0 comments/ 37305 views/ 28 favorites A Ghost of a Girl By: Cal Y. Pygia The house was haunted, sure—or, at least, that's what Donna Adams, the real estate agent, told me. She had to, by California law. Ridiculous, of course, but I wasn't arguing with her, not when the rumor lowered the rent by two thirds. I couldn't pass up a deal like that. I'd been out of work for months, and my unemployment benefits were all but gone. Luckily, soon after moving to San Rafael, I landed a technical writing job. It didn't pay all that much (which made my "haunted house" all the more desirable), but it had two perks: I didn't have a commute, and I didn't have to put up with the petty office politics that invariably arise in offices. So, on February 1, I moved in. The place came furnished, which was another plus, since I didn't have the cash, just now, to buy furniture. The former tenant, Tammy Something, was in her twenties, but she'd had good—and expensive—tastes. Her parents, who actually owned the place, Donna informed me, and were, therefore, my landlords, were obviously wealthy, and either they or Tammy had furnished and decorated the mansion first class, all the way. Everything's marble and hardwood, and her dishes—yes, even they came with the place—were all china and silver and crystal. The only downside to the place is that it's totally feminine: pale pink walls, display cases full of beaded purses and jewelry, a china closet converted into a showcase for her fabulous collection of dolls, silk flowers, impressionist oil paintings of elegant Victorian scenes, a canopy bed with pink curtains and lace, frilly drapes at the windows, and ornamental touches to everything. The effect is beautiful—but it's also totally feminine in every detail. Still, I didn't complain; I'd rather live among feminine finery than sleep on the floor, at least until I could save enough for a bed; I'd rather eat off china, with silver, than to pop for paper plates and plastic cutlery; and I'd rather sit on a brocaded couch and watch TV than loll around in a cheap beanbag chair or a futon I can't really afford. She even left shelves full of fashion magazines and her clothes—walk-in closets crammed full of them—hundreds of outfits comprised of scores and scores of skirts, shorts, blouses, jackets, hats, scarves, coats, gloves, you name it, right down to her bikinis, bras, panties, and lingerie. She had a couple hundred pairs of shoes alone! In addition, in each of her five bathrooms, there are bottles of perfume, razors and shaving cream (for her legs, I imagine), and a warehouse of other toiletries. It would take a month just to toss the stuff out, which is why I'm just letting it be. I don't need much closet space for my own wardrobes, because I don't have that many clothes. I'm a guy. Besides, I work at home; I don't need clothes. Most of the time, I go around nude. It's one of the benefits of living alone and working at home. Well, I don't live entirely alone. There's Max, my black tomcat, but he doesn't give a rat's ass about seeing my naked ass, cock, or balls. As long as he gets plenty of food and sleep, he's content. Donna also told me that Tammy died in the house—or on the patio outside the house, rather: California law requires realtors to advise renters of any deaths that occurred on the premises they're considering renting. "How'd she die?" I asked, just curious. Donna said, "It's a great house, Mr. Stevens "Rod." "—huge, fully furnished, and a steal at only—" "She was murdered, wasn't she?" I guessed. Donna frowned. "On her patio, Rod, not in the house." "My God. Who? Why? How?" "She was stalked. Her stalker eventually killed her. With a knife, I believe." She paused, sighed, and asked, "So, do you want the place or not?" "There's no security deposit, no pet deposit, and no last month's rent, right?" "Right." "I'll take it," I agreed, and wrote her a check. On her way out the door, she called over her shoulder, "I think, if there is a ghost, Rod—and I'm not saying there is—it's hers." * * * It took me only a few days to settle into the spacious, luxurious mansion. It took Max a bit longer. Cats are finicky about two things, I've found: their food and their surroundings. They don't tolerate change very well when it comes to either their dinner or their digs. The job was going well. It was boring, but it paid—not well, but enough, given the reduction in rent and the owner's willingness to forgo security and pet deposits. My assignment was to write reports about desert hydrology. I could keep at it for only a couple of hours at a time, writing about desert crust, the hydraulic properties of surface soil, infiltration rates, and vegetation control, whereupon my brain would rebel, my eyes would glaze over, and I'd need to take a break. Then, I'd get up from the computer desk; stretch; walk from the office, down a long corridor, past ornamental vases, ornate tapestries, and bronze figurines and statues in marble and and ivory and jade, to