neck.

Oh! Darling, please believe me

I'll never do you no harm

Believe me when I tell you

I'll never do you no harm

Oh! Darling, if you leave me

I'll never make it alone

Believe me when I beg you, ooh

Don't ever leave me alone

"This is nice," she said. "You smell like wam cookies."

The tune segued to another Beatles song, 'While My guitar Gently Weeps,' so they continued to dance. Halfway through the song it became impossible to ignore a pissed off cowboy standing at the edge of the dance floor.

"You know that guy?" asked Pickle.

"That's Jimmy. My boyfriend." She replied. "I should probably go talk to him. It was fun while it lasted. Thank you."

Pickle returned to his place at the bar with a heavy heart. His blood was warmed and he was more than disappointed to be cast back into the mix. C'est la amor.

"Is this seat taken?" came the question from his blind side.

He turned to observe a raven haired beauty. She was the most beautiful woman he had seen in a long time.

Her complexion was dark.

Her almond shaped eyes were bottomless pools of coal black night.

Her impish smile was beguiling, but lacked something. Mirth, perhaps.

She wore a loose velvet blouse and a floor length sateen skirt cinched at her trim waist by a belt of silver conjo medallions.

She had a cloth bag, worn cross-shoulder hung at her waist.

She had on a silver squash blossom necklace adorned with gemstones he had not seen before.

She was a vision of femininity and grace.

She smelled vaguely of fireworks.

"Well, hello." said Pickle. "And who might you be?"

"I'm a Skinwalker," was her answer.

"Pardon?"

"A skinwalker. Yee naaldlooshnii.

I cast spells and wreak havoc. Punish my enemies.

I'm a shapeshifter. Do you like my choice?"

"Very much so. Nice costume." He said.

"If you say so. Will you buy me a drink?"

"Your wish is my command, señorita."

He ordered fresh drinks and turned to look into her eyes. He felt like he was falling into them. It took some effort to break the connection. Her smile never faltered.

"I'm Vinny." He said. "Pickle to my friends. Tonight I'm Kokopelli."

"I know exactly who you are." She said. "I'm Asdza."

"That's a pretty name. Asdza. What brings you out on such an enchanted evening?"

"There's a Native American Art gallery opening here. I'm negotiating a display of some jewelry on consignment. I was heading for the hotel when I saw the lights here. I came to check it out."

She was referring to the recent venture that Enola Begay-Harper had launched to exhibit the rugs and blankets her Aunt and her students had woven during their instruction.

"I know the proprietor. I can put in a good word."

She did not reply, so he added, "Would you like to dance?"

The jukebox played 'Third-rate Romance' by the

Amazing Rhythm Aces as they stepped onto the floor.

He held her close as they moved to the music.

She offered no complaint as he placed one hand on her back and one on her hip. The slight smell of gunpowder grew stronger.

She was extremely light on her feet, like Pickle was guiding a wisp. His slightest touch prompted a response from her.

The song ended and they returned to the bar. As they sipped their drinks, they locked eyes again and this time the connection held. Pickle felt the pull of her gravity.

"Would you like to have some fun?" She asked.

He would.

"My place is not far." He said.

It was a blustery evening, but not too cold. The temperature would drop as the front moved East. The moon was already up, about 3/4 full. Clouds skittered across it's illuminated face as if pursued by an unseen predator. The wind sighed in the trees.

"It was a dark and stormy night." joked Pickle. "All good citizens were safely tucked away."

There was no reply. Suddenly, a cat dashed across their path. Only one color would do. Despite it's apparent haste, the creature stopped and studied them for a moment.

They arrived at Pickle's house and dashed inside.

"Conditions are deteriorating rapidly. We'd best stay put for a while." said Pickle.

"Can I get you another drink?"

"Certainly." Asdza said.

He fixed them a couple drinks of Fireball whiskey and set them on a coffee table in front of his couch.

He sat next to her and soaked in her allure.

She had the attraction of a collapsed star.

She consumed everything, even light.

He leaned in to kiss her. Her eyes flashed for a half second.

It was a cold fire, but Pickle was too fired up to notice.

"Easy, tiger, let's take it slow. I want to really enjoy this.

Let's have a hot bath. We need to be really clean first."

That sounded great to Pickle. He rose and went into the bathroom and began filling an ancient clawfoot tub with hot water.

When the tub was full, he shut off the tap, disrobed and settled in.

Asdza followed suit, only she left her panties, a black thong, in place.

She rested against his chest as steam curled around their heads. Pickle held a bar of soap in one hand as he caressed and massaged her breasts ans abs. His hands slowly drifted towards her panties.

"I have a treat for you." She said.

She reached for her nearby bag and produced a can of lubricating gel. She bade him to sit on the edge of the tub and began at his ankles and calves. She reached back into her bag and produced an ivory handled straight razor. The stainless steel blade caught a flash of the overhead light as she moved toward his leg.

Pickle shifted his weight and cleared his throat.

"Relax," she said. "You're going to love it."

Next came his thighs, then his butt cheeks. She paid special attention to his anus and perineum. She skipped over his genitals and moved to his abs and back, slowly massaging the areas with gel and then gently following with the razor. She finished his arms and pits.

"Now for the good stuff." she purred. "Stand up."

She lubed his crotch and sac, giving his stiffening prick a few languid strokes for good measure.

"You like that?" she asked.

Pickle held his breath as she shaved his scrotum.

The micron-thin, unyielding edge scraping his most vulnerable skin was both exhilarating and terrifying at once.

"Back in the tub," she said. "Time for a rinse."

She straddled his waist as he reclined in the bathtub and shaved his neck and face, pressing her stiff nipples against his freshly shaved chest. Pickle offered no complaint as she took his eyebrows.

"That's a good boy," she cooed as he rose to towel off.

