Wife Comes Calling...

Author's Notes: This story has been posted to Literotica.Com with the full knowledge of the original author, JimBob44. No part or whole of this story may be reprinted in any other format or on any other web site without the express written consent of the original author.

Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

This story has been edited by myself, using Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned; expect to find mistakes.

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Zechariah Smith stumbled out of the Wild Bull Saloon, almost falling onto his face as he tripped over a nonexistent obstacle. Using the rough-hewn post that held up the wooden awning for support, he steadied himself. He remained still for a few moments, musing over his long trek home.

With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the post and said, "The journey shant conclude lest the journey has begun so best begin."

Then, humming a hymn he remembered from his childhood, he stepped from the wooden walkway to the alley beside the Saloon. Drunk though he was, Zechariah did cast a long glance along the dark alleyway for any unwelcome inhabitants. He had no wish to be robbed of his coins, or of his very life.

"Should've brought Jordan," Zechariah mumbled to himself, breaking off before singing the chorus to the hymn. "He knows the way home."

The late October night was a chilly night and Zechariah drew his thin jacket a little tighter about himself. The heavens were clear and the stars twinkled in the inky blackness of the western sky. Just over his shoulder, the pale moon shared her light upon the lonely path from the Wild Bull Saloon to his small shack near the rail station.

"Greetings and a good evening to you Zechariah Smith," Elizabeth Smith said, her scratchy voice rasping as she stepped onto the path.

"I, you, Eli... Elizabeth?" Zechariah drew himself up short as his wife of eighteen years appeared before him.

"Yes," Elizabeth smiled her familiar self-satisfied smile.

My love for the drink has finally become my downfall; I have become addled," Zechariah claimed, seeing the beautiful Elizabeth standing before him, the pale moonlight making her whitish-blonde hair and fine alabaster skin appear more pale than usual.

"As I had stated more than once," Elizabeth agreed.

"But you are not here," Zechariah demanded, growing agitated. "I myself did drive that stake through your unfaithful heart. I myself took hammer and drove that spike through and through."

"Ah, that you did, that you did," Elizabeth agreed, unfastening the ribbons that held her bodice closed. "Each blow of your hammer did cause great torment to my soul."

"Impossible," Zechariah insisted. "Truly, you have no soul, you deceitful, adulterous harlot."

"Vile. Do not forget; you did love to call me 'Vile,'" Elizabeth tittered, pulling her bodice open.

Zechariah gasped as Elizabeth bared her bosom. Nestled between her two delightful orbs of pale flesh, each capped with pale pink areolae and thick nipples was a gaping wound. Against her pale flesh, the dried flecks of blood from the punctured chest appeared almost black.

"I, but, but how? I did drive the stake in as fully and as completely as I could," Zechariah demanded, tearing his eyes from the sight of her wound.

"Ah, but you do remember Thomas? Dear, sweet Thomas? Who was so enamored of myself?" Elizabeth asked, refastening her bodice.

"Thomas? Foolish Thomas?" Zechariah inquired. "Perhaps you have not heard, but Thomas Burke has met his end, murdered by a wild beast just a few nights past."

"Wild beast? Indeed?" Elizabeth inquired, her mirth ill-contained.

"To be sure. His very throat was ripped open by the fangs of a ferocious beast," Zechariah informed her.

"Yes, well, once he came to me and did pull the stake from my corpse, what further need did I have of the simpleton?" Elizabeth smiled widely, showing Zechariah her blood-tinged teeth.

"AH! You? You are truly evil! Evil Incarnate!" Zechariah declared, throwing up his arm in a vain hope to ward this creature away.

"Yes, yes, you've said as much," Elizabeth smirked, stepping close to Zechariah.

Gripping his head in a surprisingly strong grip, Elizabeth stared deeply into Zechariah's frightened eyes. Her own eyes seemed to burn with a flame within as she stared into his eyes.

"Yes, yes, that's it, my beloved husband," Elizabeth purred. "My eyes, do look into my eyes."

"Beloved! How you mocked me, how you were unfaithful with any man that granted a smile your way?" Zechariah protested weakly.

"Oh, dear Zechariah, your pride. How easily your pride was wounded," Elizabeth clucked her tongue. "Those men? They were but passing fancies; playthings. They were only to fritter the time away whilst I waited for you to come to our bedchamber."

"Passing..." Zechariah weakly protested, his drunken face becoming slack as he stared into her glittering eyes.

"Yes. Passing fancies. They were there to satisfy a carnal urge within my loins," Elizabeth explained. "Nothing more. My heart? My heart did belong only to you, my beloved."

The drunken man said nothing, staring blankly at his deceased wife. Still holding onto his head, Elizabeth stepped up and placed her lips upon his slack mouth. Stepping back, she smiled, again revealing her blood tinged teeth.

"A pity you did not comprehend, darling Zechariah," Elizabeth whispered, her raspy voice caressing his ear. "The physical? And the emotional? They are not true passion. The physical and the emotional are but fleeting; my passions, my heart was always true, true to youZechariah Emmanuel Smith."

