Gateway Ch 02

CHAPTER 2: JACOB

If that appearance I encountered in the hallway was what scared the other buyers of the house off over the years, it had a different effect on me. Could it have been the wine? Or, was it my already peaked arousal? Or, could it merely have been that in the short time since my arrival I had committed to new experiences and opportunities for both my personal and professional lives? Whatever I saw, it had quite an effect on me.

After the apparition disappeared, I continued to my bedroom, turned off the hall light but stood there. I turned on the hall light, again, and checked the hall. It was, of course, empty. I closed my bedroom door for perhaps the first time since moving in. Even lying in bed, I gave a nervous giggle at the idea. Did I think a closed door would stop an apparition ... a spirit ... a ghost? I lay on top of the sheet, still naked, a comfortable buzz in my head from the wine, a warm hum still flowing throughout my body. It wasn't my imagination, I was flushed. Did I believe I saw that in the hall? Did I think it was real? I didn't know what to think, but my fingers weren't limited by what I might think. My fingers were rolling and teasing my nipples, my other hand and fingers stroking lightly over my stomach, abdomen, and down over my pussy.

My legs opened, knees raised and splayed to the sides. The light from the moon and stars sent shadows through the French door with the softly moving sheer curtains. I wondered if the shadows were him. Him? Shadow? My mind flashes to the shadow that passed before the mirror when ... when ... when I teased, taunted and pleasured myself. My God ... was the shadow him? Had he watched me? The voice I heard in my head, that deeper voice ... was that him? Who was he? My eyes searched as the shadows moved but my fingers continued my light arousal. Why didn't the appearance, the thought of the apparition, scare me? Instead, the idea of the apparition suggested a reason for the feeling I had always had about the house, the feeling that the house had an energy, an energy that seemed to feed me and fuel me.

So, with my mind pulling forward what I had seen, or thought I had seen, in the hallway moments before, I brazenly, greedily probed my pussy with two fingers as my other hand twisted, pulled, and pinched my erect nipples. And, it felt so brazen ... so exhibitionistic ... so lewd. Was I displaying myself to him ... to it? Was I flaunting my need? This time I didn't look in the mirror for an exhibitionistic feeling. This time I imagined him.

As I entered Book Space, Marge's bookstore, and sometimes a realty office, the bell attached to the top of the frame dinged as the door opened and again when it closed. There were three other women in the shop, all middle-aged or older. Marge turned from one of the women, a bright smile coming over her face at seeing me.

"Ladies," she said to the others in the store, "I know you gossips have heard someone has purchased Gateway House. Ladies," she moved to me and took my arm in hers as the other women gathered in front, "this is Lexy Dorman, our new town celebrity."

One of the women gasped. She was maybe a bit too old for the makeup and hairstyling and a couple buttons too many opened on her blouse for her weight but was clearly her accepted image. "THE Lexy Dorman?"

The other women gathered closer, their collective eyes moving from Marge to me and back to Marge for the answer they all seemed very intent on hearing. Marge patted my arm and her face glowed with the apparent honor of being the first in the community to appear to be my friend. "YES! THAT Lexy Dorman. And, NOW she's living right HERE!"

It was almost embarrassing ... almost. I smiled until I thought my face might start hurting. They fawned about my books, how much they all loved them, even the last two. They all seemed in agreement that they were not up to my standard but weren't as bad as the reviewers said. I had apparently moved into a hotbed of my fans. So, I gushed back to them.

"You are so nice." I paused to appear as if a thought had just come to me, "Since we're going to be such friends, I'm sure you have ideas for me ..." They all nodded excitedly. "Ohhhh, I know ... what do you think about maybe being written into a scene of a book? You know ... a full description of yourself, even your name, if you want?" Oh, that hit the spot. I'd never done anything like that but this was a small town and fitting in was going to be different, not the anonymity of the big city.

Finally, I took my opportunity. "Can I steal Marge away for a few moments?"

Marge was puzzled, then worried. She led me into the back where she had her office that obviously shared functions for both the bookstore and her few realty listings.

