It was a dark and stormy night…

Well, actually it was. But I suppose I should back up a bit.

In my defense, I didn’t do it. I didn’t create her and I couldn’t get rid of her.

I suppose I could have sold the house and land, and it would’ve solved my problem, or maybe it would have, but somehow that just didn’t seem right.

She was Jacqueline Marie Albright Raczynski, French-English wife of Count Wilhelm Aleksander Raczynski, a Polish nobleman who had emigrated to the Americas in the 1700’s and had become important in the banking and military supply trades, eventually providing horses and materiel to his countryman, Kazimierz Pulaski, among others.

She was also the victim of uxoricide.

Apparently, she caught her husband in the arms and other parts of one Elizabeth Adelstone. Rather than risk damage to his reputation, his wife surprisingly died in her sleep shortly after the discovery. So did Elizabeth. All from natural causes, of course, if one can call crushed cherry, peach and apricot pits mixed with crushed Nux Vomica seeds and blossoms “natural.”

I got all this after regaining consciousness, after my first meeting with Countess Raczynski.

It was a dark and stormy night… I think I said that already. Okay, so it didn’t start out as a dark and stormy night.

I’d inherited the land and buildings, such as they were, from an uncle I had never met, and it would be charitable to call it a farm, although the deed referred to it as such. I had an appointment with the bank and the lawyers on the morning of November 2nd, and I was expected to be familiar with the property and ready to sign a bunch of legal waivers and such.

When do I find out about this? Friday, October 30th, at work. So what do I do? I leave after work on the 30th, throw some clothes and sundries in the car and drive all damn night, 15 hours plus stops from Chicago, getting to the property mid-morning on the 31st. Did I check ahead to see what hotels were available? Did I think about restaurants? Or grocery stores? Did I… well, obviously not.

So I eased down the long, overgrown lane to the house — for want of a better word — surrounded by collapsing split rail fences. I pulled into what I supposed was the front yard and parked, getting out to take a look around. If it wasn’t prime South Carolina real estate just outside Jamestown and with a lot of potential, I probably would have gotten back in the car, driven to town and sold it to the first person to make me an offer.

The operative word here was potential. The place itself was falling apart. I took my cold coffee with me as I checked out the house. It might have been nice in its day. In fact, it probably was. Classic fieldstone foundation, thick cut timbers, shake shingle roof… what was left of it. Most of the siding needed major help, and a bunch of wild animals would have to be relocated. It had the basics of a living room, dining room and kitchen, and some kind of indoor plumbing — probably septic — on the first floor, with a stairway that led to a second floor. That’s where I found the bedrooms. A big one I presumed was the master bedroom and three smaller ones.

I got intrigued by some of the furniture, I’ll admit. There was a really nice old half-canopy bed in the master bedroom and some fairly solid simpler ones in the other bedrooms. There were marble-topped commodes, including washstands, highboys, lowboys and a dressing table. I was surprised nobody had looted the place. There was a really nice, huge cedar chest which, when I opened it, still had bedding in it, neatly put away. No evidence of insect or vermin damage.

I decided I’d seen enough of the house and headed on out to walk the grounds. First up was a dilapidated shed which held the remains of a tractor and a bunch of tools. 1920’s or so, from the looks of them. Beyond it was a much larger barn with pens and milking stalls in the foundation and a fairly hefty hayloft above. Beyond that were a pair of silos attached to the barn and two other sheds. One turned out to be a corn crib, the other an oat bin, based on what was left scattered inside. I didn’t see anything for storing wheat, so they’d probably threshed and sacked it at harvest, using it year ’round.

I found the small stand of sugar maples beyond the oat bin and a clear running brook beyond those. Most of the fields were overgrown at this point, although you could see the delineations from the rows of trees and low rock walls. By the time I got done walking around the property, it was getting into late afternoon and the temperature was dropping. There were storm clouds gathering to the west and I realized I’d better find a hotel or I’d be sleeping in the car. Not particularly appetizing after driving 15 hours.

