In honor of this creepy month of haunted delight, we submit for your consideration the second part of an eerie short story.
TAPPING part two
(short story continued from Thursday 10/20/11 - last week)
[Emily and Sam, college professors, just moved into an riverfront historical home, where a persistent tapping could be heard but not be found. That coincides with a revitalization of their sex lives in unexpected ways.]
As they turned to go back into the house Sam noticed a movement in the attic window. His pulse momentarily quickened until he considered it could be their cat, Nathaniel. At second glance he realized the shadow seemed somewhat elongated, not at all like a cat. Did they have an uninvited guest?
His worried eased as he noted it was one of the side windows, one that he thought had been sealed up, part of a closet a previous owner had installed, maybe even where the mice hung out.
"Did you see..." he began, only to be interrupted by Emily's sudden gasp as her foot fell into a sinkhole next to their backdoor patio. Was a sinkhole odd for such an old neighborhood? Indeed, unless there was intervention from another force, a force unknown to both.
An emergency room visit later, Emily hobbled through the front door and collapsed on the couch. "That wasn't fun."
"Well, at least it wasn't broken."
"Sometimes sprains take longer to heal. How will I ever finish unpacking before we have to return to work?"
He bent at the waist, a perfect bow of a yesteryear gent asking a woman to dance. "Your manservant at your disposal."
And Sam did just that, he waited on her and unpacked the remaining boxes, all the while keeping up a string of anecdotes and banter that made Emily laugh. Both were over thirty, did not have children and did not have the urging for them, nor did they have any close family. They were content being each other's best buds, needing very little in the way of outside friends to keep them happy. Emily worried about that day when one of them might die, leaving the other so utterly alone. She kept meaning to step beyond their little family of two and make good friends, rather than just acquaintances. She simply never got around to it.
"Comfy?" Sam asked, a couple days later as he positioned a pot of tea on the round Edwardian table next to the divan where she rested.
The day after the accident, he had taken her to the attic, which housed a modern bathroom tucked behind what appeared to be a solid wall. A curving stairwell linked the master bedroom to the main bathroom which was in the attic and traversing the stairs would have been too tough for Emily to navigate in her condition. The only other bathroom resided off the kitchen, and she could not recline anywhere down there. With bathroom convenience and a wonderful cross breeze and view, the attic seemed the best place for Emily to recuperate. It even gave her a chance to sort though some of the old relics left there. The only blemish on their lives was that constant tapping that could not be identified.
As if on cue, it began again, making Emily sighed. "I'd be more comfy without that sound."
"I'm working on it," he said, and then in that sweet way of his held out his arms, "Hug?"
"Come to me, honey pot," she teased. Sam obliged. Instantly, that same wonderful yet somehow eerie passion overcame them both. His lips were instantly on hers, tongue prying open her mouth, invading while she accepted that invasion, encouraged it, arching her body toward him. All lingering pain from the sprain vanished under the severe need.
The tapping grew more insistent, becoming loud and intrusive.
They didn't hear over their own moans. Emily fully opened to him, offering herself like a feast, willing him to plunder. And he wanted to plunder, to devour. Their gazes linked as did their souls, binding them as surely as if the tether were tangible. He brushed her mouth once more, and again she didn’t oppose him. She became as solvent as liquid, leaning into him, conceding that this was as inevitable as sunrise. Finally, his arms wrapped around her, tightening in a hold that rebuffed resistance as his tongue continued to pierce her mouth.
Never before had either of them been this aggressive, and the invasion tossed them into spasms of ecstasy. She mirrored his every thrust, every fusion of lips, every plundering motion. Her head reeled and her pulse thudded against her wrists and throat with rapid potency.
Tapping tuned violent, random, seeming to pound through the house.
She couldn’t breathe and she didn’t want to breathe. She couldn’t think and she didn’t want to think. She only wanted now, this moment, this emotion, this tumbling off the brink of sanity to never end. Breathing intensified. It was as if they had been in a drought and couldn't quench the spell of passion's demands. Strong hands, roughened from days of moving boxes and hard work, flowed over her body, squeezing, pressing, demanding.
Abruptly, a musical tone evaded the moment, Sam's cell phone. For an instant, they appeared dazed, and then Sam answered the phone as if the kiss hadn't occurred, as if they had never been aroused at all.
The tapping had ceased.
To be continued....
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