"Did something happen?" After closing the door and we both sat, her behind her desk and me in a visitor chair in front, she nervously blurted it out. "Did something happen in the house to you, too? You aren't wanting to back out of it, are you?"

I chuckled to reassure her. "No, no ... I love the house. I love the peace, and the views, I even love the way it creaks and talks in the wind. The sounds remind me of my grandparents' house on the farm." She leaned back into her chair relieved. I smiled at her. "I want to know more about Gateway. I know it's old ... back to the mid-1800s... but who built it, who lived there, and what was it for? I mean, a house like that in the middle of nothing else like it? There is no indication of a big, sprawling farm, orchard, or vineyard."

Marge rose, turned to her 4-drawer file cabinet, and pulled out a file pocket. She cleared off space on her desk and started pulling out documents, clippings, and pictures. The original owner was Jonathan Hardaway. He was a sociology professor from back east and had been teaching at the University of California for some years. He had been caught by the diversity of people in the region and the lack of opportunity for some. He had an idea that received little acceptance so he put his idea into action himself. He believed that people weren't limited by what family they were born into or the economic condition they were brought up in. It was an idea that wouldn't get serious consideration for generations. To prove his point, he used up all his savings and inherited wealth to move and build an estate. The grounds included the house, the only piece still remaining, a dormitory, barn, and shop building. The dormitory would house up to a dozen young men. The other buildings and the house would be classroom and skills training. Each young man would go through aptitude testing and then focused skills training. In the end, there were 10 young men.

"The end? When was that?"

A sad sigh escaped from Marge. She dug through her files and notes. "Less than a year."

"A year?" Why so short, I wondered. "Did the locals object? Was he driven out? What happened?"

"There are some notes in journals I've recovered that indicate Gateway was received with mixed feelings. Remember it was an even smaller town back then. Some didn't like the intrusion of suddenly having about a dozen young men of mixed heritage brought into the area. Some, though, saw it as a potential source of labor and skilled tradesmen, if Hardaway was successful. No ... fire. Accounts and journals indicate that it was horrible." She stopped as if she didn't want to say more.

"How many?"

She sighed, "All." She glanced up at me, "All the young men died. Documents point to the boiler of the furnace in the dormitory. It was a particularly cold night ... the thought was that the furnace had been stoked too high, it ruptured sometime during the night, and fire spread quickly in the wood structure ... the boys ... were trapped. Some were found in the remains still in their beds."

I stared at a blemish on the desktop. It was unimportant but something to hold my eyes rather than Marge's eyes. "It moved that fast?" I finally looked up, "How many at the end? What kind of boys were there?"

She shrugged, "Who knows for sure. Indications are between 10 and 12. There were notes that he had a mix for his study: white, black, Hispanic." She looked up at me, her brows squeezed together showing puzzlement. "Why the sudden curiosity about this? Again, did something happen?"

I leaned back into the chair, again. Yes, I saw a young black man in my house last night as I strolled around naked. No, I don't think so. I met her eyes with a reassuring smile. "No, just interest. The house shows obvious style and character. It had to have been designed and commissioned by someone with something in mind. I already feel a connection with the house." Is it possible what I saw last night was real? Are such things real? Are they especially so where there is a concentration of tragedy? It is said that battlefields can have an energy ... like Gettysburg. Is that what I experienced? I stood and took her offered hand in mine. "Thanks, Marge. I might want to work the house into a book. Kind of a period piece. Would you mind helping me with the background?" She, of course, jumped at the idea.

As I touched the door knob, though, I stopped and considered another thought. I turned back to her. "Marge, did you find any record of what became of Professor Hardaway?"

"Yes, I did." She moved a couple of the spread-out documents. She picked up what she was looking for. "It was reported locally that about 5 years after the tragedy he was committed to a mental hospital down in Sacramento. It was the closest hospital of its kind. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

* * * *

All day and into the early evening, I looked for signs, both listening and watching. I had only noticed the apparition once in the hallway. Or, was it only once as I remember the shadow in my bedroom? My God, the fire had consumed 10 to 12 young men. On this property. I stayed busy with my normal activities and routine. Nothing happened. Of course, I had been in the house for weeks before last night happened. Maybe it was a one-time thing. Maybe it didn't happen. Maybe I was just losing it with all this quiet and solitude. Maybe wine and orgasms caused it. I shook my head feeling silly. I perused my latest selection of local wines, selected a Merlot from a vineyard just to the east, opened it to breathe, and went upstairs to change. If nothing is going to happen, I may as well stay with my routine.

