The Ghastly Girlfriend

"So you've never made love to a ghost, have you?"

The barman turned white, pushed away from the table, and hurried back to his place behind the bar.

Mick studied Tonsin as he gazed at the old structure. Tonsin was out of his skull, and they had only begun to drink. Mick began to realize that the sabbatical that Tonsin engaged upon was more likely a result of too much to drink for too long.

"Made love to a ghost? Like, bone a ghost? Sounds like an oxymoron." Mick laughed; Tonsin did not. "No, not really. I've fucked some really skinny models, but they were still alive. And Gracie Penning was awfully white before I introduced her to the nude beaches in the Côte d'Azur. But an actual dead woman, I'd have to say I've drawn the line there."

"Not all ghosts are dead, you know."

"No," Mick said slowly, "I didn't know that. What are they, then?" He thought it might be wise to play along with Mr. X.

"They are as alive as you or me. They just have been transformed, locked in a world that they cannot leave without help from someone on this side."

"Xavier, you've been spending too much time with Madame Cleo and her telephone psychics. This is the Twenty-first Century. Nobody falls for that ghost stuff any more."

Tonsin nodded, still watching the house. Then he grasped Mick's wrists before Mick could finish his next sip.

"Look!" he said in a strained voice. "Look! What do you see?"

The noon sun, high in the north, cast shadows on the south facade facing the bar. Mick tried to look through the shadows but saw nothing. He checked each door, each window, and the porch itself. The empty trees surrounding the place waved long fingers in front of the windows. Dried brown leaves skittered across the porch, and the window panes flexed a bit in the wind, but otherwise, he saw nothing.

"Sorry, big guy. I don't see anything."

Tonsin's shoulders sagged, and he finally showed some emotion. He looked sad, and poured himself another stiff drink. Sunlight blazed through the bar window and splashed across in a thick line across the table, making it even more difficult to see the old house.

"No offense, big guy, but I hope your mentoring is going to be more substantive than just watching old dilapidated houses from a bar."

Mr. X nodded. "Don't give up. Come with me again, tomorrow. You'll see, I tell you. You'll see!"

Mick laid a tip on the table while Tonsin settled with the barman for the bottle. Mick walked outside to wait and looked up at the house one last time. Everything was clearer now that he didn't have to view it through the sun-dappled bar window. He saw the fine workmanship that had originally constructed the house. It had some potential, he thought. He looked at the topmost window under the center gable and was shocked to see that it was open, and there was movement.

At first, Mick thought it was just swirling dirt blown by the autumn wind. But, the window sash was fully open, and in the window, he saw the well-formed back of a beautiful woman. Her back narrowed to a small, delicate waist. She sat on the ledge, which made her buttocks alternately round and squashed. Her figure was the color of wet clay, from the top of her head to the crack in her ass. Even her long thick hair was smoke-colored. It was almost like he was watching an old time Black and White television show of a naked woman. She turned her head to her shoulder and gave the faintest of smiles to him.

Mick blinked. He looked back; the window was empty, though the sash was still open. The dusky young woman had disappeared.

Mick stared at the house until Tonsin came out of the bar. Even then, Mick couldn't pull his gaze away from the old structure in general, and the topmost window in particular. His mouth dried up, his tongue couldn't form words, and he stuttered what he was trying to say.

When Mr. X saw Mick's befuddlement, he said, "So, you saw her, didn't you?" He inhaled deeply and rumbled. "You saw the woman, didn't you?'

"This must be a joke. I saw a beautiful woman painted in gray latex from head to toe. She was in the window — that open one at the top — " Mick pointed, "just sitting there. She was no ghost though. The ledge of the window was squishing her ass as she sat there. She's not a ghost. At least not a ghost who walks through walls or floats through windows. She was a real as a flower pot or a candle in the window."

Tonsin nodded while looking at the empty window. "But she's gone now."

"I don't know that she's gone. She may be hiding in the house. You probably have a signal for her. What is she supposed to be, bait for me? A trick to play on your buddy Mick? Well, I'm not falling for it."

"Let's go back home now, Mick. You've seen what I wanted you to see. She could be your next challenge."

