(Archive note: the printed book contained no Chapter Sixteen.)
CHAPTER ONE
Testing. One. Two. Three. Four. Click.
Ah, Karen, dear, dead Karen. I wish you could have heard that. You see, there are some things I can do without you. You told me I would never be able to operate this dictating machine. That I should do all of my writing on the typewriter.
And you said I would never tell my story our story. I'm sorry you won't be able to hear it. Or will you? I wonder!
Christ! All of that went on the tape. Oh, well, I'm not going to play around with it, trying to erase that monologue. I might foul something up.
Hello. Whoever you are. I hope this machine is working properly. Because I want you to know exactly what happened here today. And why. More important, I want you to understand. Please whoever you are, please try to understand.
Where should I begin? Some basic facts, perhaps.
My name is Gregory Scott. You may have heard of me. I am a writer who has attained some degree of fame as a creator of supernatural stories. However, although the one I am going to tell you now fits into the category of fantasy, it is not fiction. It's really my obituary. Because when it is finished Greg Scott will cease to exist. Just as that girl on the bed no longer exists even as I speak.
The girl on the bed? Her name is Karen Rowe. Age: twenty-three. She and I shared this suite here in the fashionable Scarboro district of London. Her occupation? To those who did not know her well, she was an accomplished artist and musician. But to me? Ah! She was a succubus. A Cypriote. A Jezebel. A she-demon. An evil force. Handmaiden of the devil! Of course I shall leave it to you to decide whether I have judged her harshly.
Let me describe her as I see her now. Because by the time you find us she will have changed. Nature is an Indian giver. She will bestow great beauty upon the living and take it back after death. She was generous in her gift to Karen. Even now, as Nature begins to revoke her generosity Karen's beauty is still breathtaking.
If I had not killed her myself I'd think she vas just asleep. She's lying on her back, the fullness of her magnificent body compressing the quilt which covers my bed. Her long, black hair spreads in wild, glistening abandon over the white pillow. The dark eyes, flashing with intense desire such a short time ago, are closed. The blood-red of her full, sensuous lips contrasts vividly with the creamy whiteness of her perfect features.
Karen's long, rich body lies relaxed. Her right arm stretches down her curved side. The left rests across her body just below the mounding flesh of her breasts. How long ago did those perfect, upswept glands crush against my body as she soared upwards towards the peak of passion? The nipples, though, no longer strain erectile. They have subsided in flat, broad mounds, each resting in a mound of darker flesh.
And below, the firm flatness of her abdomen upon which I have so often lain, drained, my desire spent within her. Further down, the dark triangle of soft hair crowning the padded flesh of Karen's mons veneris. The gleaming black coils disappear between her full thighs, thighs still spread as they were when I lay between them. By moving slightly I can see the evidence of our last passion still clinging to the dark screen which now hides her once grasping depths. The white moisture of her recently aroused membranes is mixed with the thickness of my own exudation.
Deep within her lies my final ejaculation. And the seed of the two men who preceded me today. All of it will rot with her body. It will rot with her corrupt, profligate body. Her once desirable, desiring body.
Yes, Karen looks perfect, even in death.
Except for the angry blotches my crushing fingers left upon her throat.
Of course I had to kill her. I should have done it long ago. Perhaps a stronger man would not have waited as long as I did. He might have eliminated the evil force the moment he became aware it was beginning to possess him. Unfortunately, I didn't.
And even now, as I sit here, watching Karen's body cooling under Death's caress, I realize that I have not escaped her powers. She's taking me with her. Who knows in what hell she will continue to seduce, to dominate, to possess me.
But it has to be this way. I must follow Karen once my story is told. You see, no one is going to believe in a modern-day Lorelei. Who will believe that that evil spirit which once lured men to their death could be reincarnated in the beautiful body of Karen Rowe? What jury will exonerate a murderer on the claim that his victim has possessed his soul?
And, because none of this is a figment of my imagination, I would be declared sane. No. No one credits demonology today.
"On n'est pas possede du demon a notre temps," is the creed of our modern sceptical society.
But don't you believe it! I, Gregory Scott, being of sound mind is that the way it's put? I, as sane as you who listen to my voice, am living proof that a human being can be possessed by an evil spirit. Dying proof, is more apt, if I may be permitted a touch of irony.
Anyway, that stiffening she-devil on the bed . . . that beautiful woman . . . that woman I loved with all my heart. . . possessed me body and soul for the past eight years. Ever since I was twenty and she was fifteen.
That shocks you doesn't it? I warn you, I shall shock you many times before my story is ended.
Have you ever known a child who seemed to be grown-up years before it should? You know, one who exhibited unusually early maturity? I don't mean physical maturity; I mean advanced mental development. Emotional maturity. That was Karen. I swear she was a fully mature woman at the age of fifteen. She had all the instincts, drives, coquetry of a woman in full bloom. Did she learn these things? Was she born with them? I don't know. But I do know she had them when her body was just undergoing pubescent blooming. She experienced the rich emotional passions of a mature woman long before she could have known mature physical desire.
Good God! Karen moved! No! It must be the first stages of rigor mortis. The contractions of her muscles in death. What emotions did that slight movement evoke? Hope? Fear? I don't know. Probably a little of both. Hope! I wouldn't be normal and I insist that I am if I didn't wish I could undo a murder. Fear? If my wish were to come true, I would be right back where I was an hour ago. A living Karen would now be demanding that I make love to her, once again seeking and consuming my masculinity, draining me dry, both physically and emotionally, dominating me. And like a moth, helpless under the magnetic attraction of a flickering flame, I would yield. Just as I have yielded for eight years.
That's it. Make some rapid mental calculations and you'll come up with Karen's age when I first made love to her. Fifteen! I feel no regrets for having violated a child, however. It was not a child who seduced me; it was a woman in a child's body. Perhaps not even a woman. A she-demon !
And, believe it or not, she was my first sexual experience with a female!
Oh, how she drew me out, tapped me until I ached. At fifteen! She demanded more.
But I am getting ahead of myself. I want my story to be orderly and I think the best way to achieve that is to try to tell it in a chronological manner.
So I shall start at the beginning.
CHAPTER TWO
When I started dictating this story I asked you to try to understand. I should also have asked you not to judge me too hastily. Don't think that my story is the raving of a madman. Please don't look for hidden motivation in my childhood, as some psychiatrist might do. I didn't hate my father or my mother. I have no latent homosexual tendencies; I have no hidden dislike for women. Except that dead siren who sprawls on the bed.
My childhood was perfectly normal, I think. Naturally I cannot recall everything that happened to me in that growing up process. But I can provide enough detail to suggest that nothing unusual took place in my life until I was nineteen.
I was born in Washington where my father was completing his residency in surgery. When I was just a year old my parents moved to a Midwest city where my father established a surgical practice which was soon to be modestly lucrative.
Nothing particular stands out in my mind about the first ten years of my life. I attended an ordinary primary school, got into my share of fist fights with the other kids, stole fruit from neighbors' trees, tried my hand at smoking cigarette butts picked up in the gutter, snickered at dirty jokes I didn't understand, roasted potatoes in bonfires, sang in an Episcopalian Church choir, joined the Cub Scouts.
I think all of that is quite normal.
My first mad love affair took place when I was eleven. With the girl next door. Maxine was her name; a pretty, dark-haired girl, who, I remember, always wore fluffy dresses and a hair ribbon. She was the only girl in a family of five, and the youngest. I guess she was about ten when I first noticed her. As a girl, that is. Up until then she had just been another kid to play with when none of the boys were around.
But as a girl? Ah, I fell in love. It happened one afternoon as we were sitting on her front porch. I can recall the sudden sinking feeling in my stomach as I screwed up enough courage to turn to her and say:
"Know what I'd like to do to you?"
Maxine's large dark eyes widened. I can still see her staring at me. "Not what my brother tried to do?"
"What d'ya mean?" I asked.
"You know. Tried to put that boy's thing inside me. He tried and it wouldn't go. He hurt me."
I must admit I thought the idea was crazy. After all I was only eleven and I guess that whatever puppy love forces were at work within me hadn't got around to stimulating the lower half of my body.
"Naw," I snorted. "Not that. I'd like to kiss you." Even now I recall how I blushed as I said it.
Before she could answer I leaned over and brushed my lips against her cheek and ran for home. It took me a week to gather up enough courage to speak to her again.
God! How that bitch Karen would have laughed at me if she had been Maxine!
I guess that was the beginning of my sex education. But, as I recall it, the lessons came fast and furious from then on. It was only a few weeks later that I was with a bunch of the boys after school. And we were talking about girls. Oh, how knowledgeable we were!
"Did ya ever see a girl without her clothes on?" one of the guys asked.
The rest of us hated to admit it, but none of us had.
"I did," the first boy said. "My sister. For a nickel she took her pants off and peed while I watched. Under our back porch."
"What'd it look like? Eh?" one of us asked.
"Funny. Almost like a small ass between her legs. A crack with smooth flesh humpin' up on each side. And the pee ran all over the place. Not straight like ours."
"Gee."
"Gosh."
"Hot damn."
Our education was expanding rapidly.
"Why're they built like that?" someone asked.
Now I knew the answer. Marine's experience suddenly had meaning.
"Ah, that's easy," I said. "That's where a guy puts his dink."
"What for?"
That trapped me. My little bit of knowledge was going to embarrass me. But before I had to admit ignorance, someone else took me off the hook.
"Stupid," he said with the disdain of the informed for the ignorant. " 'Cause it feels good and makes ya come!"
This lesson was getting too much for most of us. Not only anatomy, but vocabulary was bogging us down. We didn't have to ask the instructor what he was talking about: the questions were written all over our faces, I guess.
"Look you guys should have been at Scout camp a couple of weeks ago. Al Wagner sure taught us a lot. Showed us a lot, too. Like how to jerk off. Know what that is?"
We had to find out so one of us asked: "No. What's that?"
"That means playing with your tiling. You rub it back and forth for a while and suddenly ya get this great feeling inside. And some white stuff pumps out. Al had us all doin' it in the tent. Hey, ya should've seen Al's cock. Great big thing.
And he sure had lots of that white stuff. He lay on his side and said: 'Look out you guys. I'm gonna spit in your eye.' And it damn near squirt a foot or more. 'Course, Al's older than us an' I guess ya get more as ya get older."
That ended the lesson. All of us were curious to find out if it was true and wanted to get away to try it. My chance came that night in the bathtub. I can't remember too much about it except seeing that small blob of white substance suddenly oozing out of the end.
And thus began my masturbatory period. You know, the fantasies, the Sears-Roebuck catalogue and the lingerie ads, the occasional smutty books. The wet-dreams. All. the fearful stories about going insane, of growing hair on the palm of your hand, of weakening your muscles.
Thus puberty arrived. And high school. The usual drag. I was not the most diligent of students, but I managed to scrape through each year. I was an above average athlete and excellent at football, baseball and tennis. But all of my athletic activities did not subdue my interest in sex. Those were the days of the sudden embarrassing erection when you'd find yourself trapped in a reverie: wondering what it would be like to be with a naked girl, feeling her breasts, and pressing your swollen flesh against her.
Like all communities, ours had one girl who, it was said, "would do it for anybody". I can still remember her name: Grace Marsden. It was rumored she had even seduced her own brother. One of the boys said he had seen her masturbating with a carrot once. Only once did I work up enough courage to proposition Grace. And, as my luck would have it, she was menstruating. But she offered to use her hand. I turned down the opportunity. I guess I had set my sights too firmly on the real thing to accept second best.
Anyway, I remained celibate.
Please don't misunderstand me. Not all of my youthful thoughts were of sex. It's just that those events stand out in my memory at this moment when I realize that I have had my last sexual experience.
To continue my story. The first major crossroad in my life was encountered when I graduated from high school. I was eighteen. My father had his heart set on my following in his footsteps and becoming a surgeon. I had other ambitions. Aside from my athletic abilities I was certain I had literary talents and insisted I should be permitted to attend a school of journalism.
I can hear my father now.
"A newspaperman?" he roared when I made my ambitions known. "Christ! What a noble trade!" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "What you want to be is a distortionist, a suppressionist, a sensationalist, an invader of privacy. A hack writer. A creator of crime. You want to be a newspaperman? Then you'll do it without an assist from me!"
I pleaded; I argued. But my father was adamant. I was without financial resources of my own, so I suggested a compromise. A two-year moratorium during which I would study languages. "A valuable asset to any surgeon-to-be," I added. After lengthy discussions he agreed. During the two years he would finance my attendance at the Sorbonne in Paris. Of course I'm certain my father saw the two-year hiatus as a maturing influence which would see me coming around to his way of thinking. And I was young enough to see no problem created by the temporary suspension of my ambitions. Ahead of me lay two years of adventure, an escape from parental control, a chance to see Europe, an opportunity to store up knowledge which would stand me in good stead as a newspaperman.
Some of the thrill of anticipated independence was destroyed before I got to Europe, however. Instead of being given the opportunity of leading the Bohemian life I had hoped .for I was going to board with a family my parents had known for years. A Mr. and Mrs. Rowe. Mr. Rowe held some prominent position with the Paris office of a large international corporation. The Rowes and my parents had been close friends in Washington before I was born.
You'll never know how often I have wished that I could go back to that point in time, eight years ago! How gladly I would embrace my Rowes and my parents had been close friends in journalism, of Paris, Bohemia and the rest.
Anything to have avoided the life of hell I have known.
Anything to have escaped Karen Rowe!
CHAPTER THREE
Click.
I just paused in my dictation to go over to the bed where Karen lies. In death she looks like a piece of magnificent sculpture. Her skin is now cold as sculptured stone; beneath that cream-white surface the flesh that was once rippling, warm and demanding, is still and hardening. I wish I had a camera: I would take a picture of her for you. Just so you would know that what you find decaying on the bed was once startlingly beautiful.
Karen was always beautiful. Even as a child.
I remember the first time I saw her. It was at Orly Airport. I arrived in France on a sunny mid-August morning, too excited to yet feel any pangs of homesickness. However, I have to admit to some nervousness. Here I was in a foreign country, on a strange continent, several thousand miles from home. And my communications equipment was limited to a useless high school French. How limited became apparent almost immediately as I passed through customs. A simple phrase rapped at me by the official soared far over my head.
"Bonjour, m'sieu'. Avez-vous quelque chose a declarer?"
"I beg your pardon ? " I managed to stammer.
He immediately switched to flawless English. "Stupid Englishmen."
"I am not an Englishman. I am an American," I said, drawing myself up to my full, red-blooded six-foot-two.
"On va de mal en pis. Or, as you might say, Out of the frying pan into the fire." He sighed. "Well, m'sieu', back to business. Have you anything to declare?"
The customs hurdle cleared I attempted to conceal my naivete as a traveler, striding resolutely into the airport concourse with my two bulky suitcases.
No airport, no terminal, can match the confusion, the noise, the maddening excitement of Orly. My newly-acquired confidence rapidly evaporated. In the midst of hundreds of voluble foreigners I was incommunicado. If you have ever found yourself in such a situation, you can imagine my relief when a voice suddenly spoke to me in English.
"Gregory? Gregory Scott?"
I turned, practically in tears. A conservatively dressed man about my father's age, stood smiling at me. He was almost as tall as I, though much slighter. (I then carried close to 240 pounds of muscle). Below his salt-and-pepper brushcut sparkled dark eyes, kindly, gentle.
