Anya sat on an aged marble tomb, reading Finnegan's Wake - Joyce's great death prose - and sketching and scribbling ideas into her black leather bound journal. She had just turned eighteen and she spent most of her nights in the local cemetery, often alone, listening and waiting. She only wore black - tonight, a black velvet and lace long-sleeved dress that grazed her ankles, a black velour trenchcoat to keep her warm in the winter air. She wore chunky creeper shoes, red and white striped socks, her long platinum blonde hair out. Her appearance was shocks of black on white - wide black ringed eyes, dark lipstick, pale soft skin - and she styled herself this way. This was a time before mobile phones permeated sociality and her night was set - reading and pondering, under the navy twilight, just her and the tombstones and gently swishing trees and bushes. No one came to a cemetery at night, especially in her quiet tree-lined suburb on the outskirts of her city. Well - no one except for her - and sometimes her best friend Yvette, who was very similar, only not quite as wild as Anya.
She had a bottle of Jameson, which increased the unreality of the scene. A cynical atheist, Anya didn't believe in the supernatural but fervently wished that, one of these drunken lonesome weird nights, she would run into something. She would read gravestones and fantasise about the young deceased men and women who sounded particularly delectable - the ones who would make sexy sprites, hot dead love slaves. She was beautiful, always being pursued by the best looking guys at her school and in her social circles and sometimes dating, but these mere boys bored her. She wanted excitement, something special. Her imagination was vivid, crazed and lustful. Plain straight sex disappointed her. She was seeking something else, something transcendent and tremendously unique - something no-one else could have. The cool breeze caught her flowing pale blonde hair and she tightened the coat around her large breasts, fumbling in her bag for the Jameson to warm her up.
Anya drank from her bottle, her world spinning as she laid back onto the cold stone, staring up at the sky. She ran her hands down her large round breasts, sighing. Warm wetness gathered in her pussy. She heard bushes close by rustle - maybe feral rabbits, something small - and she didn't respond, gazing at the stars and conjuring an undead Dorian Grey in her mind, a beautiful sexually ambiguous dandy with a feminine face and a masculine touch. Perhaps with sharp nasty teeth to run over her breasts, erect nipples...then lower, over her protruding clit, driving her closer to the edge of ecstasy. She worked her hand up her skirt and pulled aside her panties, circling around her swelling clit. Pleasure surged through her and she opened her legs wider, adding some fingers into her pussy hole for extra stimulation. She sighed as she felt her orgasm build and approach, her eyes open a slit and she gasped as she came, her body bucking on the grave. She licked her hand clean of her delicious sex nectar, still horny and wanting more. She sat up on her elbow, swilling more Irish whisky as she looked around the tombs, the dark landscape. About a mile away, on the quiet dirt road, the occasional pair of headlights floated through the blackness. Anya's blood red sedan was parked in dense bush on the edge of the cemetery, obscured from security that someone was inside. She hadn't been found as of yet. And she doubted a security guard would really care about a young woman reading and writing amongst the ruined old tombs. She might even manipulate him to drive off and get her something else to drink. Anya found men too easy to control; they were helpless to do what she wanted them to, like eager to please puppets.
She put her whisky in her black knapsack and pulled out the Robitussin, it was time for shit to get really weird. Yvette wasn't here to scold her so why not mix it with whisky and intensify her trip. She finished the entire bottle, wincing at the revolting cherry flavour and tossed the empty into the bag, lying back onto the stone. She closed her eyes, strange dissociation washing over her, making her skin prickle before numbness set in. After some time, she sat up, blearily looking around as she tossed her books into her bag and decided to go for a walk. Her legs were stiff from the drug and she was dizzy and disinterested in walking very far. She staggered along the narrow path, surrounded by graves and long grass, her walk zombie-like. The local cemetery was small and she had explored most of it. However, she found herself in the eastern corner, which pushed against dense woods and was overrun with brambles and longer grass, staring around glassily. The graves were much older, most crumbled down and unreadable.
Anya paused at one of the crooked crucifix marble stones, swaying as she fell to her knees to squint at the imprinted old typeface. She didn't notice her bare knee cutting open on the sharp gravel or the trickle of blood. 'L'il Johnny..." she read, in the emerging silvery moonlight. She read: 'deceased 15th May, 1899, aged 22..." That was tonight's date, midnight had just turned over.
