It’s Halloween, and here’s a spooky short story for all those of you who love things that go bump in the night…
Two minutes to midnight. The lights are extinguished, a candle gutters on the table before me. I’ve surrounded myself with all I have left of him. A detective novel I borrowed from the teetering pile in his bedroom and never had the chance to return. A string of friendship beads he tied around my wrist the summer before we went away to college. A photo, creased and dog-eared from being carried in my wallet. His parents took it on some family vacation, right after he graduated. He’s in board shorts, his chest bare, his hair sun-bleached. He looks so ridiculously handsome, laughing and carefree. Unaware that he only had another three months to live.
I wish I had more, but the fire claimed almost all our possessions, as well as his life. If I hadn’t been on shift that evening, one year ago to the day, I’d be dead, too. The guilt and pain I carry haven’t lessened. I know there’s nothing I could have done to save him, but I let the sun go down on my anger and I need to put this right. To say the words I left unspoken when I stormed out of the apartment, late for work and angry at him for not hanging the laundry out to dry.
The clock chimes. It’s time. I speak the words, culled from the pages of a book so old it threatened to crumble to dust when I opened it. They’re hard to pronounce, so many guttural syllables to wrap my tongue around, but I do my best. I have to get this right, for the sake of my sanity.
For the longest time, it seems nothing’s going to happen. Foolish of me to believe it might, really. Then the air shimmers, as if I’m looking through a smoky haze. Peering through it, I see the outline of a figure. It grows more solid, till I’m looking at a full-grown man.
“Milo?” My voice cracks around his name.
“Jen.” He comes a step closer. I fight the urge to scream. His skin is blistered and burned; most of his hair is gone. The pajama pants he wears are charred shreds of fabric. I should be terrified, but I’m not. He’s still my gorgeous Milo, for all that. “It’s so good to see you. But I don’t have long…”
“Oh, Milo. The spell worked. It’s really you.” Tears course down my cheek and I swipe them away, determined not to let him see me so upset.
“Hey, babe. Don’t cry.” When he puts his arms out, I stumble into them. I’m almost afraid to touch his ruined body, but he smiles. “It’s okay. You’re not going to hurt me. Nothing can any more.”
There’s so much I want to ask him, but the words won’t come. Glancing up, I see his blue eyes shining, the depth of emotion obvious. When he bends his head and presses his lips to mine, I don’t resist. Returning the kiss with all the passion I possess, I let him guide me to the floor.
He kisses my cheeks, my eyelids, the tip of my nose. I run my hands down his back, all the way to the cheeks of his ass. Our bodies grind together. His erection is a thick bar, trapped against my belly. Without thinking, I reach to hold it, surprised to feel it warm and pulsing in my grasp.
“I want you,” he murmurs.
“Me, too. I’ve never stopped wanting you.”
Milo tears open my shirt, sending the buttons flying. He takes my nipple between his rough lips, sucking hard. Desire courses through me, fierce and urgent. I tug down my underwear, desperate to feel him inside me one last time.
He slides home in one long thrust. I’d almost forgotten how well he fits, like he was made for me. We move together, quickly finding a rhythm that suits us both. Milo’s eyes never leave mine as our pleasure mounts in unison.
My pussy convulses around him in the moment before he comes deep within me. I cling on tight to him, riding the waves.
“Milo, I’m so sorry for fighting with you about nothing,” I whisper, when I can find my voice again. “I love you. I always will.”
He’s fading before my eyes. The candle flame sputters and dies. All that remains is an acrid smell of smoke and his voice, lingering in the air like the Cheshire Cat’s grin.
“…love you too.”