"Yes . . . Yes. I'm Greg Scott," I stammered, so grateful I almost ignored his outstretched hand. Finally I dropped one of my bags and grasped the well-manicured fingers.
"Good. Welcome to Paris, Greg. I'm James Rowe." He smiled warmly, waving a hand toward the milling crowd. "Quite a bedlam, isn't it?" Well, you'll get used to it. Just wait until you see the traffic!" His laugh was friendly, boyish. I relaxed. Paris France in the company of someone like Mr. Rowe wasn't going to be so bad.
Mr. Rowe picked up the bag I had dropped and with his free hand grabbed my arm and guided me toward an exit. "Sarah and Karen are waiting for us in the parking lot. They're my wife and daughter, respectively."
We reached the parking lot and Mr. Rowe's large American sedan only after a heart-stopping dash through unending streams of taxis outside the terminal. As we approached the car Mrs. Rowe and Karen climbed out to greet us.
"Darling," Mr. Rowe said as we reached the car, "this is Greg Scott. My wife, Sarah."
We both acknowledged the introduction. Mrs. Rowe was a beautiful woman who looked years younger than she must have been. Then Mr. Rowe turned to his daughter.
"And this is our pride and joy, Karen," he smiled. "Karen, this is Mr. Scott. From now on he'll be your Uncle Gregory."
I found myself staring at the most beautiful child I had ever seen. Child? Not really. Evidence of the budding woman was clearly visible through the sweatshirt and jeans she was wearing. Evidence of the mature woman lay in her eyes. And I can recall thinking, even at the first moment of our meeting, that a wisdom far beyond her years swirled in the depths of her black eyes. The hair was something else I remember noticing. It was shoulder-length, sleek, glistening, with just a hint of an upward curl at the ends. Perhaps if you find us soon enough, you'll be able to see that Karen's hair remained exactly like that even into death.
"Bonjour, m'sieu' Scott," she said, bobbing in a slight old-fashioned curtsy. Then her laugh tinkled, like brushed crystal. "Hi, Uncle Gregory." And very properly she extended her small tapered hand.
I was captivated by the child. How charming, I thought. And, being in France, I decided to be Gallic in my behavior. "Mademoiselle," I murmured, bending over her outstretched hand, turning it slightly so that my lips pressed against the soft flesh of the upper surface.
What strange current passed between us? The skin tingled against my lips; it was as if I had experienced a slight electric shock. Startled I glanced into her eyes as I lifted my head. Some indefinable emotion flicked across her face; a cloud drifted over the background of her eyes. For a fraction of a second only Karen and I existed in that parking lot.
It was Mrs. Rowe's voice, filled with laughter, which brought me back to reality. "What excellent Gallic charm! Gregory, you're going to fit into Paris society with great ease."
I joined in the laughter, my composure regained. "But I shall have to remain silent. At least until my French improves."
"You'll learn quickly, Greg," Mr. Rowe said. "After all, that's why you're attending the Sorbonne. You'll be as fluent as Karen and the rest of us in no time. And we'll all help." He took the suitcases and placed them on the front seat. Karen, Mrs. Rowe and I climbed into the back. "Now," Mr. Rowe said as he slipped behind the wheel and started the motor, "you're about to age ten years, Greg. Driving in Paris traffic is another form of Russian roulette."
After my disturbing experience with Karen I was glad she was sitting on the other side of her mother. For a short time my mind was preoccupied with my attempts to interpret the emotions I thought I had seen on Karen's face. Then Mr. Rowe's prediction began to sink in. Paris traffic!
Mr. Rowe must have seen my face in the rearview mirror. "Actually, Greg, driving in Paris isn't so bad as long as you remember that the car on the right has the right of way. Because he'll take it."
Maybe Mr. Rowe didn't think it was so bad, but time and time again I found my eyes screwed shut, body braced for the inevitable tearing of metal as two cars . . . one of them ours . . . crashed. Somehow we made it through the city without so much as a scratch. Then we were sliding along almost deserted streets, flanked by magnificent trees and flower gardens. Set well back from the roadway stood large, stone houses. Obviously a wealthy residential district. And to my delight, the Rowe's lived in this neighborhood.
The Rowe residence was at 3117 Avenue du Roule, in the northwestern part of the city. The house was set well back from the street line; a gentle arching driveway provided access to the front entrance. The structure itself was a two-story mansion built of stone. The portico, a massive, columned affair, stretched the full width of the house. It was reached by broad, curved stone steps centered on the house. The entire front of the building was covered with dense, red-green ivy which crept around the several bay windows jutting out over the portico.
I smiled as I recalled my earlier desire to live the garret-life of the Bohemian. Left Bank. Latin Quarter. And all that. My previous eighteen years of living in the upper-middle-class manner my parents could afford must have spoiled me for any baser form of existence.
Yes, I thought as Mr. Rowe brought the car to a stop in the driveway, I'm going to enjoy being a house guest of the Rowes.
Oh God! How wide of the mark the future was to prove my forecast!
CHAPTER FOUR
Much has been said about hindsight. It would make us all millionaires; it would make us rulers; it would give us success and happiness.
And it would permit us to recognize the warning signs of the dangers which lie ahead.
But, unfortunately, it is only in retrospect that we are aware of the flashing red signals that have stood along our life's pathways.
The first real warning of the danger that I would encounter in the Rowe household came from Pierre Charlieu, the family's Jack-of-all-trades. He and his wife Madeleine combined cook and maid were standing at the portico when Mr. Rowe wheeled into the driveway of 3117 Avenue du Roule.
"Our servants," Mrs. Rowe explained before we alighted. "They live in quarters at the back of the house on the ground floor."
As soon as the car stopped Pierre opened the rear door to permit the three of us to climb out. Then he removed my two bags from he front seat, carried them up the steps to the front door. We followed him.
"Pierre. Madeleine." Mr. Rowe had joined us at the top of the steps. "This is M'sieu' Scott."
Madeleine curtsied. Pierre tugged at his unruly forelock, spoke for himself and his wife. "Enchante, M'sieu'. Bienvenu chez Rowe." He smiled strangely. "Bienvenu a la Maison du Frisson."
Mr. Rowe spoke sharply. "Pierre. Veuillez transporter les valises a la chambre de M'sieu' Scott."
The smile was wiped from Pierre's face and sadness replaced it. "Oui, m'sieu', " he said meekly. Picking up the two bags he disappeared into the house; Madeleine followed.
I turned to Mr. Rowe. "What did Pierre mean by la Maison du Frisson, sir?"
Three faces reflected three different emotions. Mr. Rowe's flashed anger. "The ramblings of a superstitious French peasant," he snorted. "Literally the words mean the House of the Curl of Hair. Or Eerie House. The French for eerie is qui donne le frisson: that which curls your hair. Pierre claims there's something strange going on in our house. If there is, I'm damned if I can find it."
Mrs. Rowe's face showed concern. Perhaps fear. "I don't know, James. Pierre and Madeleine are basic, unsophisticated people. And I believe such people have the ability to sense things that most of us aren't aware of. It frightens me a little."
"Absolute nonsense," Mr. Rowe snapped. "You know as well as I do that there's nothing unusual about our house."
Karen's face glowed with amusement, almost deviltry. "I think it's a cute idea. Maybe we're haunted. You know: Ghosts, goblins, fairies." Her laugh was somehow derisive.
Mr. Rowe turned to face his wife and daughter. "There'll be no more of this. We have a guest and we should be concerning ourselves about getting him settled, not talking this rot."
He took me by the arm and led me inside. "Come on, Greg."
We passed through the massive, carved doors which filled the entrance. I gasped as I saw the large, circular foyer.
Mr. Rowe laughed. "Startling, isn't it? I still react the same way after two years. Like something from a movie set."
It was. The foyer was perfectly round except for the break where the broad steps climbed upwards to the second floor. The area of the foyer must have had a diameter of 100 feet and rose the full height of the house. At the top was a domed skylight of tinted glass which cast a golden hue on the terrazzo floor. In the center of the foyer bubbled a large, circular fountain, its water sparkling in the light filtering down from above.
"Well Greg, this is our home. And yours now. Look, I've got to dash back to the office in a few minutes but my wife will see that you find your rooms." He gestured toward the stairway opposite us. "Actually, we have a small apartment for you. Everything but a kitchen. I hope you'll be comfortable."
The shock I experienced at the sight of the massive foyer was suddenly compounded. Karen had entered quietly behind her father and sidled up to me. I jumped when her hand slid into mine. The electric current again!
Mr. Rowe noticed her. "Oh Karen, I've got to get back to the office. Will you take Gregory upstairs and show him his rooms?" He patted the smooth, black hair. "Thanks, honey." Mr. Rowe placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "We want you to think of this as your home-away-from-home, Greg. Any problems, just let me know. Okay?"
I mumbled my thanks, still aware of the burning hand nestling in mine.
As Mr. Rowe headed for the door Karen tugged at my hand. "Come on, Uncle Gregory, I'll take you up to your rooms and then I'll give you the grand tour of the house and the gardens." Her voice was low, rich.
Outside Mr. Rowe's car roared as he gunned the engine.
If I had recognized Pierre's warning, I would have run after Mr. Rowe and demanded that he return me to Orly Airport and the next U.S.-bound flight.
But I hadn't. So I let myself be led up the broad stairway of the 'Eerie House'.
By Karen.
Qui donne le frisson!
CHAPTER FIVE
Are you a drinking man? If you are you know the pleasures of a highball. And there are such pleasures even when you know that the Scotch-and-soda you sip will be your last. Perhaps it makes the inevitable a little easier to accept.
Karen was not what I would call a drinker. Oh, she would consume a small quantity of wine. But she had no use for distilled spirits. This was not a moral issue. There were no moral issues with Karen. It was just that she needed no drugs to repress her inhibitions. She had no inhibitions!
Of course I wasn't aware of that when I arrived at the Rowe residence. Certainly, although I sensed some strange attraction toward the girl right from the moment we met at the airport, I didn't suspect that even as she led me up the stairs to my apartment, her Lorelei-like destructiveness had already begun.
With a Tom-boyish quality she skipped up the broad stairway: I had to take two steps at a time to keep up with her. But she did not release the grip on my hand. And every step of the way she kept up a light chatter. "Look, Uncle Gregory, you can see the garden through this stairway window. This is my room. Next to yours. Mummy and Daddy sleep over there in the master bedroom. Do you like French cooking? You have awfully big muscles."
On and on she chattered.
But, though the words and the voice were those of a fifteen-year-old girl, the hand in mine was that of a woman. It worked constantly. Hot, communicating, caressing. It squeezed. It rubbed. It stroked my fingers indecently. It was as if the hand belonged to someone else. Karen seemed oblivious of it and its maneuvering.
Halfway up, the stairs split; one half going up to the right, the other half to the left. Each reached a horse-shoe mezzanine which circled the upper foyer so that one could gaze down upon the ground level. Off this mezzanine were doors leading to Mr. and Mrs. Rowe's bedroom, Karen's room, a guest room, and a corridor which led to my apartment.
Karen led me down this short hallway towards the back of the house. A door stood open and I was ushered into a comfortable den. It was equipped with telephone, television, radio, two large chairs, a long settee, a crowded bookcase, and a leather-top desk. From the end of the den another door stood open. This led into my bedroom. It was dominated by a king-sized continental bed. A leather chaise lounge, a highboy, bedside tables, and two walk-in closets completed the bedroom's appointments. Off the main bedroom was the bath. It was a five-piece affair: my first experience with a bidet.
"What's that thing?" I asked, pointing to the seat-less bowl.
Karen laughed that tinkling chime. "Oh, Uncle Gregory, tue tres amusant. It's really like a small fountain. To wash your backside."
"Your backside?" That was a mistake!
"Yes. Look." Before I could stop her she had unbuttoned her jeans, dropped them and the flimsy pants beneath and squatted over the bowl. She reached around and adjusted a stream of water so that it sprayed her buttocks and upper thighs.
I didn't know which way to look. True, I had never seen the genetalia, except in pictures. So my curiosity, my normal masculine sexual drive, made it impossible to drag my gaze away from Karen's exposed flesh. The upper thighs did not yet have the fullness that maturity would give them. But between them, the dark downiness of pubic hair had already coated the padded flesh.
I tore my eyes away to let them rest on Karen's face. At first I saw, with embarrassment, the amused smile of the exhibitionist. Then it slowly evaporated. Her head tilted back, lips slightly parted, her body stiffened so that the bent knees shuddered under the tension of contracted muscles. And the eyes. They no longer saw me. Deep within them a vague cloud swirled.
Suddenly she gasped, sighed. Her body relaxed and the amusing smile returned. "Uncle Gregory, please hand me that towel."
As if she were the adult and I the child, I meekly obeyed. She wiped herself with the towel with as little concern as if she had been drying her hands.
She straightened up, adjusting her clothing. "See, mon oncle, it's simple, and it feels so good."
For her the incident was closed. She danced up to me, seized my hand. "Let me show you something else, Uncle Gregory. Our garden. You can get a wonderful view of it from your bedroom window. And you have a balcony."
I had seen the French doors when we first entered the bedroom. Karen now swung them open to disclose a long, narrow balcony on which were two lounge chairs and a small glass table. Beyond the iron railing of the balcony lay the garden, a magnificent array of colors, shaped evergreens, cobbled pathways, small sparkling pools, several bubbling fountains, and, scattered here and there, pieces of sculpture. At the far end of the garden I could make out a summer house almost hidden in the foliage.
Yes, it was as Mr. Rowe had suggested earlier, something from a movie set.
The little hand the woman's hand was dragging me on. "Come and see my room, Uncle Gregory."
"But I've got to unpack, Karen." I protested.
"Oh, Pierre will have done that already. See?" She went to the highboy, opened a drawer. She was right. All my belongings had been placed neatly in the cabinet. I opened one of the closet doors. My suits, dressing gown, shoes: all were in their proper place.
My excuse to escape the disturbing influence of this girl had evaporated. Torn by attraction and a strange apprehension I finally allowed myself to be led out of the apartment . . . my new home . . . and back to the mezzanine off which the door to Karen's room opened.
Reaching into her pocket Karen withdrew a key and unlocked the bedroom door. Strange, I thought. Why would she keep the door to her bedroom locked?
The door swung open and Karen guided me into her large room.
I really don't know what I expected, but certainly not what greeted my eyes. It was not what I would consider a fifteen-year-old girl's room to be. Oh, it was feminine enough. Her bed was queen-sized, but it had lost its moderninity by the addition of a velvet canopy and draped privacy curtains at the four corners. A chaise lounge, upholstered in a gaily colored fabric angled from one corner of the room. A long, low dressing table stood against one wall. In one corner stood a prie-Dieu, without rhyme or reason: nothing hung above it to suggest that it was, in fact, used for prayer.
But perhaps the most incongruous appointments in Karen's room were the paintings. At the beginning of my story I mentioned that Karen was an accomplished artist. This was one of the talents which developed early in her life. And the results of this precocity dominated her bedroom.
They were not the creation of a little girl's mind, however. Perhaps I am not a student of art. Even today I know very little about it despite my attempts to follow Karen's work. I knew even less then. But despite my novice eye, I recognized in the paintings a disturbing technique. What did they portray? At first glance a meaningless jumble of color, confused brush-strokes. But gradually one could sense some reason, some rationale in Karen's work.
And it was frightening! Because out of the imagination of a young girl had flowed an obscenity, an insanity, a supernatural expression that slashed open the subconscious mind of the viewer to expose all of his own terrors, his own baseness, his impure desires, his lust.
