HAUNT EXCERPTS

For God’s eyes to grace us.

The tattered quilt veiled dark thoughts over her face. Through a grid of threads, blue and snagged, her eyes peeped through. She heard the clamor of voices seep into the wall; an incessant drip of pleasure laced with vileness. A thud, a poem being choked out in a controlled murmur of gasps and groans; of words engraved within her head. Same words, same echo, same sin. 

She clutched the cloth tighter, fingers curled over it, and lips trembled in an agony that was not much different than a pulsebeat. It was part of her now, a groove of sadness in her core. Her eyes flicked at the book on the nightstand, in stubbornness to sink into the lines, imprint the words within her head and pray for a better fate. But the moans reverberated louder, and her teeth gnashed so roughly together, her jaw began to ache. 

She heard them. He was, today, the tenth shadow of a man that trod through their den of safety. The tenth shadow of filth she would have to clean after. And he would be the last to walk out, as she would shrivel herself beneath the quilt, sully her identity within the dark veneer of her mother’s. 

There was silence now. No more feigned moans that raked the wall between them and tangled her heart in fright, no more ostensible words that confused her perception of what love could have sounded like. There were the footfalls of an ending; the traces of man’s satiation after he licked raw the marrow of a bone. The desires that cloaked themselves in robes of disdain. The steps fell heavy, closer, and she heard the door creak now. 

The ghastly apparition of a man did not walk out, but instead, snarled the door a little wider. Her breath caught hard, the pang of agony now flayed her chest in two pieces. He was there. Again, the same one. Squealing the hinges to poke his head through. She could almost sense the pungent cologne coiling his neck, intertwined with the cheap and grime perspire of her mother’s. She clutched the quilt harder and still peeped through the snagged threads. There he stood, a hunched figure, in darkness, in sin. 

……………………………

Her body shuddered beneath the clamor of his sickening moans, not comprehending, and wished for her mother to soon rouse from her own sin, and appear. But shadows only crawled out of the nooks and crannies to offer a consolation, and she remained in a cold shiver.

“And then…you swallow it all down, and regret the end of it. But I forgot, the most important part of that tale, which is…to shield the decadent act from God’s very eyes.” 

“God?” Her voice was small, and quivering, but her eyes darted at the Bible upon her nightstand, and her pulse quickened. 

“God, indeed, my dear love. You cover your head with a shroud as you imbibe the sin. Now, why does that compare to you?” He chuckled to himself, and she grimaced heavier, for she had the same question. “Well, my dear ortolan bird, you have always been a small delicacy to me. So puny, and frail, and lost in a cage of your own. So delicate in the bones, with a tenderness of young flesh, not so unlike it.” he groaned, and a panic spurred her to scream as loud as her lungs allowed, but somehow, couldn’t. “But the difference would be, there wouldn’t be a shroud, but grimy sheets over our heads, and yet, I am not sure if I would mind for God’s eyes to grace us.”

He carried him, as gentle as he ever would. As gentle as he never had.

His body clashed against the wheat through the field he bolted, blackbird feathers spread over him, shadowing the ghastly sight of his spine jutting out of his clothes, hushing the echoes of murder still painting his traces. Numb, exerted, but not halting a breath, he ran. In his grip, a piece of skin; raw, and drenched scarlet, coiled and squeezed against his palm, fastened beneath a chain rosary. 

Fingers touched wood, and a door swung open, and bare feet stepped within. The altar invited his apparition, pulled it close, guided it across the corridor of the building to ghost his last imprint along the trail of sinners, believers, puppets, and dissenters. He unfurled the piece of skin, cut out from a throat he lanced through in slow counted hours, in a silence he heard an inner voice mutter words that were forced mute, and placed it, splayed, upon the altar, slamming the rosary right atop it. He stared, slowly hoisted his head upwards, and dark blues nailed a brass crucifix on the wall. He remained in an aura of confrontation, resentment, and chance of forgiveness, but shook his head, and the wraith of a boy dissolved in a shroud of a faith he would carve on his own.

Wings bled across the ebony sky, and his shadow grew taller the further he went, the closer he neared. And there, he stood, as though sensing his return. Four years later, he still stood in the same mud, and pen. His neck had arched, his nostrils had flared, and a wreath of mist unspooled in forked paths. A hoof pawed at the wooden board, and he approached. Unable to tremble an emotion any longer, for fear had dissipated, he mounted up. They fled. Fingers tangled in mane of raven hair, bones of leg merged upon ribs, not letting go.

They rode. And he carried him, as gentle as he ever would. As gentle as he never had. He carried him, through veil of night, and haze of fog, until he felt his heartbeat stall, his breath no longer stir between his ears, and his body slip off, crash-land beside him.

“There’s a boy on the ground!” A voice, he heard again, but it was not his, so he slammed his eyes shut and lingered in the rocky path, abandoning himself to the soft lulling of water, to its rise and its collision, to its scent of sand, and washed rocks, and endlessness. “Boy? Are you alright?” 