the book-lined mahogany shelves of the spacious library; and thumb the gilt-edged, leather-bound volumes. Tammy's taste in books was, like her house, first rate, and she had all the essential classics as well as a representative collection of contemporary genres, but these latter were more given to the tastes of women than of men, and included a sizable collection of somewhat tawdry romances, all hardbound. I chuckled at the titles of a few of them: Passion Play, Hearts Adrift, Sultry Summer, and Love's Inferno, before ambling out to the kitchen to pour myself a fresh cup of coffee. When I came into the kitchen, Max was crouched beside the refrigerator, his tail waving slowly back and forth. He was staring intently at a point in the middle of the room. What's his problem? I wondered. "Not enough turkey in your Poultry Delight?" I peered into his food bowl. Like his water bowl, it was nearly full. "Kitchen's feng shui not to your liking?" With a wild screech, Max bolted past me. What the hell? I thought. He acted as if he'd seen something— —a ghost— —but there was no one here but him and me. I shrugged. Cats could be temperamental sometimes, although, usually, Max wasn't. I unscrewed the lid of my favorite brand of instant coffee—I happen to like instant coffee (and it's cheaper than the brewed stuff)—and followed a spoonful of the dark, aromatic brew with two spoons of sugar, then added water, and placed the mug in the microwave oven. I set the timer for two minutes and twenty-two seconds. While the coffee was being heated, I went in search of Max, to see whether he'd calmed down. I didn't like the way he'd acted; I'd never seen him frightened by nothing, although he was in a strange environment, so maybe his kitty nerves were still a little on edge. I looked in the living room and the dining room, but he wasn't in either place, unless he was hiding under a couch or behind a chest, so I returned to the kitchen, just in time to hear the ding of the oven, advising me that my beverage had been heated for the time I'd specified. I pressed the release lever and reached inside. My mug was cold. I frowned. I'd set the timer for two minutes and twenty-two seconds. I looked at the clock built into the oven. It was 10:38. Two minutes and twenty-two seconds had passed. My coffee should have been piping hot, its ceramic surface warm to the touch. Steam should be rising from the beverage. But the coffee wasn't steaming, and the mug wasn't hot. I frowned. I must have made a mistake in setting the timer, I thought. Maybe I'd set twenty-two seconds instead of two minutes and twenty-two seconds. I shrugged, setting the timer again. This time, I watched myself do so, careful to press the button firmly each time. Then, I waited by the oven while the coffee heated. Two minutes and twenty-two seconds later, I drew a steaming-hot mug from the oven. Shaking my head at my own idiocy, I was about to go into the den, to watch a little mid-morning news on the wall-mounted big-screen television, when I paused and sniffed. I couldn't be sure, but there seemed to be the faintest scent of perfume in the air. I sniffed again. The fragrance lingered—or maybe it did so only in my imagination. The next thing I knew, I chided myself, I'd be seeing Tammy's ghost! Chuckling, I continued into the den, where, I found, the TV set was on, and there was the faint hint of the same perfume I'd smelled—hadn't I?—a moment ago, in the kitchen. * * * The TV wasn't, really on. I just supposed that it might be on. I also imagined that I might sense a hint of Tammy's elusive perfume. Neither incident had actually occurred, but, I realized, it would be easy to let my imagination run away with me, rattling around in this mansion with no one to keep me company but Max, who'd just proved he wasn't the bravest feline on the planet, and the knowledge that Tammy had been killed just outside these walls, on her—now, for as long as I rented this place, anyway, my—patio and that her twenty-something-year-old ghost supposedly haunted the premises. I shivered, not at the thought of her ghost, but at the terror she must have felt when the stalker loomed before her, knife in hand. In a sick, twisted way, a knife is a rather personal, even intimate, weapon with which to kill someone. A phallic symbol, it penetrates, but causes death, instead of life. I could picture the blade rising and falling, plunging into her breast as she stared, wide-eyed, screaming, then whimpering, then gurgling, maybe, as she tried to breathe through the blood in her throat and chest. No, I told myself, there wouldn't be any turning on of television sets or wearing of perfume, not by Tammy, at any rate. I'd hoped to catch the local news, but it had been interrupted—or displaced—by reports of a mass murderer who'd opened up with a pair of handguns at a shopping mall somewhere in Tallahassee. "It's not linked," the newscaster reassured viewers, "to terrorism." The talking heads always seemed to know