Losing the smile, she pointed to her chest, to the gaping wound hidden beneath her bodice. Her eyes flashed with bitterness and her lips curled down in raw animosity.

"But you, with your pride and your anger. You destroyed my heart. The damage of each blow from your mallet did completely devastate my passion, my love for you," Elizabeth declared, her voice a hoarse snarl.

Elizabeth moved to strike her husband. Suddenly, she stopped, seemingly losing her resolve. A moment passed; then a feral smile creased her lips.

"If only it were so easy, Zechariah. If only to kill you as I did the fool Thomas Burke. And yes, that would satisfy my vengeful nature. But your suffering? Would be over before it truly began," Elizabeth cursed.

Her smile widened and again, her blood tinged teeth were visible in the pale moonlight. Looking about, she determined that they were still alone on this path. Once more, she peered deeply into her thrall's eyes.

"Our daughter," Elizabeth hissed in a seductive tone. "Is our Mary, Zechariah, do tell, is our Mary still pure?"

"Mary? Why, yes, yes she is still chaste?" Zechariah mumbled, tone flat. "Even as she is nearly as beautiful as I believed you to be once upon a time, she has not been with a man. Though she has had many young lads express their intent, she has remained unsullied."

"Oh glory be," Elizabeth cackled gleefully. "The blood, oh! The blood of a pure, unsullied maiden! My strength, my strength shall know no boundaries!"

"You, your daughter? You, you would..." Zechariah asked.

"And your pain would know no boundaries," Elizabeth hissed hatefully, staring once more into her husband's eyes. "Losing your precious daughter? Your torment would be endless; would haunt you 'til the end of time, Zechariah Emmanuel Smith. The very end of time."

Grabbing Zechariah's arm in a fierce grip, Elizabeth twisted him until his feet pointed toward the small hovel the husband, wife, and lovely daughter had all shared for their years together. With an urgent stride, Elizabeth bade her husband to walk.

"The ground is cold," Elizabeth complained as they stepped, Zechariah's shuffling gait setting their pace. "In death? The darkness has no end, but in truth, it is the cold, the constant cold... Oh! Oh, and the crushing loneliness. How could you imprison me in the cold earth, Zechariah? With no more than a rough-hewn pine shell for comfort?"

"You were dead. What need shall the dead have of comforts?" Zechariah stated, tone flat, monotonous.

"Could you walk no faster, you drunken fool?" Elizabeth demanded, attempting to pull the drunken man along.

His weight and entranced state, coupled with the vast quantities of alcohol defied her attempts to hurry him along. With a huff of impatience, Elizabeth continued to plod alongside her husband. Soon, they arrived at the small shack. In the attached stable, Jordan, Zechariah's trusty horse and Eden, Elizabeth's former mount neighed and nickered in terror. Zechariah gave no heed to the alarm of the faithful beasts as he stepped onto the wooden porch in front of his abode.

"May I enter?" Elizabeth cooed as Zechariah opened the door.

Zechariah stared at her for a long moment. Losing patience, Elizabeth shoved him backward into the hovel. But she could not cross the threshold of the open door.

"Zechariah, my beloved, may I enter?" Elizabeth begged.

"I, yes, yes, do enter," Zechariah agreed.

With a sigh of relief, Elizabeth stepped into the small wooden structure. She glanced about at the familiar table and chairs, the pot-bellied stove, the worn but still quite colorful cloth rug in front of what had been her soft upholstered chair. She could hear the soft and rhythmic 'tick-tick-tick' of the wind-up Grandfather clock that stood in the corner. She was certain that the chimes had not been repaired; the clock still kept perfect time but did not ring out the hour. The damage had occurred when they'd fled Missouri, fled the cursed war.

"The girl?" Elizabeth demanded. "Where is the girl?"

"Our daughter? She is in her bedchambers; it is late at night," Zechariah said.

"That it is," Elizabeth said, noting the hour on the face of the Grandfather clock.

Elizabeth cringed as the door of Mary's bedchamber squeaked loudly. She paused, listening and was grateful when she heard the eighteen year old girl's soft breathing. It was the breathing of a deep, contented sleep.

"And soon," Elizabeth cackled. "Your sleep shall be eternal, my dear girl."

Zechariah watched as Elizabeth approached the partially covered form of their daughter. Mary's large breasts jutted out, rising and falling with each breath. Her golden hair lay in a tousled web across her soft pillow. Her soft pink lips curved upward even as she slept; she was obviously enjoying the dreams of an innocent child.

Slowly, oh so slowly lest a floorboard give out a squeak, Elizabeth tread across the floor to where the girl lay. She paused and stared down at the sleeping child for a long moment. Then, turning slightly, Elizabeth peered over her shoulder at her husband. Her eyes glittered with a maniacal hatred. Then, opening her mouth wide, Elizabeth turned and faced the sleeping girl again. Some saliva dripped from her teeth as she poised.

