Page 32 of Buried Souls
Christ, I can’t stop.
My muscles scream with exertion. Every thoroughly diabolical thrust brings me closer to my own orgasm, but I hold back until I feel her walls tighten around me.
“Yes,” I groan, my balls heavy with their load. “Give it to me, Elena. Suck me dry. Devour my fucking dick with your greedy cunt.”
She explodes, her walls rippling just as my own orgasm is ripped from me. I empty inside of her, but not before spilling a bit into my palm. I wipe it across her lips, watching with smug satisfaction as her tongue darts out, licking me off and swallowing the few traces of my cum.
I kiss her mouth, sending a silent promise into the night.
You will look at me with those beautiful blue eyes again.
No matter how long it takes.
I will wait for you.
CHAPTER 15
“Keep It In The Dark”
I wake with a start.
What is that?
I hold my breath, listening.
There.
A low creak, like the hesitant exhale of old wood. Then another, closer.
Is someone outside my door?
I wait, senses on high alert. The mansion sleeps beneath a shroud of fog, the moonlight filtering weakly through my window. The air in my room hangs cold and stale, tasting faintly of iron and old decay.
I push aside my threadbare blanket, my pulse thudding in the silence. Everything hurts, as if I’ve run a marathon, but I force the feeling aside. The faint ticking of a clock somewhere below echoes like a heartbeat. My bare feet meet the chill of the wooden floor as I cross to the door. The knob is icy beneath my fingers.
Outside, the corridor stretches long and hollow, the portraits and their subjects watching me from their place of quiet solitude, the scones dark but for that one—a single candle guttering at the far end, the same as last time. The flame is bent and wavers though there is no draft.
I hear it again, the sound that woke me. A whisper, too faint to be words, too fluid to be the wind. It seems to slide along the walls themselves.
My throat tightens, and I step into the hall. The boards creek underfoot, and with each step, the whisper retreats, drawing me deeper into the mansion’s belly.
At the end of the corridor, beneath the flickering candlelight, something moves.
A figure—pale and translucent, its outline shifting like mist caught in the moonlight. It faces away from me, its long hair floating as though underwater. Ice washes over me and I freeze, my breath catching on the edge of fear.
Eyes wide, my heart pounds wildly against my ribs, not believing what stands before me as clear as day.
This isn’t possible.
The ghost turns its head slightly, revealing hollow eyes that glimmer faintly, not with malice, but sorrow. Then it begins toglide down the staircase, slow and deliberate, vanishing into the shadows below.
I hesitate only a moment. My fear mingles with a strange pull: curiosity, recognition, something oddly comforting. I take the candle from the wall, its flame trembling in my hand, and follow the apparition into the dark, where the mansion seems to breathe again.
I stand at the top of the staircase, the lone candle spluttering in my hand. Its light shakes wildly against the walls, throwing fractured shadows that stretch and shrink like living things.
The silence that follows is too complete. Even the wind outside seems to be holding its breath.
Did I really see it? The pale figure, the hollow eyes, the way it looked back at me? I strain to recall the details, but my memory falters. Maybe it was the moonlight catching in the dust. Maybe I’m still asleep, dreaming.