Did Karen know what she had produced? With a deep loathing, I tore my eyes away from the prurient paintings and brought them to rest on their creator. Her face, with its beautifully carved features, was set in bland innocence.
But the eyes! What evil force surged within Karen's mind, bubbling up to contaminate the dark depths of her eyes?
With a cry I turned and dashed from her bedroom. Was it scorn that tarnished the sparkle of the young girl's laughter floating down the corridor after me? I did not know.
In the privacy of my own quarters the door closed and bolted I collapsed into one of the large den chairs, surprised to find myself gasping for breath . . . and startled to be in the clutches of a violent desire!
Was it from the paintings? From Karen? I didn't care at that moment, I only knew I had to find temporary relief. Roughly I tore at the fly of my slacks and pulled my throbbing, blood-engorged tool into the open. Mad, swirling images of Karen caught up in the glaring reds and blues and purples of her paintings raced through my sex hungry brain.
My eyes slid shut, while my hand seemed to act as if it had a life and mind of its own. Up and down, faster and faster. Clutching, squeezing, pressuring in a futile effort to supply that which I most desired that which I did not dare to take. Yes, I wanted Karen! Evil, dark Karen. But I swear to you I did not know then . . . nor for a long time to come . . . just how evil and depraved the young girl was. For now it was simply enough to race my own hand up and down on my steaming cock . . . enough to savor the bittersweet ecstasy of a solitary orgasm when at last it came.
Suddenly I felt myself beginning that long, dizzying trip over the edge of reason, the edge of desire. Faster and faster moved my hand as if driven to its deed by some strange power over which I had no control until at last the evidence of my bottled passion spurted high into the air, gushing forth with all the force of a jet of steam. And at that very instant, a picture of Karen naked, wet with my semen, squirming wildly upon her slender back, printed itself on the back of my mind. I couldn't wipe it out. She smiled in a lust filled invitation of perverted desire, beckoning me to join her, to rut with her on her parents' oversized bed!
It was all too much. Scared, I jumped up from the chair and rushed to the window, hoping that some fresh air would clear my head of the dirty pictures that continued to flash, unmindful of my commands, through my young and previously innocent brain.
I was finally here in Paris but, Oh God, what evil force was trying to drive me mad!
CHAPTER SIX
My first week in Paris was an exciting kaleidoscope of exploration, sightseeing, wine, laughter, bistros, French cooking, Bohemia, the Latin Quarter, dodging insane drivers. In my eagerness to absorb the spirit of Paris I was grossly rude to Mr. and Mrs. Rowe. I was seldom at 3117 Avenue du Roule, except to grab a couple of hours sleep.
I have often wondered whether this was just the callousness of youth or whether some protective mechanism was shielding me from the dangers, the evils that lurked in the Rowe residence: some force that drove me to almost total isolation from the Rowe family. And from Karen, in particular. If there were such a guardian angel at work I can only regret that its powers ran out with the arrival of the date for my registration at the Sorbonne.
Because that day I made a point of being home for dinner.
Dinner hour at the Rowe's was usually seven-thirty. That night I came down from my apartment early because I wanted to apologize to my host and hostess for my thoughtlessness during the past week. As I came down the long sweeping stairway I heard piano music coming from the library on the ground floor. Perhaps my knowledge of art was limited, but not so my acquaintanceship with music. And one of my favorite composers was Frederick Chopin, whose music I now heard. It was a sparkling etude, and I can recall thinking as I paused in my descent that Mrs. Rowe was a highly accomplished pianist.
Imagine my surprise upon entering the library to find that the brilliant playing was Karen's. The precocious child-woman, Karen!
For a long minute I stood there watching, thrilling to the artistry, confused by the conflict within me, aware of vague urgencies aroused either by the music or its interpreter.
It was a young girl's hands that fought to master the demanding spans, a young girl's legs that sought to reach the pedals. But it was a woman's ecstacy that bathed the entranced face.
Then Karen became aware of my presence. The music stopped abruptly in mid-phrase. The face froze, then subsided into that of a fifteen-year-old.
"Uncle Gregory," she cried, "where have you been all week?"
"Looking at Paris, Karen," I replied, beginning to doubt that I had witnessed an amazing transition. "Why? Did you miss me?"
She slid off the piano stool and walked over to me. Taking both my hands she looked up into my face. "Yes, Uncle Gregory, I did. I missed you terribly." The voice was soft, caressing.
It was getting to be too much. A fifteen-year-old girl had a way of embarrassing me by her frankness, by the strange looks she gave me. I fought a desire to bend over and kiss the upturned face.
"Where's your mother and father, Karen?"
The mask slipped neatly back into place. The child again. "They're in the garden, Uncle Gregory. Shall we go and find them?"
I nodded and hand-in-hand we left the library. I followed Karen between the fragrant flower beds, past pools where brilliant tropical fish darted in the dying sunlight, past bubbling fountains. Finally we approached the summer-house I had seen earlier from my window. There were Mr. and Mrs. Rowe in deep conversation. At the sound of our approach they suddenly broke off their discussion and stood up.
"Look who's finally going to be home for dinner," Karen laughed. Her voice was excited, animated.
"Well, Gregory," Mr. Rowe smiled. "We've missed you. We were beginning to think you'd decided to move into the Latin Quarter after all."
I blushed under the veiled reprimand. "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I've been very thoughtless. My only excuse is Paris fever, I guess."
"No need to apologize, Gregory," Mrs. Rowe answered. "We understand exactly. I'm afraid both Mr. Rowe and I were victims of Paris' magnetism when we first arrived. And we were a lot older. So we can appreciate how it must reach out to someone your age."
"Well, I promise to mend my ways," I said. "Now that my studies begin at the Sorbonne, I'm afraid I'll have to lead a more orderly existence."
"Don't count on it, Greg," Mr. Rowe chuckled. "Once you get in with some of those students you may find that order is difficult to find."
Mrs. Rowe moved to my side, linked her arm in mine. "Let's have order tonight, anyway. Shall we sample some of Madeleine's crepes?" She guided me toward the house.
As we walked we chatted about the garden, Pierre's green thumb evidenced in the explosion of fall flowers, the necessity of removing the tropical fish before the early morning chill of autumn killed them. And then we turned to Paris. The Sorbonne. Places I should visit.
We had just reached the house when Mrs. Rowe stopped me with a slight pressure on my arm. She turned toward me, obviously struggling with some question she wished to ask. Then it was out.
"Tell me, Gregory, what do you think of Karen?"
I was taken aback by the directness of the question. "I . . . I'm not quite certain," I managed to stammer. "I've never known anyone quite like her, Mrs. Rowe. She's so . . . so talented. So mature in some ways. Sometimes I get the feeling I'm looking at a grown woman, instead of a fifteen-year-old . . . "
"Yes, Gregory," she said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. "I know what you mean. Sometimes I wonder whether she was ever a little girl. It's so difficult to remember . . . " Her voice drifted off, her face clouded, bewildered.
Mr. Rowe and Karen caught up to us and the discussion ended abruptly.
Throughout dinner the conversation stuck to mundane topics, demanding only superficial attention. Fortunately. Because part of me was still concerned with Karen, sitting opposite me. She remained detached from the rest of us during the meal, speaking only when spoken to. She kept her eyes averted and busied herself with the excellent food Madeleine had prepared. Only once did I see her look at me: a strange, calculating look, as if she were applying some mathematical formula to the solving of a problem. Our eyes met and a flash of emotion shot across the table. Then Karen's eyes went dead, withdrawn. But the spark had left me shaken; my appetite for food had suddenly disappeared. In its place stood a new appetite, evidenced by the stirring in my loins. It took the utmost will-power to force my flesh back into its quiescent state.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" I suddenly realized that Mr. Rowe had been speaking to me.
"It's not important, Greg. I was just remarking how disappointed your father was that you are hesitant about going into medicine."
"I know, Mr. Rowe," I said, "but I'd make a poor doctor. And I think I'd make a good writer. I'm going to give it a try, anyway. Of course I've only mentioned journalism to him, not creative writing. I'm afraid the idea of my sitting in a garret trying to grind out deathless prose would be even worse to him than newspaper work."
"Well, son, you've got two years to make up your mind. No matter what you do, absorb everything you can while you're here. You'll not regret it."
"I intend to, Mr. Rowe." And the subject was dropped as coffee was served.
After dinner I excused myself and went up to my apartment. A week of cavorting around Paris with little sleep was beginning to catch up with me and all I wanted to do at that moment was sleep the clock around.
When I entered the den I bolted the door behind me, went through into my bedroom. Madeleine had dutifully laid out my pajamas as she had every night since I arrived at 3117 Avenue du Roule. And each night, as I did tonight, I folded them and placed them under my pillow. "In case of fire," I always told my shocked mother when she repeatedly questioned my habit of sleeping in the buff.
I slipped between the cool sheets and was almost immediately to sleep.
It was a strange dream. The air was filled with the scent of flowers, heavy, moist, permeating. A gentle breeze puffed fretfully, warmly. My body was caressed by the soft wings of butterflies brushing lightly. A satyr stroked nectar across my lips, sweet and heady.
The dream became a woman, the woman became a child. The child was Karen!
I became aware of her warm presence in my bed only gradually. The clouds of sleep were difficult to penetrate. Then, with a start, I eluded the clutches of drowsiness. I knew the naked budding body pressing against me was Karen's. Even before she whispered, her lips brushing my ear.
"I've been waiting for you to spend a full night in your bedroom, Uncle Gregory. Waiting so long."
What she-devil is this? I thought. Oh God! What is happening to me?
A fifteen-year-old girl, naked, brazen, lying in bed with a twenty-three-year-old man! Her fingers wandering, searching, across the broad expanse of my chest, down over my heaving abdomen, finally coiling into the hair of my pubes. The knowing grasp of my aroused flesh was like an electric shock. With a gasp I sat up, turned on the bedside lamp.
I looked down into the passion-lit face of the child.
No, this was no child I saw. This was a woman.
Woman! Seductive, protective, aroused, possessing, demanding, destroying. Karen, the succuba!
CHAPTER SEVEN
Eight years later I turn to look at the rigid body of the dead Karen lying behind me. The figure is rich and full. The perfect body.
It was not the perfect body when I saw it that first night. And I saw all of it.
When I sat up in bed to turn on the light, Karen rolled onto her back, kicking the bed clothes from her to expose her nakedness. No, not expose. To display, I am now convinced. With wanton abandon.
Looking at her my feelings were a mixture of loathing and attraction. After all, my flesh had been awakened, my loins pulsed with desire, and, for the first time in my life, a naked female body lay beside me. But it was the body of a child, budding though it was.
Karen's face was contorted by some inner emotion a look I soon came to know as intense passion. The eyes were glassy, clouded, staring past me.
As I watched, her body suddenly arched, a flush darkened her face, her lips parted to expose clenched teeth. A shudder shook her body. Then, slowly, she relaxed; her breathing returned to normal. The eyes closed, facial muscles smoothed.
She must have remained like that, motionless, for five minutes. During that time I remained sitting, aware of the ache in my loins. My eyes devoured her relaxed body. It was evident that she was going to be a beautifully formed woman: her breasts, though still immature, were already small, firm mounds peaked by cherry-red nipples. The abdomen was flat, smooth. The thighs, first exposed during the bidet incident, I have already described.
Suddenly I realized Karen was watching my frank examination of her. My guilty start brought a smile to her face. She wore the bland, innocent expression which she could switch on at will.
"You're not going to say anything to Mummy and Daddy about my coming in, Uncle Gregory." It was not a question. It was a command. One she knew I could not afford to ignore.
Could she have known, could I have known, that I had no desire to ignore it? That I feared more her not repeating the visit than the possible condemnation I might receive from her parents ?
Her right hand brushed across my body as she sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Reaching under the pillow she removed a nightgown, slipped it over her head and stood up.
"I always keep it under my pillow in case of fire" she laughed. Then slowly she walked to the door of my den, visible from the bedroom. Only then did I realize it was still locked, bolted from the inside.
How did she get in?
After Karen had slipped out of my apartment I switched out the light, lay back, my mind a confused whirl. Pierre had called this house, la Maison du Frisson, the' Eerie House. He could more properly have called it la maison du diable, the Devil's House.
The House of that she-devil, Karen! Looking back, I realize that that child-woman possessed me even then. My body was consumed with intense desire, my flesh swollen painfully. It demanded relief. Reluctantly I reached for the tissue beside my bed, grasped my priapismic organ.
Gradually the tension deep within ray abdomen built as my hand drove the passion towards its release. My thoughts would normally have dwelt upon the mature, lascivious woman, would have contemplated the embrace of foil, warm flesh, the seizing depths of moist womanhood.
My God! The things I thought of as I sought relief. The budding body of a fifteen-year-old girl. Mentally my hands wandered over the pubescent figure, the small mounding, the fine down, the filling hips. My lips pressed against the opened, the flushed. I saw again the bidet streaming against warm flesh. The arched body. The gasp for breath. The clouded eyes.
Then my own body heaved in short thrusts as it drove in, in, violating the virgin body. The contents of my seminal vessel broke confinement, spurted out in copious amounts, draining my body of desire, purging my mind of the evil thoughts which had consumed it.
Spent passion opened the doors to remorse, disgust, hatred. And a sense of hopelessness. I was aware of a trap, slowly, inexorably, inescapably closed around me. It was hard to define.
I knew I could pack my suitcases in the morning and leave this evil house. Let the Rowes wonder, question; I was a free agent, not a prisoner.
But I was a prisoner. My own emotions were as effective as any good door; they were the claws of the traps. I didn't want to leave. Not because of the comfort and the splendor of the Rowe residence. Not because of the alternative of having to grab for an existence in the heart of the French capital. Not because of the embarrassment I might experience by leaving the hospitality of Mr. and Mrs. Rowe.
For a long time I lay sleepless, holding back identification of my imprisoning emotion. I placed barriers along the boundaries of my subconscious to fend off the base reason for my wishing to remain at 3117 Avenue du Roule.
Then, with a sickening flash it broke through into my conscious mind, filling me with loathing, self-condemnation. There could only be one reason for my wishing to remain.
I wanted Karen!
Body and mind I wanted Karen. That was the desire that trapped me.
It would not have been more comforting to know that I was wrong.
That it was Karen who wanted me, Karen who owned me, Karen who possessed me body and mind!
CHAPTER EIGHT
I wish I could address you by name, you who are listening to my voice. I wish I could sit across from you, face-to-face, to know your reactions to my story, to know if you understand.
But that is a futile wish. We shall never meet because I must end my existence in my own way. Not according to some man-made law which would not take into consideration the unique unknown forces which can influence an individual's life.
I can imagine what your society would say as my story unfolds. "Deviate". I could not blame it. How often during the days and nights following Karen's first visit to my bedroom did I torment myself with the thought that I might be a sexual psychopath. A molester! No, that's not right. I had not even touched Karen beyond holding her hand. Not up to that moment, at least.
And yet, please believe me, I felt that my instincts were perfectly normal except where Karen was concerned. My attitudes toward the female sex was mature, I think. And I had no interest in any other young girls.
If you have ever visited Paris you know that it is a city which offers any adult male the opportunity to prove his maturity. Mine came a few days after Karen's visit.