Mick laughed. "I choose my own challenges, big guy. Yes, she looks beautiful from a distance, and the lead-colored paint is a funny touch. So what do you want me to do? Follow her into the house? Spend the night with this 'gray ghost'? I don't think so."

"She's not bait, and she's not a conjurer's trick to trap you into an embarrassing situation. Whatever she is, she's what I think of when I say 'ghost.' Whether visit this ghost will be your choice, not mine. You can decide. "

Mick paced back and forth on the sidewalk, occasionally looking at the high empty window. "Have you slept with her? Is that where you were on sabbatical, banging an extraterrestrial goddess for three and a half years?"

Tonsin shuddered before he answered Mick. It was as subtle as a small earthquake and as disturbing. "Yes," he said, "yes, I've slept with her, and yes, that house was where I spent my time away."

Mick grinned. "So, now I'm starting to understand the mysterious Xavier Tonsin."

"No, you don't understand. You may never understand. But I will warn you — Do not pursue that woman unless you are willing to sacrifice everything about your current life. It is not easy to leave once you've entered that house."

"Oooh, spooky, spooky! How gullible do you think I am, huh?"

Mick laughed at a sad-faced Tonsin who stood looking at the empty window.

"Okay, Newhart, it's time to go home. I'll bring you back again tomorrow. I'll answer any questions you have then."

Mick followed Tonsin, who led the way without speaking. In his heart, though, Mick had made his own plan. He would return to the gray house tonight, alone, and meet the most exciting challenge of his life, to make love to the gray apparition — woman, ghost, painted model, or whatever she might be.

By the time Tonsin and Mick returned to the city, most of the workers had left work for the day. Mick felt like a salmon fighting upstream moving against the tide of people leaving his office building. Outside the building, Andrew and Gracie outside, engaged in an intense conversation.

Gracie turned her back on Andrew, her arms folded, her hands grasping her opposite elbows. Andrew circled around to face her, bending down so that his face was level with hers. She looked anywhere but at Andrew, and turned around again. As she did, she scanned the streets and sidewalks, looking for someone.

Mick knew she was looking for him and he didn't want to deal with her at the moment. He needed to explore the challenge of the gray woman and the old house.

"Tonsin, I don't really have to go back to the office. I'll leave you here." Mick tried to shake Tonsin's hand, but Tonsin paid him no attention and kept up his steady pace toward the office.

Mick almost told him, "See you tomorrow," but in his heart, he thought that meeting with Mr. X tomorrow would not be necessary. He glanced at Andrew and Gracie, and Gracie turned to look at him. Mick ducked sideways and hurried to the subway train station. The trains were on their express runs for the evening, and he was able to catch one to the end of the line that would get him there in half the time it took that morning.

Mick impatiently retraced the route Tonsin had shown him through the quaint town, through the woods, and he even found the path they had taken. The night was upon him, and to make sure of his steps, he activated the flashlight on his phone. He found the fork in his path, the one less taken, and pressed on. All the while, he mulled the puzzle of the dusky figure he had seen in the window. He wondered if she would still be there since he was coming so late and Tonsin hadn't had time to alert her. If it were a prank, it would collapse as soon as he got to the house.

It took until ten o'clock before Mick arrived at the bar across the street from the gray house. The bar was still dimly lit and had few patrons. The Irish barman was still at his post. When he saw Mick walk in, he shook his head as he polished the rarely used glasses.

"So," Mick thought, "you're in on this, too."

Mick grabbed a stool at the bar, and the barman gave him a double shot of Irish whiskey without being told.

"So, you're back," the barman said. "Was it our dirt prices or the sparklin' conversation?"

Mick downed the drink in one gulp and pounded the glass on the bar. "Your pretty face, it was." He smiled broadly. His attention was drawn to the front window, but it was impossible to see the house through the darkness outside.

For a second time that day, the barman refilled his glass without being asked.

"What do you know about the place across the street?" Mick asked.

The barman shrugged and continued to wash and dry mugs that hadn't seen much use. "I dunno much. It's been fer sale forever — longer dan I've been here. No buyers though. Lots of lookie-lous."

"Looks like a prime location for you. Right across the street from your work."