that with such swiftness and with such utter certainty that the denial seemed more propaganda than fact. After I'd drunk my coffee, I ambled back to the computer desk, still naked, and, with my penis lolling atop my testicles, continued to write my latest report concerning the fascinating subject of desert hydrology. I didn't see Max until lunchtime. He'd quieted down, even condescending, in his aloofness, to let me stroke his satin-smooth fur. "There are no such things as ghosts, Max," I reassured him. My tone was confident, but, as I spoke these words of comfort to my feline friend, I recalled the newscaster's similar reassurance that the mall shooting spree was unrelated to terrorism. Maybe Max wasn't buying my message any more than a lot of viewers were convinced by the anchor's reassuring declaration. I decided to add a little fresh turkey, from a package of sandwich meats I'd bought yesterday, to Max's dish of Poultry Delight. He seemed to appreciate my gesture, rewarding me a deep-throated purr as he dined. * * * Damn! I was out of cigarettes. Smoking is a stupid, filthy habit, I know, and a health hazard. I know I should quit, but knowing and doing are two different matters. Someday, I tell myself. But "someday" never seems to be today. I promised myself that I'd do a solid three hours of work, without a break, and then reward myself with a smoke. Now, out of cigarettes, I want one even more than I might have wanted one otherwise. It seems we want anything we can't have the most, just because we can't have it. I'd have to get dressed, cross the street, and buy a pack at the drugstore. I really hated to do so, though; I like being naked. Well, I told myself, the sooner I went, the sooner I'd get back, be able to shed my clothes again, and enjoy a smoke. My clothes—the few I have—are in the walk-in closet in the master bedroom—the one with the canopy bed with the pink, ruffled curtains and the doll collection and the teddy bears and the vanity table in the bathroom, fully loaded with cosmetics, perfumes, and all the other accoutrements of femininity. I'd just toss on a shirt, a pair of shorts, and a pair of sandals. Ten minutes, later, I'd be back in the mansion, as naked as the day I was born, sucking on a cigarette. I really should quit smoking, I told myself. Tammy's closet was the size of some people's bedroom, and, even at that size, it was packed with outfits, as were her other bedrooms' walk-in closets. She could have stocked a department store's women's department and had togs left over. I couldn't begin to name all the styles and cuts and designs she had, but there was plenty of everything. As I reached for a T-shirt that may or may not have been laundered anytime soon, my forearm grazed one of Tammy's blouses, a peach number in silk. The fabric felt wonderfully sleek and soft against my skin, very pleasant to the touch. I rubbed the material between my thumb and forefinger. It was incredibly smooth, almost like water. It felt sexy. My cock twitched, stirring. I smiled, never having had an erotic moment simply because of the feel of something. Wasn't that more a feminine response? Men were more into sight, women into touch and texture, right? My prick didn't seem to know this, nor did it seem to care. It swelled, becoming thicker and harder as I continued to rub the silk blouse. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of something cherry red. I turned my head to see a pair of Tammy's thong panties. I'd been in this closet a few times, to hang or fetch a shirt, a pair of jeans, or my shoes, but I hadn't noticed these panties before, despite their intense hue. None of Tammy's other underwear was here, just these bright-red thongs. They looked almost as if they'd been placed here, atop the clothes hamper, for me to find. Guys aren't all that observant, I guess. I touched the panties. They, too, were smooth and soft. Satin. My cock swelled further. Who would have thought that a blouse and a pair of panties could have such an arousing effect on a guy? Not me, certainly. I blinked. For a moment, it seemed as though I'd forgotten why I'd come here. I seemed to have been in a daze. I let go of the panties—reluctantly—and grabbed the T-shirt, shorts, and sandals, got dressed, and hurried from the closet. On my way out of the bedroom, I noticed a bottle of Tammy's perfume. It was on her vanity. On a whim, I sprayed a mist of the perfume: its fragrance was identical to the scent that I'd smelled earlier—or imagined I'd smelled. Impulsively, I dabbed a few drops on my face, enjoying the fragrance. Tammy, I decided, hadn't only looked good, but she'd smelled good, too. I was back in eight minutes, flat. There were few customers in the drugstore, it being early afternoon, and I completed my purchase in short order. Locking the great double doors to the main entrance behind me, I ascended the long flight of "S"-shaped stairs to the second floor, where I'd set up my office, and, after enjoying the