It is a common phenomenon for foreigners in a country to seek out their own kind. Americans are prone to this ethnic gravitation as any group. And so it was at the Sorbonne. Despite the desirability of breaking language ties in the interest of mastering fluency in French, American students at the university tended to be clannish. To the point of forming the American Students' Union. Not being immune to the same impulse I quickly associated with the Union. In time to enjoy the pleasures of a soiree held shortly after the beginning of lectures.
The social gathering was held at l'Auberge du Cynge, located just beyond the city limits.
The Inn of the Swan turned out to be a low, rambling hostelry dating back to pre-Revolutionary days. It sat amid magnificent gardens, heavily treed, through which meandered a small stream. Swans, from which the Inn took its name, paddled peacefully in the still waters. The Inn itself consisted of one massive main-floor room above which was a warren of bedrooms.
It was obvious that the group was well known to the proprietor of the establishment. He greeted us with enthusiasm and immediately broke out large bottles of red wine.
There were about fifty of us, none of whom impressed me enough to remember any name today. Except Janet Masters. She was about my age, a talented art student at the Sorbonne. I can't say she was beautiful, her eyes were set too far apart in a broad face. But there was a certain attractiveness about her, a magnetism to which I reacted from the moment I spotted her. Apparently she felt the same about me. Although there was no planned pairing of the members of the group, nature took its course quickly and, as the wine warmed our bodies and spirits, a natural selection began to take place. Janet and I were drawn together.
She broke the silence as we stood before the roaring fireplace. "Hi. I'm Janet Masters."
"Hi,,Janet" I responded. "Greg Scott. Newcomer, still raw with the crudities of America's Midwest. You been in Paris long?"
"Practically a native, Greg," she laughed. "I was born in Switzerland. Lived in Paris since I was six. And never been States-side."
Somehow the idea of Janet, an American living in Europe all her life, most of it in Paris, made me uneasy. I felt like a country bumpkin. However that feeling soon evaporated as I realized she held me in the same awe because of my having been raised in the States.
"It must be wonderful" Janet continued, "I mean, living in the States. New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Hollywood. So . . . so cosmopolitan. Romantic."
I seized the advantage and raved about New
York, its hustle and bustle, its sophistication. (I did not tell Janet I had never been there.) Chicago I could speak about with slightly more authority. I had been there twice. The West Coast I knew only through my studies at school. But that did not limit me.
Janet listened, spellbound, as I prattled on. My exaggerations increased in direct proportion to my consumption of good, red wine. Fortunately I had enough sense to realize that the conversational scales were becoming heavily weighted in favor of my becoming a bore.
"But now you must tell me about Paris. I think it's one of the most fascinating cities I've ever seen" I said, giving Janet the opportunity to place a few weights on her side of the balances. She didn't take it.
"Wine and heat don't go together, Greg. Let's get some air." She took my hand and led me from the warm, noisy room. I remember thrilling to the touch but I must admit it made me think of that first contact with Karen.
Outside the air was mild and fragrant. Overhead an early-fall moon peeked through the motionless trees, competing with the sky glow of Paris, to the north.
"Let's go 'round to the garden," Janet said. Her voice was soft as if she were afraid to stir the night stillness.
Hand-in-hand we walked, silently, yielding to the romance of the environment. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see the vague outline of the garden pathways, cropped hedges, broad shaped flower beds, the reaching trees. My head felt light, airy. Perhaps it was from the wine. Or the heady fragrance of the garden. I was carefree, happy, in the company of my soul mate, Janet Masters.
We were crossing a small rustic bridge which spanned the stream when Janet finally broke the silence. "Greg, do you have a girl at home?"
"No," I replied honestly.
"Here?" she asked.
Something made me hesitate. I forced the insolent intruding thought from my mind. "No, Janet. 'Course I've only been here a short time."
"I'm glad," she sighed. Her hand tightened on mine as we continued deep into the garden.
Suddenly the moonlight was obliterated as we moved beneath the foliage-draped trellis of a pagoda. As if this were a signal Janet and I stopped, turned toward each other. Then she was in my arms, our lips crushed together, our bodies pressing eagerly. It was a long, searching kiss, one which brought our lower bodies into a slow movement against each other. For the first time in my life I was not embarrassed by the growing of my aroused manhood. Janet accepted its gradual hardening as a natural development and she adjusted her thighs to it.
I cannot recall exactly how it happened, at what point in our embrace I knew that Janet was going to give herself to me, but suddenly she and I were lying side by side on one of the stone benches which flanked the inside of the pagoda. We were still pressing against each other and it was as if something had picked us up and laid us down on the bench without our conscious awareness of the action.
Her lips parted as I stared down into her eyes. "Oh Greg, please. Please make love to me, please?" Her words were a soft, moaning plea whispered in my ear.
From my story up to now you will realize, reader, that until now I had not made love to a woman before that moment. Do you remember your first defloration? Did you act on the basis of knowledge gathered from a book? Or from the hearsay testimony of some bragging youth? Or was it instinctive?
At that moment, I knew I was acting instinctively forgetting any bits of information I had previously gathered during my boyhood I was driven by a force much stronger than myself, the force of sex, the force of the rutting animal, the need for love.
Janet rolled onto her back, her thighs drawn up and spread wide for my entry. A leg rested on either side of the narrow stone bench, allowing me an unhindered view of her pulsating femininity, her wet, moist clitoris. Her legs were marvelous to touch, the skin soft and taut, her hips rounded and full. She wore no underclothes.
Carefully, gently, I caressed the downy skin of her mons veneris, letting my fingers drift slowly to the spreading lips of her sex. Janet's hips rose and fell like a piston as low, gasping moans escaped from her throat.
My own desire had mounted almost beyond endurance and quickly I removed my clothing, anxious to free my massive erection. Kneeling above the groaning girl, I wedged myself between her thighs and continued to gently stroke the velvety sides of her squirming sex. Streams of sticky white cream began to trickle down the sides of her quivering thighs, proof that she was equally as ready as I.
Holding my breath, I placed the hard, rounded head of my rod at the entrance to her tunnel. Janet was almost beside herself with wanting eagerly she pushed up against my hardness, trying almost to suck it into herself muscles, hidden deep in her vagina, began to contract with a crazy rhythm all their own.
Nails raked my bare back, hot breath pushed into my ear, and her agonized moaning finally pulled me into her hot, soft pussy. "Gregory, take me now, darling. Put it deep in my belly. Oh yes, that's the way . . . all, yes, all of you.
"Its so hard, so big, you're killing me."
My brain had stopped functioning by now only my nerve endings felt the sweet, hot in-and-out motion that our bodies were busily producing. Janet's cave was filled to capacity with my bucking maleness and together we pushed and groaned against one another desperately seeking to bring each other to the summit before our passion burned us to a crisp.
Now it came, hot, forceful, pushing jets of the evidence of my desire I could feel every drop empty into her squeezing belly! She was fantastic, her insides clamping and pulling and drawing me deeper, still deeper . . .
"Give me it. All. Greg, my darling! Oh God. I feel everything. Everything! Push it up in my belly, deeper. I never want it to leave!"
I don't know how long we lay together, silent, letting our hearts recover their normal tempo, our bodies relaxing slowly, our skin caressed by the warm night air.
Almost asleep, I was startled by Janet's voice when it finally spoke. "Oh, Gregory," she breathed, "that was so wonderful. It's been so long since I've been loved."
I should have know I wasn't the first! It was too easy! But somehow my boyish ideas of love and virginity had clouded my judgment. My first immediate reaction was one of hurt. I guess Janet could feel that something was wrong for she quickly sat up and pulled me into the warm circle of her arms.
"Greg," she whispered, half frantic, "What is it, darling?" I didn't know what to say, didn't know how to answer her . . . and then reason flooded back and I realized that I had no claim on her, no reason to be disturbed.
"Nothing. I'm just so happy, that's all." I put my arms around her then, tightly and kissed her on her full moist lips.
"Oh, I was so scared for a moment." was all she said.
I had to tell her. "Janet," I whispered. "You-are my first woman. I mean I've never made love to anyone else before."
She gasped. "Was it good? Are you happy, darling?"
I kissed her gently, softly. "It was the most magnificent thing in the world, Janet."
"Then I'm glad I was your first, Greg. So very glad."
But as we walked back through the garden toward l'Auberge de Cynge, I wondered;
If I had not met Janet tonight, would Karen have been my first?
CHAPTER NINE
I've decided to give you a name. How does Vance Graham sound to you? And a position in life. Let's see . . . a struggling young lawyer in the District Attorney's Office. You've been given the task of listening to my story. If I'm boring you, I apologize. Anyway, Vance, I guess you're stuck with me. At least for a little while longer.
When's your birthday, Vance? Mine was yesterday, September 2. But there was no celebration, no party. Karen had abandoned giving years ago and devoted all her time to taking. In fact the only time she ever gave me a gift was my first birthday in Paris. Two weeks after my arrival.
In the turmoil of settling into the Sorbonne routine caught up in the thrill of my new relationship with Janet, I forgot all about my nineteenth birthday. If it had not been for the Rowe family the day would have passed unobserved.
September 2 dawned bright and warm. I recall my ebullient spirits as I descended the stairs for my usual breakfast of cafe-au-lait and croissants. Mr. Rowe had already left for his office; Karen had left for the private school she attended . . . a school for gifted students. Mrs. Rowe and I breakfasted alone. As I rose to leave she suddenly placed a hand on my arm.
"Greg, I hope you'll be home for dinner tonight. It's something of a celebration."
I hesitated. I had planned to have dinner with Janet. But I could cancel that in deference to Mrs. Rowe's request. After all I wasn't just another boarder. Even though I had been acting like one.
"Sure, Mrs. Rowe. I'll be here. Seven?" She nodded. "Thank you, Gregory. Have a good day."
I explained the situation to Janet over lunch and was relieved by her instant understanding. When my last lecture of the day was over . . . about three, as I recall . . . I went directly back to 3117 Avenue du Roule. If it was going to be "something of a celebration" as Mrs. Rowe had said I wanted to change for dinner. I took a leisurely bath, studied for a couple of hours, then dressed. I decided to make my appearance about a quarter-to-seven.
When I reached the foyer I was uncertain what I should do. I heard voices coming from the library, but perhaps it was a private conversation. The dining room was silent. I finally decided to try the library. Mr. Rowe's "Entrez" answered my knock. Pushing open the door I walked in to be greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Rowe, Karen, Pierre and Madeleine. And Janet'
Immediately Mrs. Rowe struck a chord on the piano and everyone burst into song. "Happy Birthday". For my benefit. I was dumbfounded. As I said, I had forgotten that I was nineteen that day. I must have cut a comic figure standing there with my mouth open. Then the song was finished and Karen ran forward, pulled me down to her level and planted a sisterly kiss on my cheek. So different from that moist, passionate kiss of a few nights before.
"Happy birthday, Uncle Gregory," she tinkled, and taking my hand drew me into the intimate little group gathered 'round the piano.
"Happy birthday, Greg," Mr. and Mrs. Rowe said, as one. Then Janet came forward and kissed me fully on the lips.
"A happy, happy birthday, Greg," she said.
And as her lips pressed against mine I felt small, sharp nails cutting into my palm. I disengaged my hand from Karen's in time to grasp that extended by Pierre.
"Une bonne fete, M'sieu' Gregoire," he said gravely. Madeleine joined her husband in wishing me many happy returns. Then the two servants left to give the dinner their final touches.
I finally found my voice. "How . . . how did you know that today was my birthday?" I said, staring around at the smiling faces.
Mrs. Rowe laughed. "Is was simple, Gregory. Your father and mother wrote us a couple of weeks ago asking if we would buy you something as a gift from them. And, as for Janet, Mr. Rowe made some discreet inquiries among a few members of the American Students' Union. We thought it would be nice if you had someone your own age to help you mark your first birthday away from home."
"And I'm delighted that she is such a charming young lady," Mr. Rowe said, putting a fatherly arm around Janet's trim waist.
I smiled at Janet trying to let her know how pleased I was that she was there. Then I sensed an intensely evil, debilitating force pervading the room. Karen! I glanced at her. She was staring at Janet her pretty face distorted by hatred, the eyes narrowed into mere slits, the lips twisted in an animal snarl. I recoiled as the eyes flicked toward me.
I looked to see if the Rowes had noticed their daughter but Mr. Rowe had turned away to the bar to pour drinks for us; Mrs. Rowe was busying herself with some parcels on a circular table in the center library.
When Mr. Rowe turned back from the bar Karen's face slipped back, magically, into that of the innocent fifteen-year-old girl.
"Okay, folks, let's make this a real celebration," Mr. Rowe said. He carried a tray of cocktails. "To Gregory Scott," he said, "And many happy returns of this natal anniversary."
They all drank the toast. Then Mrs. Rowe pressed the gifts upon me. A beautiful knitted sweater from her and her husband. An unabridged Larousse, the best of French dictionaries, purchased by the Rowes as a gift from my parents.
Then Janet stepped forward to hand me her present. A model of a pagoda, complete with artificial foliage growing over its trellis. Within were two small benches, the tops of which lifted to disclose storage space for cuff-links and the like. I know I blushed as I lifted it from its wrappings.
"Karen," Mrs. Rowe said. "Where's your gift?"
The girl came up to me, gazed into my face. "I'm sorry, Uncle Gregory, it's not quite finished. But I'll have it for you later." A smoldering flame deep within her eyes unsettled me.
"That's alright, Karen. I know it will be something lovely." I turned to the rest of them. "Thank you. Thank you all, very, very much. This is such a surprise."
"Now," Mr. Rowe said, "let's see what delicacies our Madeleine has prepared for the occasion." He ushered us out of the library, across the foyer to the dining room on the opposite side.
It was a gay, gracious dinner with only one flaw. Mrs. Rowe had placed Janet and me side by side, facing Karen. Throughout the entire meal the girl's face twisted periodically with the same base emotion I had seen earlier in the library. Strangely, Janet did not seem to notice.
At the end of the meal Karen excused herself and went to her room. The rest of us went back into the library for coffee and liqueurs.
Finally Janet stood up and explained she had an early lecture the next day and should get back to her small apartment in the Latin Quarter. She would not let me accompany her all the way into the city, although I did walk her to the nearest Metro station.
When I returned Mr. and Mrs. Rowe had retired. As I started up the stairs I remembered the gifts and returned to the library to get them. However the model of the pagoda that Janet had given me lay shattered in an unrecognizable collection of small pieces. It had obviously been thrown to the floor and crushed under foot.
There was no doubt in my mind who had done it.
Karen!
Carefully I gathered up the pieces and got rid of them in the kitchen incinerator. I was seething with anger when I climbed the stairs to my apartment. Karen would hear from me in the morning. I would deal with her directly; there seemed to be no sense in involving Mr. and Mrs. Rowe. Or, perhaps I was afraid to. I recalled Karen's parting threat that night not long ago:
"You're not going to say anything to Mummy or Daddy . . . "
No. She'd hear from me directly in the morning.
But I didn't count on Karen. I was to hear from her before the night was out.
CHAPTER TEN
Vance Graham! I like the sound of that name. You know, Vance, as a writer I am always looking for names. Once a week I tear the obituary page out of the afternoon paper and file it away. It's a wonderful source of names for characters in stories.
I wonder if anyone else uses that method. If so, to him I bequeath my name: Gregory Scott. That's almost as good as Vance Graham, you know. If I had not destroyed the one gift Karen gave to me, back there on my nineteenth birthday, I would have one other possession to bequeath.
I would leave it to you, Vance. For then, I think you would better understand the strange evils that existed in the house, that possessed the girl-woman, Karen. The evil I attempted to destroy a couple of hours ago.
