2 comments/ 12784 views/ 4 favorites The Bleaker House Ghost By: SikFuk edited by Asylum Seeker * (Scythe: A tool composed of a long curved blade fixed at an angle to a wood handle, used for mowing, reaping, etc.) Cleave watched from across the field as the shiny new Volvo pulled up the weedy driveway leading to the Bleaker house. He'd already seen the white and green Bekins moving van depositing its load of fancy furniture and packing boxes, but this was the first sign of an actual human tenant. Cleave wasn't surprised. The legend of the Bleaker house ghost had run every single person out of that building since he was barely a teenager. A slim-looking lady stepped out of the car and gazed up at the gabled windows. As she strutted up the front steps, Cleave sensed something different about this woman. She didn't seem like the other gals who had given up on the Bleaker house. The way she walked, with that air of confidence, he could tell she wouldn't be run off by a measly old ghost. She seemed more like the type who would give a ghost a run for his money, but he was okay with that. He turned on his heel and headed for the tree line, the same tree line that intersected the backyard of the Bleaker house. Once he reached the shade of the cottonwoods he realized he was still carrying his scythe. He looked at it fondly. "You're staying behind this time," he said, as if it could talk. "But don't worry, you'll get your chance." That rusty old scythe had done him right on many occasions, situations where any other tool would have been a second choice at best. Cleave would tell you, if a scythe is going to work right, it's got to be sharp. You try to slice with a dull scythe, you'll be there all day, sawing like a lumberjack. But if you sharpen that baby up, you can cut through a woman's satin slip just like a knife through butter. He took his beloved tool and flung it at a fat gray tree trunk, where it stuck with a 'wang', just like a knife-thrower at a circus. Then he set his sights on the woman with the Volvo. "The Bleaker house ghost has his eye on you, little lady." He turned to spit, the green phlegm kicking up a miniature cloud of dust as it hit the dry earth. The Bleaker House Ghost It was the scythe that made his sister cave. "I'll do anything Cleave, anything. Come on, baby, let me show you. See?" Oh she showed him alright. Over and over again. She showed him things he never even dreamed possible. They could've kept going for days if the rope hadn't got tangled up. The rope. That was the key. Cleave just had to be more on top of the rope situation. No more of those fancy knots that get tighter when you pull on them. What good is it if the gal can't squeal no more? No, there are better ways to use a rope than that. All he had to do was be creative. His sister was creative. That was the sad part, now that she was gone. She could draw, she could sew, but her real talent was with the music. She would sit there, her back ramrod straight, playing that piano like her life depended on it. And could she sing? Oh Lord, her singing could make him cry. In fact, her singing almost convinced him to cut her loose that second day, out there in the barn, when she was all cinched up with the rope around her neck. "Please Cleave, if you loosen the rope, I'll sing Amazing Grace for you." He did loosen the rope, and she did sing Amazing Grace. It was so beautiful, it gave him goose bumps. But, of course, he had to go and ruin it right there near the end, when he took the tip of that scythe and started running it up the inside of her leg, softly, so it barely even touched her tender white skin. "...was blind, but now I...." she sang, but her voice broke, watching that scythe slithering up onto her bare hip. And then, when it stopped and made a little left turn, sliding across her tummy, and back down... "Cleave!" she begged him, for the hundredth time, "please, baby. Just let me go, and I swear I'll get nekkid with you whenever you want to. Just put the scythe down, please?" "You wouldn't get nekkid with me before you went to the city," he said, the tip of the scythe poised at the bottom of her tummy. "I'd been waiting twenty-one years for you, but no, you had to go and run off before I even got the chance - took the damn bus while I was fixing the gearbox on the tractor. Why in hell should I think you've changed now?" "Cleave," she sobbed, "I've already proved it, what, ten, twelve times in the last two days? I swear baby, now that I know how good it feels, I want to do it every day for the rest of my life. And I want to do it with you, baby. But that scythe scares me." "That's what it's supposed to do, Lu Anne. I ain't takin' your crap no more. You're going to learn who's boss around here, and I'm not done teaching you yet." The Bleaker House Ghost She stood there for a moment, chewing on her lip like she does when she's thinking real hard. Then she undid the top three buttons of her dress. "How's that, pervert?" she asked, scrunching up her cleavage so that it was practically popping out of her bra. "Nice, but that ain't gonna cut it in Hollywood. You gonna walk around in your one good Sunday dress, pushing your tits up with your elbows all day?" "You'll see," she said, buttoning up her dress again. "I'm leaving this damn hellhole, and I'm never coming