"Oh, no. I've heard the stories. No way you'll find me walkin' in dere." The barman leaned closer to Mick. "They sound crazy, but I've heard the rumors."

"Oooh, that it's haunted?" Mick made funny wiggly movements with his fingers until the barman slapped at his hands.

"Maybe it is."

Then he reconsidered. "No, not that. It's a gateway, boyo. A gateway between two worlds. If you go in dere, you better give up hope of walkin' out o' dere."

"Have you ever seen anything strange around that place?"

The barman checked to be sure he could not be overheard. "I don't say I have, and I don't say I haven't. I don't like to think about it, meself." He poured Mick his strongest drink yet. "You're not t'inking of visitin' across the street, now are ya boyo?"

Mick drank his drink in one swallow again. "You're good. Does Tonsin have you in on this, too? Do I need a key, magic password or some charmed jewel to get in the place?"

The barman shook his shaved head. "You don't need nuthin' but madness to walk into that house."

"How much I owe you?" asked Mick.

"Nuthin' now, if you're really goin' in dere. If you do, boyo, and if you come back out, promise me you'll tell me every blessed t'ing you see. Or hear."

"Deal," said Mick, and slid off the stool He straightened himself and walked a little unsteadily out the door. The barman saluted him with a raised glass one last time before Mick crossed the street to the old, gray house.

The paving stones that led to the large wooden frame door tilted as Mick stepped on them. He felt unsteady from the drinks he had consumed, and the uneven surface didn't help his balance or orientation. Three wooden steps needing repair met him before he reached the porch. He gingerly stepped on each one, testing it before putting his full weight on any one step. They creaked and groaned under his weight. The heavy door was painted black. The handle looked like a jug handle made of iron that had weathered better than its age might have expected. Mick took a deep breath before grasping it and opening the door.

He expected the heavy door to move slowly and creak like in Hollywood movies. Instead, it was whisper quiet, as though the house itself had absorbed the sound it made. Inside, there were electrical fixtures that had not been updated for half a century, but then Mick did not expect the lights to work. He took out his phone again and turned on the flashlight. In the foyer, there was a mirror in a thick wooden frame, a coat rack and an umbrella holder. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and straightened his tie in case he met anyone.

"Hello? Anyone?" he called out.

The first floor was empty. There were areas where there might once have been furniture, but no longer. He was surprised that there was no kitchen until he remembered that some old houses had the cooking down in an entirely separate building.

"Hello!" he called again.

A curved staircase led to the second floor, and up from there another straighter stairway led to the topmost floor. On the second floor, he found four bedrooms, with the beds still clothed in linens. He pounded the beds and shook the sheets and was surprised that there was no musty odor coming from them.

As he began to explore the third floor, his phone light began to dim. He was running out of power. There was nowhere to power up unless he went to the bar across the street. The upper floor would have to wait for more careful exploration until the morning.

"Hello!" he called up the stairs and waited for an answer. There was none.

"Hello? Who are you?" he called again. Still no answer.

Mick sat on the bottom step of the straightened stairway. He said loudly, "I saw you earlier today. You know I did. Come on out. Let's talk about this."

There was no answer, and there was no movement in the house that he could discern. The house was keeping its own confidence and seemed to be holding its breath.

Mr. X's challenge, "Have you ever made love to a ghost?" echoed in his mind.

With the last of his flickering light, he explored the bedroom with a window facing the street and the bar. Unlike the rest of the house, it looked clean, fresh and inviting. Someone was taking care of the place, he could tell. He had never met a ghost who likes to tidy up. He decided to lie down without removing his shoes or his clothes. The bed, a king-sized model, was firm and comfortable. Three different-sized pillows were in place on each half of the bed. He put one under his head and watched the darkness in the room.

His eyes gradually grew accustomed to the gloaming. He picked out shapes and patterns on the ceiling and on the walls. The ornate shapes were long out of fashion, reminiscent of a New Orleans French Quarter decorator. Mick relaxed, tired after his full day of traveling and tramping through the woods. He closed his eyes, and sleep claimed him.