I pulled out my cell phone and discovered two things immediately. One, there were between zero and one bars for the phone and two, no 4G LTE for data. No anything for data, for that matter. So Google wasn’t going to be helpful in finding a hotel on Saturday afternoon. That meant, get my ass back in the car and drive the half hour or whatever it was to town and try again. I was still tossing over in my mind whether I wanted to keep the place when I stuck my key in the ignition, turned it and got nothing. Not even a whimper of the starter trying to turn over.

Several choice words escaped my lips as I tried again. And again, got nothing. Continuing to vent rather colorful profanities, I got out, opened the hood and saw absolutely nothing wrong. I walked through every troubleshooting procedure I could think of, including breaking down and actually reading the owner’s manual in the glove compartment. Less than useful, that. And nothing worked. It was getting cold, it would be getting wet, and I was stuck 5 miles from where God lost his sandals.

Not one to wait for disaster to strike, because I knew it would, I started figuring out what I could do. The car would keep me dry, but without the heater it was going to get cold. I could raid that cedar chest for something to bundle up in. Actually, when I thought about it, I had time to see if the fireplace worked. God knows there was enough dry, dead wood lying around. Hell, the house was made of it. All I had to do was stay warm and dry until the storm passed. Then I could see about making my way into town.

I went back into the house and checked out the fireplace. It looked okay, but there might have been something living in it, for all I knew. So I went to the barn and found some old oil-soaked rags and brought them back. Ever the Boy Scout, I went and got my first aid kit out of the trunk and the butane lighter contained therein. One flaming oil-soaked rag showed me that there was a draft through the chimney and I didn’t hear anything scurrying to get out, so I put some wood in and some kindling, and got a fire going. While it was building up, I went upstairs and emptied the cedar chest. Not quite a sleeping bag, but with one of the old mattresses as a base, it would do.

Food was going to be rough, but again, I traveled prepared. In my emergency stuff in the trunk was a surplus canteen/cup combo that I could make a packet of dried soup in, and I had a few bottles of water. If I needed more, I figured I could go raid the stream and drop some Aquatabs in it. Or catch some of the rain runoff when the storm hit.

Well, at least this isn’t the camping trip from Hell, I thought as I got my impromptu nest set up. That was Governor Dodge State Park. The walk to town’s gonna be a bitch, though… Someday I’m going to learn not to presume like that.

The wind was picking up to a dull roar and I could smell the rain coming. My car was stuck where it was, so I pulled out everything I thought I’d need, made sure I had a huge stack of dry firewood and settled in to have some supper and consider my fortunes, which weren’t feeling all that fortunate at that moment.

All in all, though, it wasn’t that bad. The old stone fireplace got up to a good even heat and the bedding was okay. A couple of big cups of soup and my hunger was sated while my insides were nice and warm. I settled down to doze and dream, listening to the storm unleash its fury outside.

And unleash it did. Several times I was on the edge of falling out when a brilliant flash of nearby lightning and an earth-rocking boom of thunder would rip me out of my drowsiness and back to full waking. It was annoying, and yet it wasn’t the worst I’d ever encountered. A couple of my camping experiences in the Boy Scouts and a few in college had much more severe weather and I’d done okay.

The problem was, after one particularly nasty and nearby strike, as the light faded, she didn’t. She was standing near the stairway, translucent, white and naked. Startled the bejeezus out of me.

“Who the hell are you???” is what came out of my mouth.

“Ooo ze ‘ell are you???” she demanded. “And what are you doing in my ‘ouse?” She had a weird French-like accent.

I’m amazed I noticed the accent. I was mostly absorbed with the rest of her. Five and a half feet tall, maybe, a top heavy hourglass, really small waist, very curvy hips and ass, long hair flowing down to said ass and a massive rack. Okay, maybe not massive, but way more than a handful each. And a really cute face, once you got past the icy glowing eyes and very pissed off look.

“I’m, um, I’m, uh… I’m Mike Edwards?,” I stumbled. “I’m the new owner, I guess? My Uncle Sol left the place to me… I’m um, uh… just bedding down, trying to stay sheltered from the storm?”

“You are ze nephew of Solomon Mathias Grundy?” she asked, almost accusatorily. I wasn’t sure “yes” was the right answer. But it was the honest one.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I never met him. Just bang, outta the blue, I get a letter telling me I have to meet with a bunch of lawyers because he left the property to me. I take it you knew him?” I was scared shitless and the weirdest things were coming out of my mouth. I kind of watched in awe as they floated by.