In the bedroom, I turned on the light in the closet, kicked off my sandals, pushed the shorts down my legs, and pulled the t-shirt up my body and over my head. I stood looking in the mirror at the other end of the closet (yes, there, too ... I like mirrors). I smiled but it came out a bit sad. I still have a great body. I could still attract men. After all these years of blaming all men for the one who betrayed me, wouldn't it be nice to feel a man between my legs pressing into my pussy? My toys and fingers have been good, but ... I shake my head vigorously. I select a baby-doll negligee with a thong pantie. It's a light red and very sheer. The thong is so sheer my shaved pussy slit is visible. As I tie the single fastening bow below my breasts, my nipples are clear. The hem falls to my butt without completely covering it and the part in front leaves the thong exposed. I raise a hand to cup a breast. Maybe the men here are different. I sigh and return downstairs barefoot to the wine.

The stairway is off the entry. With lights blazing in the house, I have a thrill as I pass the open front door and the window with curtains open. It isn't really so risky, though. I could reasonably move around naked all day for the likelihood of being seen but the evening is my time to fully relax, read, or muse.

I fill the glass, much more than the normal serving size, return the cork to the bottle, and exit the kitchen. I move into the room I use as a library which is cluttered with fiction, non-fiction, and of course my books along with various magazines. This room is where I can be diverted by any number of subjects. I keep my work-space upstairs spartan to focus my mind and organize my thoughts while writing. Now, though, I ignore all the books and magazines. I want to go about my new life but last night and what I learned today from Marge filled my mind. I am filled with mixed feelings and filled is a good concept of it. I cannot settle, relax, or empty my mind, which is my intention at this point in the evening. Even if my intention is to use the wine as a slight buzz to settle me for sleep or to explore my body with fingers or toys, to bring the feeling of euphoric pleasure, it is to leave behind the other things of the day. It isn't going to be so easy tonight. I felt consumed, and burdened by what I have learned.

The switch at the door turns on only two floor lamps. It provides a soothing, subdued atmosphere for reading or getting lost in thought. A second switch turns on focused strip lighting for searching the shelves. I am standing at the window which overlooks the grounds to the north of the house and only then does Marge's more detailed comments about the property sink in ... the dormitory and other attached buildings were right there.

I turn and look, searching really, around the room. If I am not losing my mind, what was it about last night that brought the apparition out? But if it was here once, isn't it always here? And, if one, what of the other 9 or 11 others lost that night?

"Hello?" I venture it softly, uncertainly. Is this proof I am losing my mind? Is it even wise to want to attract an apparition, a spirit? If this house is truly haunted, is that a negative? Are spirits by nature in turmoil or angry or obsessed by something that they remain? I have felt an energy from the house. I haven't understood it or accepted it before last night. There was just something about it, something new and unique, something that encouraged a feeling of excitement and daring. Even last night didn't feel threatening.

I turn from the window and move into the center of the room. I turn fully around, inspecting all the shadows. "Hello? Are you here?" Nothing. "You showed yourself to me last night. Are you one of the boys who lived here with Mr. Hardaway?"

After a few moments, my eyes moving back and forth across the room, shadow to shadow, it happens.

The furthest floor lamp flickers and the room seems intermittently illuminated. I see, though, that it isn't the lamp flickering in intensity but something interrupting the passing of the light into the room. A shadow appears ... in front of the lamp ... disrupting the flow of the light. There is substance without being substantial. Is that even a real thing? The shadow is intermittent, wavering in its thickness ... density? ... and it is that which causes the flickering effect of light. Like last night it has the impression of a less human figure than a disturbance in the air, a smoky shadow that appears and then fades and reappears.