"How about you come visit me, L'il Johnny?" she murmured, getting to her feet. "I need a nice stiff cock in me." She giggled fiendishly, lewdly swaying her hips and grinding on the spot over his grave before returning to the path. She kept walking, pausing at the point where the stone path ended. Her vision was impaired and she squinted down at the grass that tickled her mid-thigh, looking at the suggestions of gravel underneath. Impulsively, she waded into the grass and kept moving, gazing around for hidden tombstones. She paused to look at some ruined stones and kept walking woodenly into the depths of the cemetery. Suddenly, she saw a huge white shape along the boundary, poking slightly out of the woods. It was a weatherboard house! Anya had never noticed this before. It was two-storey, with a broad verandah. She kept walking, spellbound and curious. She saw a small house-shaped unit next to the large structure. An outhouse? Once closer, she realised it was a stone mausoleum. Foreboding set in, cool in the pit of her stomach.
Anya was yards away from the house now, she could see how it had fallen into disrepair and rot. She recalled childhood stories about a house of killers in a white house - she had thought it was the desolate big white house on the hill that was two blocks behind her home, she had broken into it with friends and conducted 'ghost tours' before the state made it into a day center for the mentally ill. But perhaps this was really Red Face's House? The childish story, which had no confirming newspaper articles and few adult supporters to back it up, suddenly seemed plausible and credible. The old house glowed brilliantly in the moonlight, almost spotlit, inviting Anya and enticing her to enter. She recalled the mythos - the story of the beast-like and inhuman brother caged downstairs, the murderous Red Face, named as such due to a scarring fire and other illiterate crazy family members, who never left the confines of their home. It was rumoured they were inbred - some hideously scarred from the fire, some deformed much like the caged brother, only less ghastly. The house became empty in the 1970s when the beast-like brother broke free of his cage and enacted bloody revenge on his family, even ripping flesh off the bodies and consuming it. The brother had been found dangling on from a noose on a nearby tree, outside from the carnage and house was said to be haunted by evil.
Anya felt hot all over - flushed, excited and fascinated at the prospect that she had located Red Face's House. She walked around the mausoleum, seeing it had 'STARK' written above the door. She didn't know the names of the crazy people, the name could be Stark. She turned to the house, looking at the wooden stairs leading up to the wide verandah. Weeds and bushes poked through the stairs and from underneath the house. The cool breeze caught them, making them dance and goosebumps rose on Anya's skin as her hair ruffled behind her, streaming like a flag. Dazed from the whisky and drug, she studied the house, listening to a loose board creaking and slapping inside. She thinks; this breeze isn't that strong, to make that kind of racket? The board pounds a staccato beat, groaning eerily. It beckons to her, it presents a mystery, an unexplainable. She walked up to the stairs, thinking that it almost sounded like someone banging against the walls - an imprisoned beast-man perhaps, trying to break free - and the thought of this sent a thrill through her.
She tested the first step - it held her weight - and she stepped up, the first, the second. Long grass brushed up her dress, tickling her bare knees. Anya grabbed her long skirt, pulling it up so she could climb the stairs easily and then she was on the rickety verandah, the boards creaking underneath her creeper shoes. She turned to look behind her, feeling like she was being watched - but just darkness, swaying grass and bushes and lonesome tombs stood silently. She took a deep breath and tried the doorknob. It started to move, then stopped. She dipped into her bag, finding a hairpin and the old lock was easy to pick. The door was stuck, due to the wood swelling in the recent rains and mists and she had to pull hard. Once inside, the air was musty and smelled like dead rats. She covered her nose with her hand and looked around, relying on the slivers of moonlight coming inside the broken windows. The banging board was upstairs and her curiosity burned. She set a foot on the first step. It groaned conspicuously and she winced, but kept climbing, her hand on the thick timber railing to steady herself. One stair gave out, rotten, as her foot left it and she gasped, surprised. The drug made her reactions sluggish and the stupidity of her situation confronted her. She promised herself that she would leave after she looked upstairs.
Anya reached the top, entering a dim narrow hall and looking around. The banging came from the end room. She was feeling increasingly strange and floaty from the drug and whisky. She passed closed, slightly ajar, white doors. The wallpapered walls were water-damaged and peeling. The smell was pungent up here, thick and invasive. Her hand caught the oval brass door handle of the end room and she twisted it, pushing inwards. The room was full of boxes, crates and it had a bed with a steel frame. Next to the bed was a bulky hunched figure. The noise came from the figure, who was rocking, repeatedly banging his skull on the wall in front of him. Anya gasped loudly and the figure froze. The head swung around and his huge face was awful; askew bulging eyes with sagging bottom eyelids, hollowed out eye sockets, hooked long nose, sloped mouth, bald shiny head. He was perhaps in his twenties, but so hideous, so deformed - with his massive bulbous head and face - it was difficult to even conceive him as human.