When he awoke, he didn't know why. He felt something had disturbed him. The room was filled with shadows; just a slight hint of moonlight cracked the eastern facing windows. The house was as quiet as it had been since he entered. Then he noticed an aroma like slightly moist flowers. He sniffed the air like a rabbit. The wafting fragrance came from beside him. He turned and saw a dusky form on the bed next to him. He could barely distinguish it from the bed linens, but it was there. The shape of a lovely woman lounged on her side, her back to him, her hips curving gracefully to a very narrow waist. Her hair was long and thick, but of indeterminate color. She lay with her head cradled in one arm, and the other in front of her, hiding her breasts. Her long legs lay bent at the knee, bringing her tiny feet closer to him.

Mick's eyes widened to see more clearing the naked form lying next to him. He had not heard her climb into the bed and he was pretty sure that she had made no noises the whole time she was next to him. The sexy shape had no color but smoky dusk on its surface. Mick's first impression was that ash had gathered on the bedsheet next to him.

"Hey," he said. "Wake up. Who are you?"

The form moved, but the smoke did not disperse. Mick reached out to touch the shape, expecting his fingers to slide through it like wafting through a fog. If the shape were solid, it should feel cold and clammy, like wet clay. Instead, his fingers stopped when they felt her naked hip, substantial and warm. His fingertips stayed against her, and as he did, he saw that the leaden skin beneath his fingers glowed a warm pink.

He lay his hand against her hip, and strayed down against her firm, round butt. As he did so, the surfaces he touched seemed to come to life, warm, rosy, and quivering.

In the quickening moonlight, he saw that the places where he touched the shadowy figure had ceased to be all gray. Instead, they had taken on a luscious blushing glow, as inviting as ripe fruit. The parts of her body his hands had not glided over remained the color of wet cement. By now, her back, buttocks, and thighs were entirely alive.

"Who are you? Who put you up to this?" he asked.

The figure turned onto her back, and he saw that her face, mouth and eyes were closed by the gray cover over her. He kissed her eyelids and they fluttered open, revealing sad gray-colored eyes. He rubbed noses with her and her nose became a pink spot in her gray face. His own lips tasted chalky and smoky, and he couldn't scraped the taste away with his tongue or his teeth. His nose felt covered in mud.

Her eyes darted around his face and then around the room, taking in the New Orlean decor and her circumstances like she was seeing them for the first time. She arched her back and rubbed her legs together, asking silently to be released. Mick cupped her breasts in his hands, and felt them come alive beneath his fingers. As he did so, her chest heaved as she took deeper and deeper breaths. His hands felt as though he were wearing gloves.

He himself was nude lying on the bed sheets. He didn't remember taking off his clothes, but found that his nakedness was perfect for bringing the phantom next to him completely alive. He draped his legs over her gray limbs, and they responded by warming and gracefully tracing the edges of his calves and thighs.

He saw his hands, and was surprised that the clay color that had covered his bedmate was coating his own fingers and palms. He rubbed his hands together, but the color wouldn't come off. He was more concerned with the beautiful woman who was being uncovered next to him than the change in his own appearance. Cleaning himself up was something he could devote time to after he had satisfied this long-legged beauty.

The space between her legs was the color of ocean-stirred sand. He felt the large tumescent bulge between his own legs, and knew how he could put some color into her nether regions. The woman, whose mouth was still closed, made desperate noises as he prepared to roll on top of her.

"I'll be gentle. Don't you worry," he offered.

But her desperation to speak continued.

Mick knew that he had to uncover her mouth. He had never forced himself on a woman, and he wouldn't do so now. Grace Penning had agreed to his lovemaking after he took her to the south of France and let her wander its nude beaches. She realized that men wanted her for her own beauty, even without knowing the extent of her fortune. It was such a revelation to her that she felt comfortable making wild monkey love for the first time in her life.

He needed this ghostly figure to give her permission. It wasn't enough that she had disrobed him in bed while he was sleeping or that she had climbed into his bed naked herself. He needed to hear her say it was okay.

"Are you the ghost in this haunted house?" he asked quietly.

She vigorously nodded her head and struggled to say something.

"I've never made love to a ghost before. Have you ever made love to one of the living?"

She looked at him as if she expected him to recognize her. Then she nodded again. With her hands, she pulled him closer, guiding him to make love to her. He resisted until he could uncover her mouth. He needed her to speak the words.