"I want to talk to you. Can we talk? Can you talk?" As the form before me begins to establish more substance and density, I can see it is the same one as last night. "You're the one who came to me last night. Are you one of the boys who lived here?" The sense of smoky shadow shifts to a distinct image, though having a translucent quality, the lamp light behind it creating an eerie effect coming through its body. Gradually, even that effect reduces as the image's density increases until it is standing 10 feet in front of me. But ... no, standing isn't right. My inspection of its form indicates that it is hovering off the floor without ankles or feet. I tear my eyes away from that disconcerting image and raise my eyes to his.

"Are you one of the boys with Mr. Hardaway?" He nods. "Are you the only one here?" He shook his head that he wasn't. He looks shy and reserved and it was as I studied him and his reaction that it hit me. His eyes seemed to fight himself to show respect but they also continued to shift, repeatedly dropping to the floor between us but quickly shifting to my face but more frequently to my exposed body mutely covered by the sheer, loose fabric. A chill goes through me. My intention to keep eroticism in my nightly routine to stimulate and motivate my erotic, X-rated, romantic novels has me unwittingly nearly naked and seductive before him. Not that it should be a new thing, if he has been watching me all this time, anyway. A small smile forms on my mouth at the thought. If he has been there, if he is the reason for my feeling watched, if he is the reason for feeling an energy in the house, he has witnessed my graphic nature far beyond being dressed in a sheer negligee.

He looks behind himself, again, like he did last night before dissolving into smoky wisps. I step forward urgently, "No, please ... don't leave ... not just yet. There's so much I want to know." He hesitates before turning back to me, the little bit of dissolving reformed.

"Ma'am ... I shouldn't ... we agreed ... a long time ago. We wouldn't interfere with the living, but ..." He stammers it out, haltingly, the words seeming to struggle to come out correctly.

"But?"

"Ma'am ... the Professor, Mr. Hardaway, said I was too curious sometimes. I could never resist coming to see who was living here." He looks sad, ashamed, and guilty, his eyes falling before looking back up. "I never meant to scare anyone, to cause them to leave. We've just been alone so long ..."

"You keep saying 'we'. Are there other boys? Is it just you boys here?" He nods.

"Yes, Ma'am."

I settle into an easy chair, my favorite chair for reading. To be honest, it was more of a collapse into the chair. I wasn't just thinking I was seeing an apparition; I WAS seeing one and I was communicating with it. Each exchange between us seems to have a corresponding effect of solidifying its form. It still had no ankles and feet and continues to hover off the floor, but other features became crisper and defined. For instance, I could see his eyes self-consciously travel over my body while trying not to be obvious about it which was impossible. I became very aware. I quickly cross my legs and my free hand crosses my breasts, tucking it under my other arm as if holding it tightly to me provides more coverage than was real. I was still provocatively dressed in a sheer baby doll that did nothing to hide my body underneath. A spontaneous smile forms on my mouth as a shiver of excitement spreads through my body.

We talk for a considerable time after that. I was going to offer him the other chair but he was floating before me. How tiring can floating be? I soon found the wine in the glass gone and I definitely needed more. I thought I was handling all of this pretty well but I needed more alcohol. I was talking, interacting with an apparition, a spirit, a ghost as if it was a normal thing to have happen. And, it wasn't ... not a normal thing at all.

"I need more wine. This is ... well, it's all very ... difficult to absorb." I gazed at him. "I don't suppose you imbibe, anymore ..."

He chuckles, clearly more relaxed about the exchange than I was currently. "No Ma'am. There are many things we miss about being ... well, being dead." He didn't say it dreadfully but like a guy might about missing baseball after the end of the season.

I stand and walk out of the room to the kitchen where the bottle sat on the counter. I was very aware of him following behind me even though there was no sound of his non-existent footfalls. Instead, I felt it. I felt or sense him behind me, felt his eyes on my exposed body. I try to restrict my walk but find I can't, that anything I did to minimize the movement only tended to make it more aware to me. I quickly poured more wine and gulped some down. I turned and leaned against the counter, my arm crossing my breasts, again, and my thighs squeezed together with my feet crossed.