The gift? I'll come to that in a moment, Vance. First, though, the circumstances under which it was given.
As I said, I went to my apartment after discovering the shattered pagoda, determined that Karen would get a tongue-lashing from me the next morning. I lay in bed rehearsing what I would say: that she was a spoiled brat, a jealous infant, a destructive baby. (I would get at her by attacking her vanity.) And I would tell her that I was going to have nothing more to do with her.
I fell asleep thinking of how dearly I would like to whip her. If I could get away with it.
This time, the awareness of Karen's presence in my bed did not grow gradually through the medium of a dream as it had before. Her entry was sudden, violent. She literally threw her warm body atop mine, gyrating her hips against my pelvis. Before I knew what I was doing I had thrown my arms around her, pressing my body upwards as engorgement attacked my flesh.
With a gasp I realized what was happening; I thrust Karen away from me. I was shaking with a confusion of desire and fear.
"You little bitch," I choked. "Get out of here. Out of my bed. Out of my room." I sat up and turned on the light. This time Karen kept herself covered. But her face was alight with a strange emotion.
"I'm staying, Uncle Gregory," she said softly. "Until you make love to me."
A fifteen-year-old girl, hardly more than a child! Speaking of making love. Asking me to make love to her!
She laughed quietly, but without mirth. "Yes, Uncle Gregory. Love me. The way you made love to that woman . . . that Janet." She spit out the name, the earlier hatred contorting her face. "You'll love me or I'll scream."
I knew she meant it. Dear God, she meant it!
"I can't. You're . . . you're too small, too young." I stammered. But she was the adult and I was the child.
She fumbled under the bedclothes and smiled her woman-girl smile, her eyes sparkling with glints of evil passion.
"I will help, Uncle Gregory."
My body instinctively recoiled as her hands seized my aroused flesh, her fingers slippery with oil. The devil! She had thought of everything! Then desire began to course through my veins and I found myself dropping back onto the pillow, my eyes squeezing tightly shut as if to wipe away the image of her lascivious wantonness. My breath came in short spurts as Karen began to gently run her fingertips up and down the length of my engorged weapon. It grew larger with each tantalizingly delicate movement of her tiny hands my shame, it seemed, would know no bounds and yet I was powerless to stop her.
"Do you like what I'm doing to you, Uncle Gregory?" came a soft, almost unintelligible murmur in my ear. "Tell me, or I shall stop. You wouldn't want that, would you Uncle?"
My head was swimming as electric sparks shot through my throbbing cock. It was so difficult to answer. And yet I would surely have died at that very moment if she had removed her hands from their evil chore. "Yes," I sobbed finally. "Yes, I love it . . . you mustn't stop, not ever. Oh, Karen, darling, why are you doing this to me?" My voice was the voice of desperation speaking, a voice without rhyme or reason, a tortured plea from somewhere deep within my soul, if indeed a soul I have.
"Because you're mine. You are mine," she said in a cold, chilling voice. "And you remember that, Gregory. Remember it the next time you see that bitch!"
I could think of nothing to say nor did I want to speak at that moment. I felt badly enough without compounding my evil deed by making any rash promises to this strange, passionate girl-child. I'm still sickened by the thought of what followed!
Soft fingertips were at my eyelids, gently but firmly prying them open, forcing me to watch this impossible defloweration. Karen rose above me, her sturdy, filling thighs straddling my hips. I couldn't help myself, I was caught up in the web she had spun. Her eyes were on my face . . . she knew I couldn't resist watching every perverted movement she made . . . and she gloried in it, in her unnatural power over me.
"Yes," she whispered, her lips moist with passion. "Watch, Gregory, watch everything. You will never forget this evening it will remain in your mind forever, no matter how you try to erase it." And with those words, she slyly began to part the small but plump lips of her budding vagina.
Ah! But she was beautiful . . . every part of her body was a delight to study . . . she was perfectly formed. Slowly the tiny knot of her clitoris appeared as she stretched the lips of her child-cunt apart. A tiny trickle of creamy white moisture appeared at the entrance to her rose-pink vagina. My eyes drank in every detail, every crevice, every nook as she revealed herself to me bit by bit, always deliberately, slowly, as if to savor my discomfort. My cock was raging almost out of control at that point.
I could restrain myself no longer. Eagerly I reached out to caress the almost completely filled out globes of her breasts. Even then they were breathtakingly lovely . . . circular masses of firm, resilient flesh that almost begged to be petted, pinched, sucked. Her nipples were set dead center in the paler mounds of skin, her tips seemed almost to glisten with a life of their own.
"Suck me," she whispered urgently. "Take it in your mouth and suck it."
I obeyed, helpless to resist any longer. Wetly and without much finesse I drew one of the pink love buds deep into my throat, sucking and pulling as if my life depended on it.
"Yes, that's the way. Oh, how beautifully you suck my tits!" Karen was beside herself with joy at my ministrations. Her hands had left her own private parts and were now quickly running up and down my weapon, squeezing, tickling, pulling, grasping in response to my sucking. "All of me," I heard her whisper. "Kiss all of me, Gregory. Lick me, suck me, make me wet."
I now realize, looking back on that fateful night, that I was temporarily insane. I had to be! Lust filled every part of my brain . . . and even though I was still repulsed in part at the vileness of my act, another part of me began to relish the very wickedness I despised. Grasping her narrow hips in both of my large hands, I pulled her groin toward my face, my eyes devouring every twitching, pulsating muscle of her small love tunnel.
I closed my eyes and let my body take over as my tongue shot out a bolt of fire went through me as I made contact with her wet, hot clitoris. I swear it trembled beneath the tip of my tongue!
Karen couldn't stop moaning . . . I heard her animalistic groans as I drifted in a sea of molten desire . . . my body, every nerve ending, was feeling hers. It was an uncanny feeling but I knew exactly where and how to lick her undulating love slit. I was lost!
"Stop. Oh stop and take me the real way, Uncle Gregory."
I could not ignore her command, for a command it was. Opening my eyes again, I examined the fruit of my labor, her thighs and my chin were covered with it. Then my eyes met hers and again I was shocked by the depths of depravity I saw in them. Depravity and promise, promise of a bond we would always share, would be compelled to share, forever.
It was then that Karen lifted herself over my erect tool and slowly placed the blood-red head of my weapon between her tender love lips. The pain she felt as I began to penetrate her narrow cavity must have been excruciating. Her face was contorted with it, her breathing almost stopped. But still she continued to force her body down upon me: down, down, down.
Suddenly she exhaled and fell forward on my chest. My cock slipped the rest of the way into the pit of her belly and I was at last trapped deep within her tight chasm, afraid to move.
Oh, Vance, you'll never know how a part of my mind revolted at the predicament in which I found myself. I knew I should have exercised will power, should have dissuaded this precocious libertine, this commanding she-devil with the body of a budding woman. But it was too late. My flesh was now in charge of my spirit! And, I am certain the girl knew it too.
The spasms of her pain must have passed, for she began to move. It must have been instinctive for I know I was the first to have penetrated that body. Her hips rose and fell, providing mutual stimulation to our bodies. I could not look at her. All I could do was give myself over to the sensations deep within me, the cry of raw nerves surfacing in my swollen organ, the awareness of her stretched, moist depths.
The primitive rhythm increased and now she added the third dimension of gyration. Faster and faster she moved. Her breathing increased in tempo, her breath hot upon my chest. Then suddenly she stiffened, legs tensed and trembling. I ceased my own bodily movements until the momentary appeasement of her passion had passed and she again set the rhythmic pace. Now I could not help myself. I joined the thrust, the embrace. Building. Building. The pressure within me was almost unbearable.
Once more Karen displayed the urgent symptoms of approaching climax. Then the shudder. With one heave of my hips I shared with her the ecstacy of completion, pulsing, pouring, coating.
It was over. The flesh relaxed. The succuba demon seducer of sleeping men had won. Karen's domination was assured. But her sexual appetite was not yet sated! Even as I lay consumed by exhaustion of spent passion and by the turmoil of self-recrimination I could feel the warm body lying beside me squirming and arching as again and again she brought herself to a climax!
Fascinated by the skill of my child-lover, I turned on my side and watched as her delicate fingertips caressed and massaged the length of her sperm covered love crevice. Probing, pulling, pinching until I thought she would scream in pain, she continued to bring herself to the very edge of orgasm then stop all movement as if to savor the delight that would eventually come when she allowed herself to achieve the full climax.
Her head was thrown back, her eyes stared at the ceiling, unseeing, uncaring. The tip of her tongue occasionally darted out to moisten her drying lips and it reminded me of my tongue on her clitoris I knew she was thinking the same thing as she allowed the pink tip to roam and caress the full blown lower lip of her mouth. She was the most erotic creature I had ever imagined in my wildest dreams!
"Finish me, Gregory!" So, she knew I was watching.
"What shall I do?" I asked, wanting only to be done and have her gone now that the reality of the situation was beginning to penetrate my numbed brain.
"Give me your tongue in a kiss. And take your fingers and place them as I do. Here, let me show you!" So saying, she pulled my hand down to her hot, wet cunt and gently moved the roughened tips of my fingers across the sensitive clitoris. As soon as I became accustomed to the pressure she wished, she pulled my head down to hers and literally sucked my tongue out of my mouth.
Like a greedy baby . . . an infant . . . she pulled and sucked and licked my tongue deep in her mouth. I opened my eyes. Yes, hers were open too. Watching the effect she was having on me. And as we stared at each other I know that the care she was giving my tongue was meant for my cock was a promise of things to come I increased the rubbing of my hand on her sex. She sucked harder, groaning deep in her throat.
I was no longer a separate person . . . I was an extension of Karen's desire. I would do anything she wanted and she knew it. Faster and faster I rubbed, aware of the building orgasm deep in her belly as I worked feverishly to bring her off. My own sex was as rigid again as if I had not just spent myself deep in her vagina.
Then it happened! Still looking deeply into each other's eyes, we both reached the summit at once, she spilling her juices over my trembling fingers while my rod spewed forth a violent discharge of passion on her belly. And she had not touched me once! She had pulled the orgasm out of me merely by teasing and sucking my tongue.
I looked again at her face, the beautiful features aflame with the perverted desire of a she-demon. She had won forever.
The face rearranged itself into the tender expression of innocence. Then, as if nothing had happened at all she leaped from the bed, and with her firm breasts thrust forward and upward, she ran over to my highboy. Reaching up she took down a painting which I had not seen when I first came into my bedroom. She must have put it there when she entered my room.
Entered my room? I glanced into the den. The door to my apartment was still bolted. And yet she had gained entry. How? A secret passage? And I promised myself I would seal that secret entry in the morning. I know now I didn't intend to keep that promise.
As Karen returned to the bedside I saw the red spots on her thigh. I flinched. Violator! Violator! My conscience screamed the word at me.
"For your birthday, Uncle Gregory," the musical voice said. "I'm sorry I couldn't give it to you last night at the party. You see, I had to re-do it. And watch. It's still wet."
She handed me the painting, gleaming with fresh paint. I almost dropped it in overwhelming disgust. The evil this girl's mind could portray! Imagine, Vance, the violet red of blood, the blue of veins, the ochre-yellow of feces. All combined in the representation of a woman disemboweled. A young woman slit open from pubis to neck, her entrails spilling out onto the green canvas. The face? Distorted in abject horror.
But it was identifiable. Janet!
"Karen," I cried. "What terrible thing is this?"
The hatred again. "That woman will not have you, Uncle Gregory. You belong to me now!"
She reached under the pillow, removed the folded nightgown, slipped it over her head to conceal her wantonness, and walked to the door with a defiant sway of her hips.
Then she was gone, leaving with me the creation of her demoniacal jealousy. I threw it from me, letting it lie where it fell, just inside the French doors leading to my balcony.
Blessed sleep finally erased the horrors of that night from my mind.
I didn't destroy Karen's gift until the next morning. When I awakened the painting was back atop the highboy, propped up so it caught my eye as soon as I awakened.
The pieces to which I insanely reduced it were soon flushed away into the filthy subterranean vaults where it belonged.
Karen never questioned me about its disappearance. And I forgot about it eventually. Until the following April.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vance, do you believe in occult forces, those strange powers which defy our senses and fail explanation by any of the sciences known to man ?
One such force is precognition. The parapsychologist defines the word as knowledge of future events obtained by extrasensory means. Some people say that fortune telling is a mere mumbo-jumbo of nonsense. And yet, the parapsychologist will say there is indisputable evidence that a few rare individuals can, under equally rare circumstances, foretell future events.
I believe Karen had, among the many strange faculties that were to slowly become known to me, the ability to see into the future.
And the first evidence of such power lay in that painting, that obscene birthday gift. But I was not to know that until the following April.
I will not bore you with the repetitious details of the span of time between my birthday and the next spring. I continued to see Janet through the winter and gloried in the frequent, rich experiences of the joining of our bodies in mature love.
And my liaison with Karen also continued. Several times a week she would gain entry to my room by the mysterious means known to her, and demand my body, my sexual expression. Her violent jealousy would only sweep to the surface when her visits coincided with the occasions on which I had made love to Janet. I would not be able to meet Karen's demands. Then she would erupt into an unbelievable rage, insane in its intensity, threatening me and Janet with vile consequences.
April was warm and balmy. Winter's chill disappeared under the influence of continued clear and sunny skies. The breath of a renewing world filled the city air with a haunting fragrance. Paris was re-born, rejuvenated.
And somehow I felt renewed along with it. Now I sensed that I belonged to Paris, to France. My fluency in French had increased beyond my wildest hope; I was able to communicate on almost any topic with anyone. What a wonderful sense of freedom!
It was Sunday. Neither Janet nor I had lectures so we planned a picnic in the Bois de Boulogne, which lay not too far from the residential area in which 3117 Avenue du Roule was located. Janet prepared the food, I donated the wine. We met shortly before noon near the northeast entrance to the woods.
It was a magnificent day, still, mild, sunny. We strolled through the freshly green countryside, lovers alone in a spring paradise. I don't recall our conversation, but I do know we spoke only French. What a romantic tongue! Free of the harshness of our own language. When you say "I love you" in French, you may not mean it, but it sounds as if you do.
Strolling along, hand in hand, we came upon a shady glen, free of intruders. It was the perfect spot for a picnic it was also the perfect spot for love and love was on both of our minds.
I sank to the grassy earth, pulling Janet with me, her giggle trailing away in the air as my now knowledgeable fingers worked at the buttons of her sweater.
The sun made pretty patterns through the leaves on her firm, young skin. Gently, I freed her abundant breasts from the confines of her sweater and bra, leaning far over to suckle at the tightening nubs. She tasted so good, so clean, so different from Karen!
"Oh, Greg," she sighed. "It's so wonderful I love you to touch me like that."
I smiled down at her, my fingers tracing a course of tickling, light touches down the middle of her belly, pausing to dig suggestively into her belly-button. She squirmed against my hand, her head tossed back, her eyes closed.
I couldn't get enough of her sweet, feminine love-making. I suppose I needed it after Karen's poison!
Janet sighed again, and lifted her hips off the ground so that I could work her skirt and panties down over her rounded hips. God but she was lovely . . . all of her . . . from her soft, white breasts to her dark triangle of curly hair that guarded the door to her femininity. She was all woman!
Suddenly I felt her arms around my neck, pulling my face down to hers. Eagerly I darted my tongue into the pit of her pretty pink mouth, happy to give her what she wanted. Me!