back." "I'll bet you in six months, you'll be crawling back here like a dog with its tail between its legs." "What do you wanna bet?" she said, starting to pace back in forth in front of him. Cleave loved it when she did that. It reminded him of a spunky young filly, just itching to run. "I'll bet you my truck. If you're gone for more than six months, I'll drive my truck out to L.A., park it in front of your house with the keys in it, and take the bus home." "Why would I want your old piece-of-shit truck?" "Don't matter, cause you ain't gonna get it. You're gonna lose this bet, which reminds me, what do I get when you lose? What are you willing to bet?" "Don't matter," she said, sitting back down. "Okay," Cleave said, cracking a wry smile, "if you lose the bet, you gotta prove to me that you're good in bed." "Cleave!" she hissed, raising her hand again, "I swear..." He leaned back in his chair so that he was out of range of her right cross. "Well?" She sat there in her chair, fuming the way she did every time Cleave and her had a conversation that lasted more than two minutes. "Homer Halloway will tell you who's good in bed in this county," she said, marching off into the other room. "And by the way, don't leave a bunch of junk in the back of your truck when you park it in front of my house." So, was it Cleave's fault that she lost the bet? And was it his fault that on her first Sunday back from L.A., when he decided to collect on the bet after church, and she told him to go jerk off behind the barn like he always did, he had to use the rope to calm her down? If she'd just been a proper lady about it, taking him upstairs to her room and getting undressed and settling the bet, she wouldn't be lying in a three-foot grave at the bottom of the ravine right now. And if Miss Margaret only knew about how Lu Anne's rope got tangled up when he had to swing the gate shut when the bull got loose, forgetting that he'd tied the rope to that gate when he'd strung his sister up two days earlier, if she only knew all of this, she'd see him for what he was - just a red-blooded church-going American, trying to get some pussy without having to pay for it. He wasn't no damn murderer. Obviously, old Miss Margaret had been watching too many of them cop shows on TV, but he doubted he'd be able to convince her of that right now. ***** Margaret took another step towards him. He backed up till he ran into the louvered door. "So. What now, Cleave?" "I promise, Miss Margaret, I swear, I was just..." "Shut up, you lying sack of shit." "Please, Miss Margaret?" "On your hands on knees. Now!" "Yes ma'am," he said, bowing in front of her. "Face the chute, asshole!" "Yes ma'am." He shuffled around so his head was dangling into the darkness of the abandoned laundry shaft. "Now Cleave, I'm going stand here and think for a minute or two, so just relax." She stepped behind him, bracing her back foot against the door jamb for leverage. "You know, I really do like you, in spite of the fact that you raped your sister and then killed her. I like any guy who can give me ten orgasms in one night. So, what I have to think about is, would it be worthwhile to keep you around?" She aimed her foot at his ass. "Or should I just..." With a firm, quick shove, she sent him sprawling headfirst down the shaft. "Nooo..." His body thumped to the floor of the basement, making a sound like a watermelon display spilling at the supermarket - a series of sickening thuds, followed by silence. She waited, her heart pounding, her mouth gaping open. Finally, she peered down into the darkness. After her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw his silhouette, his arms and legs splayed at impossible angles, his head crooked, as if it was no longer connected to his neck. Letting out a long, ragged sigh, she collapsed in the hall, the gun clattering to the floor. "Holy Shit," she sighed. "That was close. That was too fucking close." She sat there for a few moments, collecting herself. Then she struggled to her feet and headed for the bedroom. She picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1. "Hello? Yes, I'm calling from the Bleaker house? Um, I believe I've just encountered the legendary ghost, you know, the one in the rumor? He's lying in my basement with a broken neck... No, this isn't a crank call... Forty-five minutes? That'll work. Thank you." She hung up the phone and sat on the bed. "I've got to get my act together." She looked around, trying to figure out her next course of action. The condom would have to go, but what else was there? Wash the vibrator, put clean sheets on the bed, toss Cleave's rope back down the shaft, and who would ever know? She burst into action and in ten minutes, the crime scene was no longer a crime scene. It was just a bedroom, with a scared lady in it, a lady who had confronted a prowler and, when confronted, the prowler had tumbled back down the shaft from whence he came. It was simple. Answer a few questions and it would be over. The Bleaker house ghost was history. She jumped in the shower for a few minutes, being careful not to get her hair wet, and then she dried off and pulled on her jeans. She was just buttoning up her shirt when she saw car lights in the driveway. "That was quick," she said to herself, as she bounded down the stairs.