His eyes softly opened, but bleakly they groped the elder man’s face, saying nothing. He felt the sailor’s arms grip beneath his bones, carry him with infinite care to his boat, but somehow, he could not tell the difference anymore.

The blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb.

“The ghastly beauty of a woman’s compromission.” A sudden voice and shadow towered over her, and she jarred, and jolted within the myriad layers of petticoat, and turned to her side to meet a familiar face. “Remarkable work of art, certainly.” he proceeded, and her mouth parted open for only a single word to slip out within the clamor of her thoughts.

“Sir?” Her breath caught hard, her eyes instantly dashed to his hand, but his fingers were wrapped around a Champagne glass, whole, except one single nail that had been missing on one, and it appeared as though someone had smashed the fingertip to pulp, then sewn it together into one small fold. 

“My lady.” The old man smiled in attempts to appear charming, but beneath his top hat, soulless eyes gripped at her. “It is a pleasure to see how far that cinch chaperoned you.” He grinned, but she could hardly speak. “I must assume that you were able to visit with your family in Birdsboro?” he asked, and she frowned at that, trying to recall if she had betrayed to him as much. 

She cleared her throat, then gave him a subtle nod. “Yes, sir. We are all preparing for…Thanksgiving.” she murmured awkwardly, and saw as his lips only widened, without his eyes to receive a single streak of luster. “And yourself?” she then asked, wondering if he had followed after her.

“Oh, I do not have family left, my dear. At my old age, do you suppose I do?” He cocked a brow, and studied her face with intensity that was tangible. 

Charlotte bowed her head, as though she could feel pinpricks into the pores of her skin. “Well, certainly you must have a wife, or children, then?” 

The man began to laugh to himself, amused. “I do have children, my lady. But not my own, and yet…the blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb.” He doffed his hat to her, and before she could respond, he had turned away, hobbling off, then, a French accent startled her from behind, a shrill voice that cut even through the painting. 

I am only a vase of ambivalent emotions.

The now familiar voice urged him to go, and he jolted in startlement, and cast a glance around himself, pinning it at the void across the timber. “Stop…I beg of you, sirs. Stop.” he muttered, gripping at the rail of the deck. “I…I’m a lettered man. I am not to be deranged. I am not to be —” His breath caught hard when he felt a hand grope at him from behind. He twisted as fast as he could, but a wall of air blew against him. He swallowed in a relief, one that still winced his heartbeat, but one strong enough to ease his mind, until, another voice. 

He spun again, now setting his eyes across the yard. There, stood a man. He was different this time. Bare. He staggered back, letting go of the rail. “What…you are trespassing my property, sir!” he shouted at him, still in the barrier of politeness. “I would ask of you to please depart, before I —” 

The man now began to walk towards him, and he heard a faint noise of a flute spiral through the air. A rattling coming from somewhere, he wasn’t sure. Trembling, he persisted. “Sir! I will ask you to depart from my property! I am armed, sir!” he cried out, but the man kept on walking, until his entity reached the first steps of the deck. He crashed against the entrance of the homestead, reaching for the knob with a hand to grab, and twist, but couldn’t. He watched the man hike up the steps, and approach, so close he could smell something corroding upon him. His face neared his, caging him in his shadow and pungent stench, and he perceived his countenance, side-lit by the break of dawn, and he found a layer of skin from the very top of his forehead down to his lips, peeled down to ash, rotten flesh exposed. He could hardly remark it, for the face now neared ever closer. His breath mingled with his, and as he shut his wounded eyes shut, he felt the entity walk right through him.

His eyes snapped wide open, and he gasped for air. The man was gone; a lingering stench still prevailed, but he felt lighter, almost floating. “Oh my Lord…my Lord.” He wept harshly into his grip, and knelt down to ground himself, quivering. “I am cognizant of my sins, but, Lord, I am only a vase of ambivalent emotions. A man of ambiguous character, with inaudible thoughts. I am lost, Lord. For a man is a cipher without his wife by his side.” he whispered, confused, and hurt, and a voice cuffed at his senses once more.

For you to be theirs, in a force that yields.

“How…does it feel like?” He leaned over to her with genuine curiosity, expecting to find darkness in her eyes, and yet they were dazzling with a gleaming light, uncertain of where it came from.

She sighed, soughed his name and his eyes clutched for a fleeting moment. “It…makes your heart race wildly…as you stare at the one you love.” She blushed, staring into him, unable to tear her gaze away this time. “Everything around you freezes in time…only chaos exists within your chest, as love tears down your defenses, leaving you vulnerable for someone to so easily destroy you…and yet somehow, you hand them the permission to do so, for being destroyed by them, hurts less than to find yourself with someone you don’t love.” she said and tears shone in her eyes, for emotions took a hold of her, debilitating in all their freedom, unrestrained, and almost primitive, in the narrow margin of perception. His pupils flared, as she neared him closer.

