Something in the house was watching me! I could feel it, like tepid fingers that trailed across my skin, only to vanish as my eyes darted to seek the source.
I stirred in my sleep, the Presence filling my mind as it had so many times since my arrival. The familiar languor of acceptance flowed over me once more, warm and liquid, and I shamelessly parted my legs in welcome, but welcoming... what?
Slowly, almost tentatively it began the same silken caress that had assailed me scant moments before, but this time not of my own hand. Now, a sense of urgency had been added to the plan, a hunger that had been a faint undercurrent only moments before.
My hands lay at my sides, clenching the sheet beneath. What was happening?
I felt my pulse quicken, my breath coming in shallow gasps as my fingers sought the brass rails above my head. A pause, and then I sensed it. Almost weightless it was, but covering my body with seductive ease as it traveled across my skin.
Slowly the coverlet began to curl towards the foot of the bed, the victim of unseen hands, unknown will. I whimpered. It was a dream, just a dream, no more than that! Surely, I would open my eyes and find nothing but the dance of shadows in the moonlight.
But I didn't. I couldn't.
Instead, I arched my back, anticipating what was to come, feeling the slow trickle of passion building between my thighs. My skin prickled, and I felt the hem of my flimsy nightshirt drift above my hips, baring my hungry flesh as it made its way upward to strip the last vestige of modesty from my body.
I sighed, a desperate sound that escaped from a place deep within, then released the head rails as my garment slipped over my hands and floated to the floor beside the bed.
Exposed, so exposed, I felt my nipples harden, an offering perhaps, an uncontrollable response to an unfathomable stimulus.
Another pause, and then it continued. A lick, a taste, a voracious seduction consumed my straining flesh, a warm, wet assault that captured my senses and caused me to part my thighs even further until the tips of my toes brushed wantonly against the corner posts of the footboard.
Immediately I was rewarded, for in an instant the solitary space below my mound was solitary no longer. Instead, I felt the subtly erotic exploration of (fingers?) parting my moist, trembling petals, opening wide the last bastion of my femininity, invading and conquering my sex with eager intent.
I moaned, softly at first, then shamelessly as the tiny nub of my passion came under assault. A tongue, (What else could it have been?), swirled seductively within my parted slit, driving me to the edges of insanity. Strong hands held me fast as I writhed upon the crumpled sheets, taking what had been offered and demanding more. I cried out in abandonment, my body shaking as I gave myself up.
"No more. No more", I whimpered, humiliated by my weakness, my shamelessness. But I knew there would be more. I knew it...and I wanted it.
Where once had dwelt an unlived life, now lay a brilliant vibrancy that I had never before known. Let there be tonight, and the next, and a thousand nights to come.
Tomorrow was an essay in predictability, lukewarm and staid, a tentative passing of pale monotony. Only in the colorless realm behind my eyelids existed the pulsating reality that I craved. If it was a dream, only a dream, then I longed to remain in the world of shadows forever.
Let the dream never end.
Chapter One
I bought it sight unseen.
Isn't that the way things are these days? We gather our cloistered little spaces around us, fill them with technology and then call it life. At least that's how it was for me until I first met Eric online.
He seemed charming from the start, a gentle prince hidden incongruously within a web of salacious perversion. How could I help but be drawn to him? Together we made a whole, yin and yang so to speak, my thoughts in his mind, his words escaping through my lips. Was it any wonder that we decided to meet in the real world?
And so, setting up a time to gather at The Espresso Emporium, I prepared for the momentous occasion. A haircut...no a style...oh hell, why not a perm? A manicure, pedicure and a facial. A make-over, that's what I needed I thought, scanning the dowdy frump that peered back from the stark reality of the bathroom mirror. When was the last time I'd really worked on my appearance?
Forlornly, I evaluated the pale visage in the glass. When had I grown so sallow? My hair, once a sun-streaked mass of vibrant auburn curls, now lay like the nap of an old shag carpet, a product of the intense neglect that become part and parcel of my new career.
I was an author. My first book had sold 10 copies on its first day. By the end of the week, the number had crept up to a modest 29 nationwide. Only the proprietors of those small, odd bookstalls that line the backstreets of college towns had even been aware that I existed. Then had come The Review.
Suddenly I was "brilliant", "inspiring", "Virginia Danvers, our new guide into the world of the paranormal". Sales skyrocketed, and in no time my book was selling more copies than the publisher could print. Book tours took me from whistle-stop to metropolis and back again...and the royalties poured in.