Eyes closed against the sunny invader of daylight, we pressed together, anticipating the closeness of our bodies, the touch of skin upon skin, the climax that we both knew would soon rack our bodies, bringing us even closer in a mutual surrender of love.
Her fingers were now busy on my zipper, then my thick hot weapon was free. How can I describe the beauty of it . . . the day . . . as gentle spring breezes caressed my skin like the hands of a thousand women. I leaned back, resting on my elbows, thoroughly enjoying the attentions Janet ravished upon my burning body.
And then I felt her . . . wet, sweet lips trailed little puffs of breath down my belly, across my ribs, teasing, tickling, tormenting until I thought I could stand it no longer.
"Janet," I moaned, lost in a sea of desire. "Please don't tease me any longer!"
She moaned deep in her throat, a sign of the torment she, too, was feeling. I made a move to turn toward her, to push her back on the cool grass, but she stopped me, holding me motionless.
And then she lowered her beautiful head still more and took all of me in her mouth. Oh God, but it was fantastic. Her mouth, an extension of her love, worked up and down on me in slow, sucking movements, never tiring, never stopping for a moment. Around and around her tongue went, probing, searching, exploring, tantalizing me. I knew she loved me!
I don't know how long she continued to work over me, her head bobbing up and down in an age-old rhythm of love and lust! And then I knew I would climax if I didn't stop her right away, that minute.
Pushing her away from me, I knelt up and motioned for her to kneel as well. She gazed at me with a question in her eyes but I ignored it. It was time to try something new!
I moved around behind her, delighting in the beauty of her rounded, perfectly molded buttocks, the half moons of her ass. I guess she felt embarrassed for she looked over her shoulder at me, her look pleading for me to be kind, to be gentle with her. How could I be anything else?
Grasping the pliant flesh in both of my hardened hands, I pulled her back to me, letting her get used to the feel of my red hot tool against her backside. And after several seconds she began to move in a circular motion of her own accord she was ready.
Spreading the cheeks of her ass gently apart, I began to push the head of my weapon against the smaller hole of her anus. Don't ask me, I beg of you, to explain how or where the idea of fucking her there came from for I cannot explain it even today. But somehow I knew she would love it . . . and I as well.
My thoughts were now a boiling mass of desire as Janet pushed back against me, trying to impale herself on my throbbing tool. Ah, a bit of it was beginning to push its way into the small dusky entrance to her nether region.
"Greg! Please, put it in. I don't care if it hurts, darling. I need it . . . now!"
I cautioned myself to ignore her plea and continue my slow circular rubbing against her bottom, inching my rod in a little at a time. I knew instinctively that she would do anything for me, even endure pain, extreme pain, and for that very reason I wanted it to be good for her as well.
And then she bucked, bucked and pushed backwards with all of her strength . . . I was in! Her head hanging down, she braced her breasts on the grass, flattening them to raise her tender bottom still further up in the air. I knew she was trying to make it easier for me to move in and out of her . . . but I remained motionless for a moment, letting her adjust to the newness of our position and to the enormous size of my tool.
It seemed like forever and then I felt her insides begin to tighten and contract by themselves and I thrust forward, bringing a cry of pleasure from her throat. Her lovely thighs spread themselves still wider apart as I continued a slow in and out motion, drawing my rod out to the very edge, then plunging it back deep into her core.
My hand reached around her waist and moved downward. Yes, I had it, her glistening clitoris was hard between my thumb and forefinger. I rubbed it gently at first, keeping the rhythm my tool had established in her anus but her moaning wail of pleasure was driving me crazy.
"Hurry, Greg. I'm so close . . . " Harder, faster we moved, pounding together in an avalanche of passion. She spilled forth a gushing stream of love juice, covering my hand with it as I moved it vigorously against her unfilled vagina. At that same moment, I too spilled forth my load, shooting into the new, tighter cavity with a force which almost made me lose consciousness. Together, we fell to the earth, my lips nuzzling her neck, my arms wrapped tightly around her waist, my cock still imprisoned deep in her ass. We were one!
"My love," she whispered. "It was unbelievably perfect, Greg!"
Our bodies satiated, we slept in each others arms for an hour then we walked on. We made love again before we emerged from the woods as dusk began to invade the city. Together we rode back to the Latin Quarter. Instead of going to Janet's apartment we joined a group of students in a bistro where we dined on crepes and consumed excessive amounts of wine.
It must have been around ten o'clock when Janet began to yield to the effect of the wine, the earlier exercise and fresh air. She was almost asleep when I pulled the bedclothes up over her vibrant body and left to rejoin the students in the bistro. It was close to two when I boarded the west-bound subway train to return home.
For the first time since Karen began the practice of climbing into my bed at night she was already there when I arrived home. She was wearing her nightgown, a garment which had become too small for her rapidly filling figure.
"You've been with that woman all day," she accused.
Damn it, Vance, the girl made me feel guilty. But I laughed off the ridiculous emotion and admitted that Janet and I had been together.
Her smile was evil. "For the last time, Uncle Gregory. For the last time." Her usually musical voice was harsh, brittle. And then, to my surprise and relief, she turned and strode from the room. I locked the door after her and climbed into bed.
My room was still dark when the sharp rap on the door awakened me. Sleepily I rolled over, turned on the light. What the hell, I thought. Only five o'clock. I'd been asleep less than three hours.
I slipped into my dressing down and staggered to the door, unlocked it to admit Mr. Rowe. He was wearing pajamas and a satin gown. A worried expression clouded his face.
"Sorry to rouse you like this, Greg," he said, "but there's a police inspector downstairs. Wants to speak with you."
Police? What would they want with me?
Bewildered, and still befogged by sleep, I followed Mr. Rowe down the broad stairway to the foyer where two caped policemen awaited us.
"M'sieu' Scott?" the older of the two agents asked me.
I nodded.
"Est-ce que vous parlez francais?" he asked me.
"Oui, m'sieu', " I replied. And from then on our conversation his interrogation was conducted in French.
"You are acquainted with a young lady by the name of Janet Masters, m'sieu'? " the police inspector asked me.
"I am," I replied. "Why?"
"I am sorry to inform you, m'sieu', that Mademoiselle Masters was murdered last night," he said, his voice sad.
That statement was like a stab wound. I went numb, my head began to spin and I think I would have fallen if Mr. Rowe had not suddenly grabbed my arm.
"My regrets, m'sieu'. I did not know you and the young lady were such good friends. I should have been more tactful." He helped Mr. Rowe lead me to one of the large chairs in the foyer.
"How did it happen, Inspector," Mr. Rowe asked.
"Not pleasantly, M'sieu' Rowe," the policeman replied. "She was . . . what should I say . . . eviscerated. Disemboweled. Some fiend slashed open her abdomen.
"But . . . you don't suspect Gregory here?"
"Oh, no, m'sieu'. But . . . " He waved his hands expressively. "We must check out every lead. We, of course, know that M'sieu' Scott was with friends in a cafe at the approximate time of the unfortunate death. But I am afraid I shall have to ask him to come to the station to make a statement." He shrugged. "A mere formality, you understand." This last was to me.
Like a man drugged I stood up and left the three men. A short time later I reappeared, dressed, ready to accompany the inspector and his associate. Shock still protected my mind from the full significance of the inspector's visit. It was not until we reached the police station that the protective shield began to lift.
Janet was dead. Wonderful, warm Janet. Gay, laughing Janet. Her soft, full body was now cold, stiff. Mutilated!
Mutilated! The thought seared my mind. I saw again the blood-red, vein-blue, excrement-yellow of the painting. Entrails spilling. Face twisted. Karen's birthday gift. The product of her vile mind.
But a forecast.
And her words of a few hours ago: "For the last time, Uncle Gregory."
Can you blame me, Vance, for attributing to the child-woman Karen strange precognitive talents, weird powers beyond normal comprehension.
Yes, Karen did have powers, unusual powers. Evil powers!
CHAPTER TWELVE
I hesitate, Vance, to suggest that Karen had anything to do with Janet's death beyond foreseeing it and transferring that precognition to canvas. And yet? I don't know. In the eight years I have known Karen I have witnessed some strange supernatural talents displayed by her.
Anything she might have had to do with the murder was indirect. Something that could not have been even suggested to the police.
Oh, the police were thorough, and efficient. Janet's killer was arrested within thirty-six hours. He was a poor unfortunate wretch by the name of Charles Leblanc, son of the owner of the small apartment building in which Janet lived. He could not explain his motives; he was a normal individual, according to character references provided in court, before the killing. And, according to psychiatrists who examined him afterwards, he was perfectly sane.
But he kept insisting that suddenly, about eleven o'clock that fateful night, something forced him to leave his basement apartment, climb the stairs to Janet's and commit the murder. In exactly the way he did.
He was, of course, convicted and guillotined.
But I have often wondered if he were but an instrument under the control of some occult force. I'll never know.
Janet's death brought a significant change to my life. I reduced much of my extracurricular activities and plunged deep into study. I added literature, philosophy and several social sciences to my curriculum. This was now possible because of my advanced knowledge of French.
And although I made several attempts to form liaisons with women at the Sorbonne, they were all half-hearted. Karen had me all to herself. And I found that I was resigned to it. My r greatest fear was that her parents would learn of my relationship with their daughter, a danger which grew greater as Karen's visits to my room increased in frequency until I could pretty well count O" her sharing my bed for a part of almost every night.
In fact it was because of a very close call with her parents that I discovered how the girl had been gaining entry to my room while the door remained bolted from the inside.
I had been studying late and fell asleep in one of the large chairs in the den. I was wearing only my dressing gown. Awareness of the presence of my nocturnal visitor came when she knelt before me and buried her face into my loins. It was the grasping caress of her lips which brought me out of my deep sleep. It was something new, something startling. I gave myself to the pleasures of her oral stimulation, twisting and heaving until I lay on the floor beside her, her thighs close to my face.
What abandoned behavior we gave ourselves to! This was not a teenager and an adult . . . it was a man and a woman locked in the ultimate expression of passion, the drawing kiss, the grasping lip, the darting, tantalizing tongue!
For both of us the explosion of soaring desire was new. I had never known such sensation as the girl brought me to climax. At the same moment Karen drove her hips down upon me in a shuddering seizure. A cry escaped her. A wail, primitive and chilling. It subsided to a low moan, continuing until her body relaxed heavily upon me.
We lay there, feeling the tempo of our thudding hearts gradually return to normal. A sharp knock on the door brought us to our feet. Karen stared at the door, then at me. Her lips shaped the dreaded word: Daddy!
"Greg. Are you alright?" Mr. Rowe's voice sounded concerned.
I adjusted my dressing gown as Karen grabbed her flimsy nightdress and slipped into my bedroom.
"Greg. Gregory," Mr. Rowe called again, his voice louder.
I watched Karen dart into one of my walk-in closets. As the door closed behind her I walked over and slipped the bolt on the den door. I feigned sleepiness as I slowly opened the door to face Mr. Rowe.
"Yes, sir," I mumbled. "What's wrong?"
"Oh, you're alright." Mr. Rowe sounded relieved. "I was certain I heard you cry out as I was coming up to bed."
"Perhaps I was dreaming, sir. I was studying late and fell asleep in the chair there. I probably called out in my sleep."
Mr. Rowe seemed satisfied. "I guess that must have been it. Or, maybe it was Karen." He turned as I stood helpless to stop him. "I'll look in on her." My heart sank as he walked to Karen's door and knocked softly. "Karen," he called, "are you alright."
I'm surprised Mr. Rowe didn't hear my gasp when Karen's voice answered through the door in her bedroom, "Yes, Daddy. I think I was having a bad dream."
"Okay, honey. You go back to sleep." Mr. Rowe turned to glance at me, still standing in my apartment door. "Sorry to have disturbed you, Greg. Good night." And he padded away toward his room.
Now I must really be dreaming, I thought. Karen goes into my closet and then answers from behind her own door!
I closed and bolted my door and then dashed to the closet. Karen had disappeared. But I saw the square panel of wood, lying on the floor at the back of my closet where she had dropped it. Bending over I discovered the entrance to a plumbers tunnel which obviously ran .between rooms, giving access to the water and heating conduits.
And it gave Karen a secret communication with my bedroom.
Before I knew what I was doing I had entered the tunnel and crawled on my hands and knees towards Karen's room. I paused about halfway, realizing that what I was about to do was base and disgusting. A voyeur! But I did not seem to be able to help myself.
Suddenly my hand passed through an opening in the wall beside me. It touched cloth. Another closet. Karen's I was certain. She hadn't replaced the panel in her haste to return to her room.
Quietly I crawled through the square opening into her dark closet. Under the hanging dresses I crept. As I neared the closet door I made out a faint yellow light; the closet door could not be completely closed and something within the room was casting a weak light.
Carefully I eased the door open until I could see the entire room. Before I could look around I heard the sound: a chant-like moan, soft and taunting, rising and falling in some strange cadence. My scalp began to crawl.
The light came from a small candle which stood on the top of the prie-Dieu I had seen the one and only time I had been in Karen's room. Its flickering flame cast a weird glow on a framed picture above. A picture I had not seen before. I would have remembered it!
It could have been Raphael's Virgin and Child if one ignored the faces. But the faces! How do you describe an artist's portrayal of corruption? The flesh seemed to hang in moist, decaying blobs. One could imagine the sickly, sweet smell of putrefaction.
They exuded evil, in its most vile form!
Karen, completely naked, knelt on the prie-Dieu before the picture. She was at right-angles to me so that I could not see her face. But the maturing curves of her body were sharply outlined by the candle's light. Her right hand moved in a slow caress of her loins. The other hand was stretched out toward the picture as if in supplication.
It was she who was uttering the strange, primitive incantation. The soft chanting rose and fell as her body reached various sexual plateaus, each marked by a more pronounced stiffening of her body and an increase in the tempo of her self-caress.
Then, as I watched fascinated and aroused, her right hand joined the left above her, stretching upward toward the obscene picture. Her body arched, thrusting her firm, pointed breasts upward and outward, her head thrown back. Shudders vibrated her body like a palsy. The chant became a deep-throated growl.
Slowly the room became silent and Karen gradually collapsed into a quivering, naked heap at the foot of the ghastly portrait.
Her worship of the demoniacal deity had come to an end.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A one-sided conversation becomes a monologue, Vance. Which makes it difficult for the listener, doesn't it? You, who listen, cannot ask questions. I, the monologist, must therefore attempt to anticipate the questions you might ask if you were here.
You might probably ask, Why had not someone in the household commented on the picture you just described?
I have a simple answer, one which also explains why I didn't see it myself when Karen showed me her room. It was kept hidden and only brought out when she felt compelled to pay homage to whatever devilish spirit she thought it represented.
Another question, Why didn't you seek to escape this evil force if you found it so loathsome, so vile?
That, my friend, is the very core of my story. I could not then, nor can I now, even with Karen's death, escape the entrapment of the black force which surrounded that she-devil. I tried. Oh, how I tried. But each time my determination had built to the point where I was ready to extricate myself, Karen would mire me even deeper in the filth of her sexual charms.
And it seemed that the forces which shaped the course of my life were malleable to her machinations. Like the sudden decision of my parents to extend the financing of my Sorbonne study so that I could remain in Paris for at least two more years.
The Rowes were delighted that I would be remaining with them. I had become a part of the family; perhaps I represented the son Mr. and Mrs. Rowe never had. I know they felt a strong affection for me. And I returned it.