“Love is when every inch of your body tingles the closer you are to someone, anticipating a word of affection, a tender touch…any touch, an awkward brush against one’s sleeve, one’s hand…” She paused, as his stare was once again too intense to handle. “It feels like you’re losing yourself…or, finding who you really are.” Her hand closed around his knee, and tightened reassuringly. “It feels like you yearn to belong to someone. For without them, you don’t feel whole.” She drew an unsteady breath, and felt a sudden rush, something overwhelming, and he watched her every grimace, her every ripple of her swallow across her throat, somehow still unconscious of anything around them. “It’s longing for someone to call you theirs. For you to be theirs, in a force that yields.” 

“Have you ever felt like this?” she asked him, in emotion, in vulnerability, feeling the sudden urgent need to know his feelings, yearning to finally confess to him.

His eyes grew wide. Everything muffled around him, everything but the constant clop of his heart, pulsating in his head. 

Chanunpa.

“I need you to send this letter off.” she said gravely, fingers nervously crinkling the paper. “I cannot go to town, or else I would myself. This…this is very important to me, even if it’s the last thing I write in my life.” she pleaded, not wishing to entrust her letter to Amara, let alone Levi.

“Last thing? Lordy! That does sound important!” He gaped at her in sheer curiosity. 

“It is…”

“Well, what is it so important?” he then asked; he couldn’t help himself. “Are you repenting for your sins to a preacher? That’s quite a progressive way of doin’ it, but hey! I ain’t one to judge! Last time I found myself in that confessional booth, I had the biggest urge to —”

“Rush to the outhouse?” she filled in his sentence, and he looked at her as though she were a deity that had read his mind. 

“Lordy! How would ya know?!” he asked in a whisper, utterly dumbfounded.

“Oh…just a guess.” She chuckled. 

“Well then. I suppose I will spare ya the details of that story, since you are a lady! But, let me tell ya, whew! That first bean attack blew out louder than a pipe organ! And the musician told me afterwards I hit a low see, whatever that means!” he boasted, and she simply stared at him, amazed. “However, despite my hidden musical talent I discovered that day during confession time — praise the Lord, that preacher wasn’t all too pleased about it! Well, he had to close down that church for a little while, for that note turned into an orchestra worthy to be performed during battle! He! Now, tell me ’bout that letter. Y’ain’t writin’ to the president, are you? Is it your will? Am I included? I did do my part, you know…”

“JB…” She sighed heavily, as though she had been talking all this time, and needed the composure of breath and nerves. “I cannot tell you. It’s…confidential.” she said sheepishly, and his eyes grew ever bigger.

“What are ya? A spy for the army and it’s confidential? Haha!”

“No, JB…but —”

“’Cause let me tell ya! Back in the army, we —”

……………………………

“What? I need to know, don’t I? Besides, how many chaps do ya have wrapped around your finger, miss?” He laughed, realizing Levi was in quite a hot mess again. “Ya know, I volunteer as a chanunpa for you, to ensure no funny business goes on when you’re meetin’ up with them fellas.” He winked, and she blinked at him stupidly. 

“As a what?” She tittered, and shook her head. 

“Ya know! What them fancy elite call it back in Mon Louis!” 

“Chaperone?” Her laughter made her wheeze, and JB scratched at his chin, briefly distracted by the findings of dried up jerky within his beard, then regarded her, enlightened.

“Yes! That was it! Then what was chanunpa?” 

Where lust and desire came out of one’s flesh.

He gasped as he pulled back to face her, and she heatedly watched him slide the suspenders down his shoulders, drop them at the hip. His fingers deftly unfastened the buttons of his shirt, gripping and pulling the cloth over his head; his hair tousled over his forehead, and he raked a hand through it to comb it back. He stood now, in an intimidating aura to be admired, exposed in the skin of a well-built physique she always secretly longed to peek at, again and again. Feel. Dent the delicate shadows around his muscles with the pads of her fingers. 

Quivering, she placed her hands upon his chest, almost possessively to discover a man’s bareness in mere touch, where lust and desire came out of one’s flesh, and spread between them. Her fingers curiously explored the firmness of muscle in gentle strokes that only hastened; and they skimmed a trail of sweat across the line of his core, as wary eyes observed the strain in his neck as he curled it back, the rise of his torso in the beautiful form that pleasure took as it roved over him. 

Her skin prickled by the breeze of his breath against her neck. Demanding, capturing her every sliver of identity, as thumbs slipped beneath the ebony corset, prying it apart for the gown to reveal to him. He kissed, sucked in her pulse, beating upon his tongue and teeth as he traced them across the crease of her. She panted harder against his ear, clinging onto his hair for some peculiar support, unknown to her, when she felt him force himself between her legs, splaying them. Pulsebeat raced now, thrumming between her ears. His hands, strong and sure, groped the cloth of the gown, and the ruffled layers steadily folded upwards her thighs. 

“Du er vakker…” he soughed harshly into her, before the touch of his lips would immure her again, before the heat and solidness of his body would tower over her in a threat to crush her. She didn’t ask, she lay imprisoned in the tantalizing game of ignorance, and felt his fingers gliding up and down her legs, only quickening her blood in the strokes of torture, both aware his hand was mere inches away from what she had immured in turn until now.