smoke I'd promised myself, I returned to work, not bothering to strip, as I usually would have done, as, without further delay, I wanted to write a few more pages of my latest report on the fascinating topic of desert hydrology; this one dealt with sampling techniques and was as dry as the sands that drift across the arid landscapes of the parched terrain itself. What the hell! I thought. Somehow, a photograph of a transvestite had been save to my computer monitor's desktop, as its background image. I knew it was a man—albeit, I had to admit, a guy every bit as gorgeous and glamorous as any female model I'd ever seen—because she—or he—sported an erect cock above a pair of good-size, shaved balls. Until the eye noticed these details, the figure was the image of a lovely lady. Dressed in a bubblegum-pink tank top with spaghetti straps, which showed her narrow waist and concave tummy, and a red leather mini-skirt, white stockings, and ruby stilettos, the dark-haired vixen was tall, slender, and shapely—although whether her boobs were implants or digital enhancements, I had no idea—and all woman, except for her manly cock and balls. She had a familiar face, one I might have seen before, but, of course, that was impossible; I didn't date or even associate with cross dressers. Still, there was something familiar about this lovely transvestite's face. How the hell she—or he—had gotten on my computer screen, I had no clue. Maybe I'd downloaded the image accidentally, along with a virus, when I'd saved some work-related files from the company's server or maybe I'd picked up the virus while surfing the 'net. I shrugged. However the hell she—or he—had managed to invade my computer, I was going to delete the image. A few mouse clicks and keystrokes later, and the pornographic image had gone to her—or his—reward. I found, however, that out of sight, in her—or his—case was definitely not out of mind. I found the mixture of feminine and masculine intriguing, although I'd never been attracted to transvestites or transsexuals before, and, I told myself, I wasn't attracted to them now. It's just that the combination of the perfectly coiffed hair, all waves and curls; the expertly applied makeup; the feminine attire; the figure's firm, sleek breasts and long, shapely legs, coupled with her—or his—male genitals was striking; it was mesmerizing. I'd stared at the hybrid charms of the feminine-masculine model for quite a few minutes, I recall, before deleting it. My eye had traveled down the slender, but curvaceous, figure, taking in the curves, the smooth skin, the feminine costume, and the incongruity of these features and the figure's male sex organs. The mixture of male and female didn't compute; therein lay the model's captivating allure. Although the image was no longer on my monitor to study and enjoy, I found myself thinking of the beautiful face and the lovely body to the point that I couldn't concentrate on the work at hand. My cock reminded me of my interest in the curious photograph; it wasn't just erect, but rock hard, standing, at full length, upright before my belly. How the hell was I to write about soil sampling techniques with such visions of loveliness in my mind? I felt confused. I'd never been attracted to cross dressers, but, now, judging by my stiff, standing cock, I was aroused, indeed, by the memory of the beautiful, androgynous figure who'd adorned my screen just a few moments ago. How the hell could I be attracted to a man dressed as a woman. She—or he—might be lovely to look at, but, damn it!, "she" was still a he! Was I going gay, somehow, now that I'd turned twenty five? Could a guy "go gay"? Could he be straight one day and a faggot the next? No, I told myself, I wasn't aroused by the transvestite's picture; I was merely curious. My hard-on disagreed. With a sigh, I gave up, shut down my computer, and decided to go out again. This time, my destination would be the local library. I'd just remembered why the transvestite's face had seemed so familiar: she—or he—had been the very image of Tammy. As far as their hair, their eyes, their nose, their lips, their chins, their jawlines, and their bone structure were concerned, they could have been twins. Suddenly, the previous tenant, daughter of my present, but unmet landlords, about whom I'd thought precious little, seemed important to me; I had, for some reason, to know about her, about how she was killed, and why. "Max!" I called, wanting to check on my feline friend before leaving for the rest of the afternoon. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!" I waited. There was no sign of him. Slightly worried, I called his name again, but he didn't respond. I checked his bowls. He didn't seem to have touched his food, and his water bowl was still full to the brim. Mildly concerned, I decided that Max must still be adjusting to his new environment. I'd keep an eye on him; if he didn't come around in the next day or two, I'd take him to the vet.