Even Pierre and Madeleine seemed happy at the turn of events.
"Ah, M'sieu' Gregoire," Pierre said when I broke the news to him, "you have become a slave to Paris. She will treat you well."
No, I thought, I have become a slave to Karen. And she will not treat me well.
Nor was she to treat Pierre well!
That is an understatement, in its grossest form.
Karen killed Pierre! With cold-blooded deliberateness.
It was a Saturday afternoon and I was lying on the balcony off my bedroom. I had registered at the Sorbonne that morning for my third year of study and was leafing through some of the textbooks I had picked up. A movement in the garden below caught my attention. From my reclining position I glanced over the edge of the balcony to see Karen stretched out on a grassy knoll between two flower beds. She was lying on her back, her hands forming a pillow for her head. She was wearing a provocative miniskirt of pale pink. Pierre was stooped over cleaning one of the pools, about ten feet away.
With obvious deliberateness, Karen pulled her legs up, spreading her thighs. The brevity of the skirt exposed the bare flesh between her thighs. And she wore no panties.
Then she called. "Pierre."
The Frenchman stood up, turned to look in Karen's direction. He gasped and began to turn away, his face crimson.
"Pierre. Look at me. Come closer." The voice was low, teasing.
Pierre's facial muscles tautened, turning his features to granite.
"You chienne. You bitch," he croaked. "Dirty evil girl. Put your legs down."
Karen laughed, spread her legs even more, "wouldn't you like to put your hand down there, Pierre? Nice and warm and moist."
I envied the Frenchman's will power. He turned away to stare at the house. For a few moments he was silent. Then he looked back at the mocking girl.
"Mademoiselle Karen," he said softly, "I have worked here for a long time, ever since your Mamma and Papa took this house. And I have watched you grow up, slowly turning into an evil young woman. All that time I have kept my peace. Now, Mademoiselle Karen, I think the time has come for me to talk to your Papa." He dropped the scraping tool he had been holding. "Perhaps there is much about you that he does not know."
Karen's body stiffened. Dropping her legs she clambered to a standing position, muscles coiled. Her beautiful face twisted.
"You stupid French pig," she snarled. "You'll tell no one."
Her body lunged forward, striking Pierre at belt level. The breath exploded from his body with a loud "pppppph". He tumbled back into the pool he had been cleaning, his head striking the base of a low fountain unit in the pool's center. I could hear the sound of his head against the stone. He lay still, his head resting on the fountain base clear of the water, his feet on the pool-side sod.
Karen stood over him staring down at the still form. Then, with a low laugh, she reached out her right foot and shoved Pierre's head off the base of the fountain. It slid into the water and sank slowly beneath the pool's surface. The bubbles stopped rising after about thirty seconds. Then Karen walked toward the house with as little concern as if she had stepped on a spider which had got in her way.
Suddenly she stopped, just below my balcony. She must have sensed my presence because she looked up, smiled, then waved. A moment later she had disappeared into the house.
For a moment I was too shocked to move. Then I jumped up, dashed from my apartment and tore down the stairs two at a time. Thinking back, I believe I passed Karen as I descended. Into the kitchen I ran. Madeleine was preparing some food, I recall.
"Quick, Madeleine. The garden. Pierre." And I dashed from the house with the French cook at my heels.
I waded into the pool and lifted the still body onto the pool's edge. He was not breathing. Madeleine was wailing hysterically.
I slapped her hard. "Get Mr. Rowe. A Doctor. Quick." I shoved her towards the house and then knelt beside Pierre's body and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
In moments Madeleine was back, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Rowe. Karen was not with them. "Pierre. Cleaning pool. Slipped. Struck head. On fountain. Head under water."
Mr. Rowe spelled me off after a few minutes and I stretched my cramped muscles. Madeleine crouched beside her husband, moaning incoherently.
I don't know how long it took, but suddenly the Doctor was there, pronouncing Pierre dead. Then the police. Questions. Statements.
Regrets. Pierre had been murdered. But on the police records it showed as an accident. Because of my statement as an eye-witness.
I had protected Karen. And in so doing was an accomplice to her evil deed.
God forgive me! I was now as evil as she!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Pierre's death brought new dimensions to the illicit lives Karen and I were living.
But before I explain what I mean by that statement, Vance, let me ask you to search back into your own past and see if you can find a point at which a feeling of guilt seemed to cripple you. Perhaps it was as a child, when you knew you had done wrong. Or maybe later, because you jilted a girl. Or committed some immoral act. Can you recall the remorse you felt, the debilitating oppression of conscience?
That will give you a mild idea of how I felt. I was consumed by my conscience for having aided and abetted the criminal Karen. Time and time again, in my dreams, I would see her small foot above Pierre's head, shoving it down into the water; I would see her gloating smile, the casual wave.
Oh, many time I was prompted to tell the truth, to impugn the little she-devil, the evil teenager. But as each day passed following the servant's death my silence compounded my weakness. And it strengthened Karen's domination of me.
As her domination increased, so did her demands on my body. Her desires seemed insatiable. Every night she would travel the plumber's passage to my room, and drain my loins, frequently more than once in the course of a night. And yet, each time I was aware that she experienced innumerable orgasms.
But even that did not seem to satisfy her. On several wakeful nights I spied on her from her closet, following her as she returned to her own room. I would see her kneeling, naked, before that hateful picture, driving her body repeatedly to ecstatic peaks in her evil ritual.
It was on one of those forays that I leaned the truth about Marie Beauvais.
Shortly after Pierre's funeral Madeleine announced that she was leaving to live with a sister in Carcassonne. The Rowes had to find another couple to replace the Charlieus. Following several interviews they hired a widower, Henry Beauvais, and his daughter, Marie. Marie was an attractive woman of about thirty. It was explained that she had not married because of her attachment for her father. La blague! Utter rot.
She was a lesbian!
One night, shortly after the Beauvais' moved into 3117 Avenue du Roule, Karen failed to visit me. I was more courious than hurt, believe me. I waited for more than two hours. Still she did not arrive. So I climbed out of bed, entered the plumber's tunnel through my closet and crawled to Karen's room. I eased the door of her closet open quietly; the room was in darkness, although I could hear Karen stirring fretfully on the bed.
I remained there for more than a quarter-of-an-hour, then bored by the inactivity, decided to return to my own room. I was just about to move when I heard a new sound. Her door. It opened slowly, the light from the hall streaking across Karen's bed. And Karen's naked body, now rich and full at the age of eighteen.
I gasped. Marie Beauvais stood in the door, her attractive figure under the flimsy nightdress outlined against the hall light behind her. For a long minute she stood there, obviously consuming Karen's young body with her eyes. Then the door closed, plunging the room into darkness again.
Only sounds impinged on my imagination. But they were enough. The grasping stirrings, the slapping of flesh against flesh, the moans, vile endearments, the more violent heaving of bodies and protestings of bed springs.
Then the soft cries of passion and woman-to-woman. The momentary quiet, and then the repetition; or perhaps some new strange techniques to stir the flesh and the emotions.
For an hour I remained in my cramped position, listening to the female orgy which was taking place in Karen's bedroom. Finally I crept back to my own room. Lying in bed I thought about the liaison between Karen and Marie. Was it jealousy I felt? Perhaps. But along with it was a sense of relief. Maybe some of Karen's demands upon me would be reduced because of this new outlet.
I did not reckon with Karen's unquenchable sexual thirst.
Nor did her father.
You may recall having read about the death of the prominent businessman, James Rowe, in Paris, about nine years ago. In February, my third February in France. Mr. Rowe had been to a stag party for one of the officers of his corn-party who was leaving to return to the United States. Karen's father arrived home long after midnight in a state of advance intoxication.
The next morning he was found in the library by Marie Beauvais. There was a small, neat bullet hole in his temple. The gun was still clutched in his hand.
On the desk lay a piece of paper. It bore four words, scrawled by Mr. Rowe.
"God forgive you, Karen . . . "
It was not until a year ago that I learned from Karen what had happened that night. And she showed no remorse as she related the story, Vance.
"The fool was a drunk," she said. And she could have been talking about a stranger. "I had returned from your room and was preparing for my nightly supplications when I heard a noise in the corridor outside my room."
(The 'supplication' of which she spoke, Vance, referred to the ritual before the evil picture. Of that I shall speak later.)
"I went to my bedroom door" Karen continued, "forgetting that I was not wearing any night clothing. The drunken sot was just moving down toward his own room. He heard me open the door, stopped and came back.
"What're you doin' awake?" he asked me. Then he saw my nakedness. "Christ," he said, "you've really turned into a good lookin' woman." And he reached out. I hushed him and held the door open so he could enter my room. He hesitated until I took his hand. Like a child he followed me. He was in a semi-stupor."
"Oh, he protested several times' as I undressed him and coaxed him to lie beside me. But he was too drunk to really know what he was doing. Yet, even though he was stoned, he could make love. And did. Twice. Then he fell asleep."
"It was several hours later when I felt him stir. "Oh my God!" I heard him mutter as he realized where he was, and what must have happened. Of course I pretended to be asleep. Still muttering like a fool, he slipped out of bed, dressed quietly, and left my room."
Then she made a statement which demonstrated so incisively the cold, black soul which possessed her.
"Of course," she said, "the fool exhibited the stupidity of the moralist. Filled with infantile remorse he must commit suicide. Imagine, forced into such a ridiculous extreme by a small matter of incest. He got his kicks. Why didn't he leave it at that."
Naturally I knew none of this when Mr. Rowe shot himself. And Karen, feigning grief, convinced everyone, including the police, that she did not know the meaning of the four words her father had written.
I, of course, could only imagine what Mr. Rowe had been hinting at. Perhaps he had discovered something about Pierre's death. Or, the evil relationship between his daughter and Marie Beauvais. Or between Karen and me!
One thing I did not imagine. Karen and Death were no longer strangers.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As you would expect, Vance, Mr. Rowe's death was to have a significant impact on the lives of those who had been closest to him: Mrs. Rowe, Karen and me.
About a month after the suicide Mrs. Rowe informed me of her decision to return to the United States with Karen.
"I'm sorry, Gregory," she said one morning at breakfast. "But I know you'll understand that we cannot keep the house here. Karen and I will return to Washington at the end of April. Do you think you can find something else by then?"
I had been anticipating such a move and had already found an empty apartment in the Latin Quarter which I could have beginning May I. I explained this to Mrs. Rowe.
"And I'm thinking of leaving the Sorbonne for good," I added.
"But why" I thought your father was going to help you for another year, at least."
"Oh, yes, Mrs. Rowe, but I think it's about time I struck out on my own. The only way to be successful in writing is to write."
"But how will you manage, Gregory?"
"I've got enough money to cover the rent and bare necessities for a few months. And if I can sell a few articles I'll be able to get by indefinitely!"
It was with a pot pourri of emotions that I went to bed that night. I hated the thought of leaving 3117 Avenue du Roule. I had been comfortable there. The Rowes had been good to me. And yet I would be free of Karen. Perhaps there was some regret at the idea of being thrust out of Karen's life. Like a pet sent off to the kennels, or a new home ,or just thrown out into the cold.
One thing I did know. I would miss the warmth of her body, the moistness of her depths, the thrill of bringing her to completion, the thrust of her hips, the crush of those mounding breasts against me. Possessed, I might have been, but I was also a possessor.
Yet I would be escaping her evil, the unholy forces she seemed to be associated with, the touch of death that she represented.
The bed moved slightly as the object of my thoughts slid between the sheets to press her warm nakedness against me. Slender fingers brushed across my abdomen, stirring my flesh.
Oh God, I thought. What black power does this bitch have to invade me every time I contemplate escape?
As Karen rose above me my thoughts flashed back to that night three-and-a-half years ago. How different! The physical difficulties had long been removed. The eighteen-and-a-half-year-old body above me was mature, full and sensuous.
And, as she had that first night, once we were physically engaged, she lay forward on my chest, quiet and unmoving.
"Uncle Gregory," she breathed into my ear, "you're not going to leave me." It was a statement!
"No, Karen," I replied. "You're leaving me. Going back to Washington."
I could feel her lips twist into a smile.
"No, I'm not, Uncle Gregory. I'm going to London. And so are you."
What nonsense was this? I had no intention of leaving Paris.
Karen noticed my flesh begin to subside as my thoughts wandered away from our physical contact. Her hips began a slow movement to restore me to my aroused state.
"I have convinced Mummy to enroll me in a private school in London so that I can continue my art and music studies." she continued. "Therefore you will live in London, too."
"You're insane, Karen," I said.
That was a mistake. I felt Karen's body stiffen, the features of her face lying next to mine harden.
"I am not insane," she snarled, her voice brittle and cold. "They would not permit it."
Once again I was the child, she the adult. "I'm sorry, Karen, I didn't mean it that way. I meant I can't go with you to London."
Her body relaxed, the hips resumed their slow stimulation. She smiled again. "Yes you can, Uncle Gregory. And you will. They promised it."
I suddenly realized that that was the second time in those few moments she had referred to someone by the pronoun 'they'. But before I could pursue the thought further, I realized that the conversation had been terminated. Karen had turned her full attention to the business which had brought her to my room. As always. And soon my mind was absorbed with the same thoughts; the soaring desire deep within me.
Karen drained me twice before she left me.
The next morning Mrs. Rowe confirmed that she had enrolled Karen in the Carsgate School for Girls in London.
"I've always felt, Gregory, that schools on this side of the Atlantic are far superior for young women of outstanding talents. And you must agree that Karen is such a person."
Oh, I readily agreed, Vance. Although Mrs. Rowe and I were discussing different 'talents'.
"And I hope that you will be able to get across to London once in a while to visit Karen," Mrs. Rowe added.
I murmured that I would make every effort. But deep down I had already believed I would only make the trip once. And do as Karen had said I would, stay! That same day I set the wheels in motion to make Karen's forecast come true. I cancelled my arrangements for the apartment in the Latin Quarter. I announced my intentions at the university to withdraw at the end of the semester April 30th. And I reserved a hotel room in Paris for the nights of April 29th and 30th. I also booked my Channel crossing for May 1st.
All of this dovetailed with the plans Mrs. Rowe had made. She and Karen were leaving for London on April 29th. Karen would be enrolled in the private school that same day. And Mrs. Rowe would leave London the morning of May 1st. I would fly in two hours later.
Of course, all of these plans had to receive Karen's approval. Despite the feeling of degradation it gave me I turned to her for approbation. Like a mother speaking to a child she congratulated me on the arrangements I had made.
Would you believe me, Vance, when I tell you I was lost for two nights without Karen: the two nights I stayed alone in that Paris hotel following the departure of her and her mother for London.
After all, I had been conditioned thoroughly to exist only when she was present.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I did not care that one watching my reunion with Karen at Croydon Airport outside London would at once recognize that the embrace was not of an uncle for his niece. No. It was too passionate. As I passed through customs Karen ran up to me and threw her arms around my neck, pressing her trim body against me, urgent and demanding. As I returned her embrace our lips crushed together, open and desiring.
"Oh, Uncle Gregory," she whispered, "I've missed you so much." Then she stepped back, a smile flirting with her lips. The voice became slightly mocking. "I was right, wasn't I? Here we are in London."
She took my arm and led me to a waiting cab. Before I really knew what was happening I had climbed in behind her. She gave an address to the driver and settled back, close to me, as we started toward the city.
"Where are we going, Karen?" I asked, bewildered by the command she had taken.