“And you are oversexed, like ‘e was?” was her next question and it stopped me cold.

“I, um, uh… I, uh… what???” I wasn’t processing all this very well. I was still trying to admit to myself that I was having a conversation with a woman who was probably a ghost.

“Aimes-tu baiser?” she asked. When I didn’t respond, she added, “Czy lubisz sie pieprzyc? Vis enim habere coitu?” I was still quiet, just staring at her and trying not to wet myself. She looked even more irritated, if that was possible, as she asked, “do you like to fuck?”

“Um, yeah… I guess…” To say I was confused and wary would have been being kind.

“You guess,” she iterated. “My one time of only two in ze entire year and you guess…” She began floating over towards me. “Do you know who I am?” she asked as she stopped right at my feet.

“Not a clue,” I told her, “unless the answer is Really Scary White Lady.”

“I am Countess Raczynski,” she told me, “and despite your silly laws, I am ze rightful owner of zis property.” She moved up next to me, where I was huddled under the quilt and linens, shaking like a leaf — and it wasn’t because of the cold. “Let us see what you have,” she commented as she reached out and pulled the covers off me.

I mean, really. Seriously. Reached out with a translucent, ghostly-like hand, grabbed the quilt and physically peeled it back. At the same time, the fire in the fireplace roared to life and the temperature in the room soared.

Okay, I’m not some Hollywood hunk or Mr. Universe. But I’m not bad. I work out and watch my diet. I’m not ugly… dark hair, kept short for work, hazel eyes, around 6 feet and 175 lbs. And I’m a little above average in the hung department, if I ever got erect — which right then was about the last thing my scared shitless body was going to do. Or at least, so I thought.

“My, you are ze ‘andsome one…” she mused as she stared at my naked body, frozen with fear. “And young…”

“Hey!” That stung a bit and actually got me out of my stupor. “I’m not that young! I’m twenty-two!”

“Zat will do,” she intoned and moved even closer to me. I tried to scramble back but the bedding just got tangled around me and kind of held me fast. She reached out to stroke my face with that ghostly hand and that’s when I fainted.

I know… not very manly-macho or whatever. Doesn’t matter. That white hand I could see through reaching for my face was more than my brain was prepared to handle. When I came to, I was prone, cold and hard.

Prone as in lying flat on my back in front of the fireplace. Cold as in the fire didn’t seem to be doing anything for my body temperature. Hard as in the ghostess lady was lying next to me — which may have been why I was cold — and playing with my very erect erection. I damn near fainted again, except I was outrageously horny and she had my undivided attention.

“I thought you were a ghost,” I managed to tell her, “but I can feel you… what are you?”

“I am a ghost,” she informed me, continuing to stroke me. “Or post-mortem nebulous apparition, if you prefer. Only during Allhallowtide, and on my Death Day, can I manifest my corporeal self, alzough I do ‘ave telekinetic abilities at ozzer times. Zis is my time, in my ‘ouse, and I zink you owe it to me, trespasser, to take care of my very personal requirements.”

“Uh, sure?” I answered, completely unsure of myself. “Like, uh, how?”

She didn’t answer. Aloud, that is. She went down on me.

Holy Mother of God!!!” It felt like someone had wrapped my cock in an icepack that at the same time was shooting little lightning bolts all through me. “Holy shit… holy shit… holy shit…” I kept mumbling as she bobbed up and down on me. I could see my cock in her throat, through her milky white skin, and she was going at me with a will. I was too scared to do anything but go along for the ride.

My cock had other ideas.

“Oooooohhhhhh, fuuuuuuuUCK!!!” Everything pulled up, I hit that point of no return and I felt like every nerve in my body was on fire as I swelled in her mouth and erupted.

I could see my cum traveling down her throat until its white blended with hers and I lost track of it. I would have been seriously freaking out if I hadn’t been cumming so hard.

She slowed down as I petered off, then came off my cock and looked up at me with a very wicked grin.