"How does it feel?"

Nerve endings stood on end like gooseflesh, picking up the slightest air current.

It felt like a breath of frigid air caught in his throat on an icy morning. His skin was electrified.

His dick stood at attention, an angry red color, the head darkening towards purple. It twitched with his heartbeat.

"Let's take it to the bedroom." She said.

She had Pickle lay on the bed, his upper body resting against the headboard. She produced several wide rawhide strips and secured his arms and legs to the head and footboards, spread eagle style.

She stripped off her panties and straddled his hips,

rubbing her perky tits against his chest.

She rubbed her swollen wet labia up and down Pickle's throbbing prong. She was driving him wild.

She placed a foot on either side of him and squatted in his face.

"Smell my pussy," she said. "Taste it."

He eagerly did as she asked.

She edged him to the brink of Nirvana and then backed off,

denying the ecstasy. His hard on bordered on pain.

Pickle understood the significance of the eggplant emoji at last.

"Poor baby. Do you want to cum?"

He did. More than anything. He needed to.

She eased the tip of his penis into her slippery womb

with an otherworldly groan and sumped it to the nuts.

She began to buck and grind like the Sweetheart of the Rodeo.

It was too much sensation for Pickle.

He went over the top and spilled his seed in a series of throbbing pulses.

He felt he was turning inside out, starting with his cramping toes.

He felt each ejaculation as a splashing wave crashing on the heavenly beach of her deliciously tight, hot, wet pussy.

His heart pounded in his ears and his chest heaved

as he gasped for air.

He was spent, bordering on unconsciousness.

"Oh not yet, sweetie." Asdza said. "We're just getting started."

She took the hollow wing bone of a raptor and dipped it in a small pouch of some powder.

She placed one open end in his nostril, the other in her mouth and blew forcefully.

Pickle's world began swirling around him. His hard on instantly revived independently of his desire.

She installed a ball gag. "This may or may not be pleasant." She said.

Her demeanor changed. She got in his face and smiled.

This time her eyes were malevolent slits, her teeth were triangular sickle serrations; baby shark's teeth, locked in a demonic grin.

Her grip was unbelievably strong.

"It's not nice to impersonate the spirits, son," she hissed.

"They don't like it. You're going to have to pay for that."

She held an eagle's talon. Tethered to it was a stone, smoothed by a river's flow. She clubbed him on the shoulder where his arm joined his torso. White-hot pain bolted down his arm to his fingertips. A little more force would break bone.

As she was preparing to take another swing, there was a loud knock at the door.

Asdza paused and listened.

The knock repeated, louder this time and more insistent.

With a grunt of frustration, she went to investigate.

She lifted a slat on the blinds covering the the window to see an old woman accompanied by a large dog. She lowered the slat and considered her options. She wanted nothing to do with the dog.

She looked again and they were gone.

Puzzled, she returned to the task at hand, only to find the bed empty; the headboard in splinters.

Pickle had been scared shitless.

He feared for his life, more than just his safety and health.

He strained against his restraints with all his might,

boosted by surging adrenaline.

Years at the oars of a swiftwater raft came to his aid as the headboard finally gave way.

He quickly undid the rest of the tethers, grabbed a spindle and hid behind the door.

When his captor re-entered the bedroom to investigate, he bashed the back of her head with all his strength and she dropped like she had been shot.

Pickle didn't stick around to see if she lived or died. He pulled on his pants and a shirt and fled the scene barefooted.

He had no idea of a safe haven. He blindly rushed into the night.

Pete. He needed to get to Pete's.

As he ran headlong into the darkness, he felt the presence of an evil force hot on his heels. It spurred him to additional desperation.

An owl brushed his face with silent feathers in flight

and his heart nearly stopped. He increased his pace.

He arrived at the Harper's house sweating and breathless. He felt weak in the knees.

The was no response to his frantic knocking and the door was locked tight. He went to the back door to find the same results.

Light peeked from around the oilcloth hanging in the doorway of the hogan. He approached and called out, "Aunty Nez?"

A small arm reached out to grab him and pulled him inside.

There stood Aiyana Nez, silent and stern. Walter stood by her side. Pickle was never so glad to see another human being

as he was at that moment.

Walter faced the door and a low growl rumbled in his throat.

Aiyana spoke in an ancient Navajo tongue.

"This house has been blessed.

You know you may not enter without invitation. Go away."

There was a screeching reply. A Banshee wail.

Walter tensed and moved toward the doorway.

She restrained him by his collar and bade him stay.

"Wail away, demon. You shall not pass."

The standoff maintained status quo until a mechanical cuckoo clock struck midnight.

At the bird's twelfth cry there was a horrific screech and another wail cut off in mid cry. The air smelled of sulphur.

The tempest had died. The whipping wind was still.

The student weavers were wide-eyed but silent.

Aunty Nez gestured Pickle toward the door.

There was no sleep for Vinny Garoppolo that night. He drank Fireball whiskey with a shaking hand. At sunrise he added coffee.

Mid-morning he went to visit Enola's gallery. There were rugs and ceramics on display.

Sand paintings behind framed glass were impossibly detailed. Some figures were defined by just a few grains.

He was surrounded by beauty above and below.

Enola and a woman conferred at a counter.

"Mr Pickle, what has become of your eyebrows?" Enola exclaimed.

The woman turned to look at him. It was none other than Asdza,

with a sample of jewelry laid out for appraisal.

"You stay away from me!" He backed away.

"Excuse me? Have we met?"

Aunty Nez crossed Pickle's path. He grabbed her, hugged her tightly and kissed her full on the mouth.

She showed just a trace of a smile.

This is my contribution to the haunted holiday. I hope I didn't scared anyone too badly.

The songs listed from the bottomless jukebox are available for listening on YouTube music.

Boo Ya