The bell from the Methodist church chimed the first bell of Midnight. Before the sound fully died away, the first chime sounded from the Baptist church that sat directly across from the railway station. The second chime of the Methodist church sounded just a moment after the first chime of St. Anthony's Catholic Church sounded.

Zechariah came out of his trance upon the first chime. His vision cleared upon the sound of the chime from the Baptist Church. The chime of the Catholic Church's bell spurred him into action.

From the wall near the door of the home, Zechariah grabbed the sword his grandfather had worn as a Calvary Officer during the War of 1812. Unsheathing the heavy blade, Zechariah raced to his daughter's bedroom.

Just as Elizabeth bent at the waist, preparing to sink her fangs into Mary's exposed throat, Zechariah's blade struck.

With an agonized shriek, Elizabeth's head fell from her shoulders and rolled to the far side of the room. Her headless form collapsed onto the floor. In her skull, Elizabeth's eyes rolled wildly until they saw Zechariah. As the glitter slowly faded, she stared malevolently at him.

Suddenly, the head and the body burst into flames. Quickly, though, both head and body were thoroughly consumed, leaving behind a blackened ash.

Grabbing a straw broom and tin dustpan, Zechariah swept the ashes of his wife's head onto the dustpan. Stepping outside, Zechariah listened to the final chimes of Midnight sounding out.

He dumped the ashes of his wife's head onto the dirt path that led to the Methodist Church to the north and the Baptist Church to the west.

Returning to Mary's bedchamber, Zechariah saw that the strands of the straw broom were rapidly corroding. He labored to hurry; there was much more blackened ash to gather from the remains of Elizabeth's diseased body. Again, he disposed of the ash onto the path that the faithful would use to go to their chosen house of worship. Elizabeth's blackened soul would be trod into the dirt. Some of her ash would be tracked into the Methodist Church and some of her ash would be carried on the soles of shoes and boots into the Baptist Church. The last of her ashes were spread out along the path that led to the Catholic Church.

"This way, you evil harlot, your ashes shall forever remain scattered, never to join again," Zechariah smiled in triumph.

Zechariah's final act was to pull the bottle of rotgut from his jackets deep inside pocket. Settling his weary bones onto the wooden porch, he pulled the cork from the mouth of the bottle. He then took a deep, satisfying gulp from the bottle of cheap whiskey.

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"Father, father, do rise," Mary's displeased voice roused him from his drunken slumber.

Zechariah slowly came to, leaning heavily against the support beam of his porch. Next to him, his nearly emptied bottle of rotgut lay on its side. Zechariah plucked the bottle from the wooden porch and swigged the last gulp from the bottle. Then, rising to unsteady legs, he turned to see the reproachful eyes of his beloved daughter Mary.

"Father, all the drinking, the gallivanting around, the gambling... It shall not free you from her, from her memories," Mary declared.

"No, no, I do suppose you are right," Zechariah smiled.

Mary appeared startled at his response. She studied his eyes for a long moment. Then, with downcast lips, she shook her head in disapproval at the sorry state of his appearance.

Turning, she saw the pockmarked dustbin and the broomstick leaning against the outer wall of their home. The few straws that were still attached to the hickory stick were scorched, blackened. She began to ask her father what had become of the newly refurbished broom, then shook her head, sure she would not get a coherent answer from the drunkard.

"Your meal is growing cold," Mary said, stepping into the home.

"Then I should not wait," Zechariah agreed cheerfully, following his daughter into the home.

"But, to speak of Mother, I did have the most unusual of dreams last night," Mary said as the bells of St. Anthony's began to peal, calling the faithful to morning mass.

"Hmm?" Zechariah asked, spooning his lumpy porridge into his mouth.

"Yes. I dreamt she came to visit me," Mary agreed, tasting her own porridge with a slight grimace.

"Hmm," Zechariah mused, swallowing the unsweetened mush.

"And, why is Great-Grandfather's sword lying on the floor in my bedchamber?" Mary asked.

"Today. It is All Saints Day today, is it not?" Zechariah asked as the bells continued to chime.

"Hmm; yesterday was All Hallows Eve, so, yes, yes, today is indeed All Saints Day," Mary agreed, stuffing another spoonful of the porridge into her mouth.

A horse and carriage trotted past the house, on its way to St. Anthony's Catholic Church. Lively voices could be heard and Mary twisted her head toward the window. At that moment, Zechariah paled as he saw two small gouges along Mary's exposed throat.

The End.

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**Author's Notes. I write these stories for my pleasure; I post them here for your enjoyment. I thank you sincerely for reading my stories. I especially thank those that leave comments, good and bad. Likewise, I also thank those that take the time to rate my words, those that 'Favorite' my work.

This story is written for the Halloween 2024 story contest. Please be sure to take a moment and cast your vote for this and for any other stories from the other excellent writers that post for this contest. Thank you in advance.

Also, there are no characters from any other JimBob44 story appearing in this tale.

Have a swell day. And some of you, have a swollen day.