“C’est bon… á ton tour,” she told me. To my confused look, she explained, “your turn.” While I was still trying to figure out what that meant, she turned, still holding my cock, straddled me and put her pussy in my face. Labia look weird when they’re a translucent white. Weird. Not alien. I knew exactly what she expected me to do. So I took a deep breath, let it out, hoped I was going to get it right and tried doing it.

MON DIEU!!!” I must have gotten something right. I’d spread her lips and given her pussy a couple of really good clit-to-anus licks before plunging my tongue into her. It was kind of like eating pussy-flavored ice cream. Actually, not bad. Not bad at all.

Mon Dieu… mon Dieu…” the apparition sitting on my face moaned as I tried to do what I would for a real woman. Actually, she was a real woman, sort of. Her “body,” even if transparent, had mass to it and it was increasing… her weight on me was growing. And it seemed like she was becoming translucent, as opposed to transparent. Like she was developing what she called her “corporeal self.”

Ah! Mon Dieu! Tu vas me faire jouir!” she cried out and I was about to stop eating her to ask her what the hell she said when it became somewhat obvious. She came. Hard. I could feel her pulsing on my tongue. Not to mention the fact that she was shaking like crazy and moaning all kinds of animalistic gibberish as she drove down onto me, grinding her pussy into my face. My high school girlfriends had trained me well… there was no way I was going to stop until she told me to.

After a rather amazing orgasm, she calmed down and eased up, turning to face and straddle me.

“You ‘ave ze gifted tongue, M’sieur Mike Edwards,” she told me. “But ‘ow iz your kopulacja?”

“My what?”

“Fucking,” she stated, taking my now erect again cock and sitting on it. This time, though, it wasn’t so much of an icepack sheathing me, but a cool, smooth… almost refreshing… feeling of being buried in her. Surprised the hell out of me… or, wait… maybe that’s not such a good phrase, given the circumstances. Very surprising. That’s better.

She began rocking on me and those milky white tits were dangling in my face. What else was I supposed to do? I was way past being scared… she obviously didn’t want to kill me, yet, so what the fuck? Why not enjoy it? Besides, for me, horny usually beats scared. I took her tits in my hands and started suckling one while rolling her other nipple between my thumb and forefinger.

Okay, so I didn’t know ghosts had milk. Or that it would taste like a vanilla shake. Or that the nipple not in my mouth would spray cool white ghost-stuff all over my chest, accompanied by her guttural moans.

“Ah, oui, fais-le comme ça,” she murmured as she rocked on me, taking me deep inside.

“I’m sorry, Countess,” I managed to moan as the most amazing shivers ran through me, “I don’t speak whatever that is… French, I’m guessing. All I speak is American.”

“Mais oui,” she chuckled — it’s weird to hear a ghost chuckle, especially when she’s fucking you. “What is zat quote? Americans ‘ave not spoken English in two ‘undred years?”

“What I said,” she added as she ground down onto me even harder, “was Yes, do it like zat.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I told her as I went back to suckling the other teat and rolling the first one. Her rocking sped up.

“Ah, oui! Comme ça, comme ça! Yes! Yes! Like zat! Like… mon Dieu! Je jouis! Je jouis!

Like before, I didn’t need a translator for that one. She damn near took my cock off, she pulsed so hard when she came. And she had me right back up at the edge again, too. She didn’t let up and I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to… and I didn’t want to!

Everything pulled up like before and again I hit that point of no return. I felt myself swell and go over the edge, spurting shot after shot into her. And the really weird thing? When I looked down between us, I could vaguely see my cock buried in her, pulsing away. But as I watched, she seemed to solidify even more than before. It was like every time she came, she got more real!

She sighed and collapsed down on me as she finished spending, obviously pleased with getting off, and with quite a bit more mass than I was expecting. Not quite human, yet, but getting there. Maybe cumming my brains out had rendered me incapable of feeling the terror I should have, but the reality was, I was more fascinated by this creature than terrified of her.

“How is it you’re getting heavier?” I managed to pant out.

“Oh… I am zorry…” she murmured, starting to move off me. “I do not mean to ‘urt you…”

“No, wait, stop,” I told her, reaching up to stop her and finding that pushing against her was like pushing against a marshmallow. “You’re not hurting me… it’s just… well, I just don’t get how you can be a ghost with substance.” She smiled. She actually smiled.