And so, I'd leased a wonderful "perfect 8" in a brownstone on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, overlooking the park, and settled down to craft a sequel. The hours were long, and the work consuming. Days, then weeks went by without more than a fleeting contact with a single living soul. Pizza boxes and empty cartons of Chinese take-out filled my trash receptacle. If not for the occasional cruise on the internet, I would have been closed off entirely, alone in a city of millions.
Then I'd met Eric online.
At first he seemed as reluctant as I to become involved, to offer trust in such an insecure venue, but eventually we discovered the intimate alcoves of each other's minds and knew that our interconnection had outgrown the innocuous maze of wires and space that joined us. We had to meet.
A coffee shop, set in the bustle of Times Square seemed the perfect solution. There, among the safe and impersonal push of humanity we could probe our blossoming relationship without the obligation of commitment or the awkwardness of more intimate solitude. It was perfect!
If I had expected my erstwhile Don Juan to appear in a different shell than that which he had offered in his online profile, then I was perhaps more surprised to find that he hadn't. Instead, if anything, the handsome smile that had graced his profile was even more alluring in person. His voice, now free of internet static, was clear and evocative, something from girlish fantasies and every bit as consuming. I found myself immediately taken in. I had found my soul mate.
We began dating, and the work on my new manuscript slowed to a snail's pace. But, I was happy! Each new day carried a special dawn, an intimate promise of things to come.
That Eric vacillated when I asked for his home telephone number, and offered only a temporary address at the Warwick Inn in Queens seemed unimportant. There were perfectly plausible reasons, I rationalized. I had Eric, and that was all that mattered.
Then came the phone calls.
At first he called each morning to see if I was at home in case he should drop by for a moment. Then the calls escalated to twice and three times per day, with my lover upset if my phone, which was frequently turned off when I was working, was left unanswered. Angry messages began to fill my machine. Paranoid fantasies, enraged accusations, and finally threats began arriving almost hourly. At long last, after a rare trip to the pharmacy for sleeping pills to ease my distress, I returned to find my apartment ransacked, my clothing slashed and my computer all but destroyed. The tape on my answering machine was missing, and I knew who had invaded my apartment. Without proof, however, the police were helpless. I was trapped.
I stayed at home after that, afraid to brave the streets with Eric stalking somewhere beyond. The phone rang incessantly now, but when I grew brave enough to answer, only the solitary click of a distant receiver was to be heard. Finally, even that became too much and I unplugged it for the last time. Only my internet connection remained to kept me sane, but when that too became fraught with constant IM's and threateningly duplicitous e-mails from Eric, the situation became more than I could bear. I should have created a new log-in, a new screen name, but instead I decided to create a new life, a distant one...one without Eric.
And so I bought it sight unseen from an online realtor in Arizona. A cabin in the Tonto National Forest, remote and rustic, devoid of the modern trappings I had come to depend upon so very much. Instead of electric bills, I would have the steady hum of a generator. A private well would provide for my input, and a septic tank for my downloads. A cell phone whose use was limited to an area atop the steep escarpment beyond was my only form of intercourse, and a small manual typewriter my only companion. It was perfection. Eric wouldn't find me there. No one could find me there.
It had been called Mogollon Ranch when it had last been occupied. But that was over 40 years ago and had served a modest trickle of elk hunters on their quest for the perfect rack. Fifty years before that it had been the site of a silver mine, a failed prospect whose only vestiges were the tailings that sat as mute reminders between the cabin and mine access beyond. It was said that there were still mineral deposits to be had there, but the miners had chosen for some unfathomable reason to vanish one spring and never return, and no one had ventured to take their place.
Fifteen hundred years before that, the site had been the home of cliff-dwellers, an ancient tribe of southwest natives whose only local legacies were the petroglyphs and smoke stained caverns that dotted the hillside nearby. They too had vanished and formed the stuff that tales are made of, another legend of the Mogollon Rim country.
The land itself had, in its infancy, been first a seabed then a caldron of volcanic upheaval. That had eventually lead to a geologic fracture of cosmic proportions that had formed a mile-high escarpment, below which my log sanctuary now stood in patient abandon. Now, surrounded by a ponderosa forest that had no earthly place in Arizona, it sat in wait for its next inhabitant.
Me.