"Yesterday, while Mummy was shopping I found you an apartment. In Hamptstead Heath. It's really very nice. Two bedrooms. A complete kitchen. And central heating. That's still quite uncommon here, you know."
"Whoa," I said. "Look, Karen, what do I need with a two-bedroom apartment? And what am I going to use for money ? No. I've got to find a small bachelor unit which I can afford. At least until I can make a bit of money.
"Don't worry, Uncle Gregory. I've paid the rent for the next four months. And by that time you'll be selling your writing. Believe me. As for two-bedrooms, I've got to have some place to sleep when I leave school to visit my Uncle Gregory, don't I." She smiled at me.
And in that smile I saw the calculation. Yes, it would not be long before Karen and I were living under the same roof again.
But more of that later. Let me tell you about the apartment, Vance. The taxi took us to a pleasant residential area of one of London's suburbs. The apartment building was modern for that city. And the apartment comprised a large, oblong living room, a small kitchen, and two bedrooms, both with its own bathroom. It was a surprisingly spacious unit.
One bedroom already showed signs of occupancy. Karen had moved many of her own possessions into it. It was apparent that she planned to spend a lot of time in the apartment.
My first move after inspecting my new home was to begin unpacking. That was not in Karen's plans. Before I could stop her she had stripped and laid on the bed. I stared at the luscious body, aware that I had not shared in its delights for three nights, long enough for me to rebuild a healthy desire. Her inviting smile, the slow rise and fall of her peaking breasts, and the tantalizing gyrations of her naked hips were irresistible. Even before I had undressed my flesh was aroused.
Our sexual reunion was a mad clash of passion-filled bodies, pulsing, engorged, aching. Repeatedly Karen soared over the peaks of desire, her body shuddering, her depths contracting involuntarily to grasp my massiveness. I joined her on one of those ecstatic journeys, spurting copiously deep within her. It was not long before the talented young woman had drawn my passion from me a second time.
She remained with me in the apartment for the next two days, sharing my bed for our frequent sexual orgies, but locking herself in the bedroom she had claimed for herself once she was aware that I was incapable of immediate arousal. And several times, after she had left me, I heard the strange incantations which were associated with her rituals before the obscene picture.
When she finally decided to return to the school I made my plans for the beginning of my writing career. I laid in a stock of stationery, rented a typewriter, surrounded myself with pencils, erasers, dictionary and thesaurus. Then I sat and stared at the blank piece of paper which I had rolled into the typewriter.
That same piece of paper was still in the typewriter, and still blank, when Karen arrived at the apartment two nights later.
Two strange things happened that night.
As she entered I realized I had missed her and went to embrace her. She held me at arms length, not coldly, but with a certain indifference which hurt me.
"I'm going to take a bath, Uncle Gregory," she said, walking through to my bedroom and the bath off it. I was surprised because she had used her own bathroom the two nights she had spent in the apartment following my arrival.
She left the bathroom door open and I could hear her splashing in the tub. My desire was aroused and I decided to take the initiative. Standing in the bedroom where she could not see me, I undressed. Thoughts of Karen brought my flesh to full engorgement. I heard the water draining from the tub and knew that she was drying herself. Entering the bathroom I saw her standing naked, the bath towel gathered in a moist heap at her feet. Her face was expressionless as she watched me approach her. I went to place my hands on her body, to press my massive-ness against her.
With a curse she drew back. "No, damn you. Get away from me."
I could not have been more surprised if she had slapped my face. Not Karen. The little bitch who had made so many demands upon my body, and still remained unsatiated.
My flesh subsided rapidly. I had been scorned by the personification of nymphomania.
"Why, Karen?" I pleaded.
Her face was cold, remote, as she replied.
"Uncle Gregory, let me tell you now. And only once. You will make love to me only when I ask you to. Never, never make the mistake of taking the initiative."
Naked, she stalked through the bedroom to her own and locked the door behind her.
Seething with anger I put on my dressing gown and went to my typewriter, attacking the blank sheet with intense hatred and mortification.
But what a surprise, Vance. The ideas flowed from me; I found it difficult to keep up with them, my fingers wrestling with the keys of the typewriter as the words welled up and poured from my mind. I wrote for hours, finally falling into bed in complete exhaustion.
The next morning I made the first of two startling, frightening, discoveries. What I had written the night before were strange supernatural stories; fantasy. No. This was stuff of the occult. My mind, I knew, was incapable of producing such material. I had never even thought in such terms. In fact I had displayed a knowledge I knew I didn't even possess. For example. My first story revolved around a priestess who conducted a Black Mass. Do you know, Vance, I had to look up the phrase, Black Mass, in my dictionary to find out what it meant.
I continued writing all that day. Karen did not disturb me. She chose to remain in her room most of the time. And that evening she returned to the school.
With her departure my writing ceased. That was the first hint of the second, frightening phenomenon, a hint which was soon to be confirmed.
I could only write when Karen was in the apartment. It was only when she returned to the apartment that my writing would resume.
No. Her writing would resume. By some strange extra-sensory mechanism, she utilized my mind as the medium for the weird fantasies with which she was possessed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Are you married, Vance?
I've often wondered what it would be like to live with a woman in the normal, day-to-day relationships which are supposed to be the basis for a happy marriage.
I can recall my mother and father sharing what I would consider to be a normal married life. And that despite the pretty strange hours my father, as a doctor, used to keep. But when he'd come home at night, no matter how late, mother would be waiting up for him, coffee pot on the stove, sharing Dad's daily trials, bringing him up to date on household happenings. And, although we lived a fairly affluent existence back home, mother always did her own housework the cleaning, the laundry, the cooking.
I guess she figured that was part of the marriage contract.
I've never known any married writers. Would their lives be the same as my parents ? I suppose they could be, with adjustments to meet the problems of constant togetherness.
Karen made adjustments for no one. Of course Karen and I were not married, in the legal sense. Ours was a common-law, the word common, in our case being a rank misnomer. But we shared the same roof, and, for the purpose of providing Karen with a modicum of sexual satisfaction, the same bed.
Our marriage was 'solemnized' by the simple expedient of Karen's leaving school. She escaped the disciplines of Oarsgate School for Girls about a month after my arrival in London. Early in June, as I recall. She informed the principal that she was returning to Washington: she wrote her mother she would be spending the summer vacation period with the family of one of the girls at the school. And she gave my address.
Our address!
And then my writing . . . my transcribing really . . . began in earnest. Each day I would spend hours at the typewriter producing vast quantities of strange material. But the wonder of wonders was the sale of much of my writing. And it was Karen's doing.
"Uncle Gregory," she said one morning before I had settled down at the typewriter," I read some of your manuscripts last night and I think they're marketable. I'm going to take them to a few publishing houses and see if we can sell them."
How many writers have an eighteen-and-a-half-year-old agent, Vance? A successful teenage agent?
Karen sold well. And that's how Ralph Eden, Cynthia Rivers and a host of other unfortunate individuals became entangled in the irrational relationship between Karen and me.
Ralph Eden was the president of Spectre Books Inc., a company which specialized in the publishing off-beat stories; fantasy, supernatural, science fiction. You know, the way-out imaginative stuff. The type of material I found myself producing. Although I didn't know Karen was even aware of the publisher or his works, she somehow singled out Spectre Books as the most likely buyer of my writing efforts. When she returned later in the day my future as a writer had been assured. It was just a matter of signing contracts and receiving the advance.
And the next day I sat in Mr. Eden's office, the paper work completed and a handsome check in my pocket.
I left his office and was about to step out onto the street when a woman's voice called after me.
"Oh, Mr. Scott. Mr. Scott."
I turned to see an attractive brunette running along the hall toward the front entrance to Spectre Books. I stopped and waited until she caught up to me.
"Mr. Scott, I wonder if you would mind telling Miss Rowe that I shall be happy to have dinner with her tonight. Perhaps you would ask her to meet me at my apartment. I've written the address on this." She handed me a slip of paper.
Then she turned and walked away from me. I stared after her, noting the fulness of her hips as she swayed down the hall.
What was that all about I wondered? Karen and a woman from the publishing house. Was it something to do with my writing?
Or something else!
Another Marie Beauvais. Another lesbian liaison!
"Cynthia Rivers," Karen said. "That's who that would be. She's Mr. Eden's executive assistant."
Her voice was animated and her eyes still glowed with the same strange light that had illuminated them when I handed her the slip of paper and mentioned the brief encounter I had that morning at the publisher's office.
That afternoon I wrote a strange story about two women whose spirits after death continued the lesbian relationship they had shared when they lived.
That night I wrote nothing. Karen was not in the apartment.
For the next five evenings Karen left me to my own devices. Strangely, I did not mind. As soon as Karen left I would be seized by an unusual ennui and would go to bed to sleep, dreamless, throughout the night.
Then Cynthia Rivers began coming to our apartment during the daytime. The first time she made the pretense of picking up my latest manuscript a pretense she dropped immediately when she understood that I was aware of her relationship with Karen.
I can recall three of the visits, although the Rivers woman must have been there several times a week. The three I remember were her first, another about a month later, and the last visit.
On the first call at the apartment . . . the one ostensibly to pick up the manuscript . . . Karen took the older woman into the bedroom and locked the door. I crept down the hall a few minutes later and listened at the bedroom door. The voice were low, unintelligible. But urgent. I heard the complaining springs of the bed as bodies moved violently. Then the animal cry of a passion-racked woman. Again and again!
It's strange, Vance. Back in Paris I recall the sense of relief I felt when Karen and Marie formed their alliance: I thought that the liaison would lessen the demands made upon me. But hearing the violent love-making going on between Karen and Cynthia Rivers filled me with a new emotion jealousy. I can't say that I was in love with Karen. Such affection could hardly be evoked by the depravity which she represented. But some hold existed.
Do not think I was being ignored throughout Karen's affair with the Rivers woman. The night time activities resumed when Cynthia started making the day calls. My earlier ennui disappeared. And my writing could continue day and night with Karen remaining in the apartment.
The second visit I recall occurred, as I said, about a month later. Cynthia Rivers arrived shortly after noon and immediately joined Karen in the bedroom. This time I did not hear the usual evidence of love-making. The two women seemed to be talking, their voices so low that I could not make out the words. More than an hour must have passed before the voices stopped. I heard the two of them moving about in the bedroom. Then it happened.
Two voices rose and fell in a joint version of the eerie incantations which, up until then, I had heard only from Karen during her weird ritual before the picture. Cynthia, I knew, was being indoctrinated into the service of unholy worship. I covered my ears to shut out the sound and returned to my typewriter.
But, although the sound no longer bothered me, my mind was tumbled by the confusion of two conflicting strains of ideas. The words which flowed onto the paper were meaningless; snatches of passionate woman-for-woman love, then a soaring reaching for some evil force. The fantasies which normally provided the stuff for my stories were now mingled with more earthly, realistic themes.
My mind was like a radio receiver struggling to separate two signals. The transmitters? Karen and Cynthia!
It was late afternoon when Cynthia emerged from Karen's room, fully dressed. But it was as if she were dream walking. A trance-like victim of the ritual which had transpired behind the locked door.
The third visit and Cynthia's final one about which I shall tell you, Vance, took place in September of that year. Just after my twenty-fourth birthday. As I look back on it, I realize that Karen was not expecting the Rivers woman that afternoon. Or she would have been waiting for her, impatiently pacing the living room floor. But this time Karen was in her bedroom when Cynthia arrived.
I opened the door to the older woman's knock. Cynthia Rivers pushed me back in her anxiety to get in. I remember the distorted twisted expression on her face.
She brushed by me and strode down the hall to Karen's room. The door was locked and the older woman banged her fists against the door panels.
"Karen. Let me in." There was no answer. Cynthia's voice rose, hysterically. "Let me in, do you understand. Let me in."
Still there was no answer. I stood helplessly watching, hoping the woman would get discouraged and leave. Forlorn hope!
Now she was screaming at the girl behind the locked door.
Suddenly the lock clicked. The door swung open and Karen, naked, stood facing Cynthia. The older woman gasped as she saw Karen's body and reached out to place her hands on it. "Karen, my darling, I need you."
"Get your hands off me, you filthy bitch," Karen hissed. Her face filled with loathing. "I can't stand you. Get out. Get out." The command was quiet, but cold.
Cynthia Rivers looked as if she had been slapped. She stepped back, her face slowly collapsing, the tears beginning to pour down her face.
"Oh, Kareh. Why, why?" she sobbed.
"No one makes overtures to me. You made that mistake, Cynthia. Now we are through."
Cynthia dropped to her knees. "Please, Karen. Oh please. No." She fell forward and grabbed Karen around the hips, burying her face into the downy loins.
Karen kicked her away and, her face an ugly mask, pointed a finger at the groveling woman. "The curse of Boam on you." She turned and slammed the bedroom door. I heard the lock click.
Cynthia Rivers' face was filled with horror as she clambered slowly to her feet. "Boam. Oh no! Boam. Boam." And she repeated the strange word over and over again as she staggered from the apartment I watched her groping her way down the stairs and then softly close the door.
When I turned back into the living room, Karen stood there, still naked. But her face now wore the lovely, relaxed look of youth. She glided up to me, kissed me on the lips, warmly and passionately, pressing her body against mine. "Let's go into your bedroom, Uncle Gregory." Like a child I let myself be led down the hall, my mind whirling from the small drama which had just been enacted.
The drama had its denouement the next day. That's when I heard of the Rivers tragedy.
I had finished the seventh manuscript requested by Ralph Eden and took it down to the Spectre Books building myself. As I entered the reception area I noticed that the office was strangely quiet. The receptionist herself was softly crying.
"What's the trouble?" I asked.
"Oh, Mr. Scott," the young girl sobbed, "It's Cynthia. Miss Rivers . . . "
"What happened to her?" I felt a chill run down my spine.
"She's . . . she's dead. Slipped from the platform in the Tube this morning. Just as the train was approaching the station."
Slipped? I wondered. Few people slip in front of an approaching subway train. Jump, yes!
Mr. Eden was not in so I left my manuscript with the weeping receptionist and went out to the street.
"The curse of Boam on you," Karen had said. Did some imaginary curse cause the older woman to take her own life? Imaginary? Karen had been associated with four tragedies in about as many years. Was it mere chance? Would there be more?
If I had known then the answer to that question, I would have killed Karen that day. I would not have waited until tonight.
* * *
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I look out of the window of this luxurious apartment. Vance, the second apartment Karen and I shared during our six years in London.
The weather is foul, foggy, cold as only London can be. The kind of chill that penetrates to the bone no matter what you wear. And it's only September.
It was such a night in March, five years ago, that Karen and I went out on our first date. That may seem strange to you, Vance. We had been sharing the same roof for almost a year and yet we had never been out socially. The precedent was created when Ralph Eden hosted a reception following the publication of my first book. Karen's first book.
If you look under the heading "Occult" in the index cards at your library, Vance, you'll find this first book listed. Occult Visitation, by Scott, Gregory, Pp. 276. A collection of short stories dealing with the supernatural, the occult, demonology, etc. Spectre Books Inc. With all modesty, Vance, I think you'll find it a fascinating book. I know the critics did when it was first published in London. It was hailed as the product of an avant garde genius. It even received favorable reviews in scientific and pseudo-scientific journals catering to the fields of parapsychology, psychical research, necromancy, theury, and others.
Ralph Eden's party was to bring together the author of the highly praised book and a host of critics, and literary moderns. When Ralph mentioned the reception to me I was frightened stiff. After all, I may have been the medium through which the stories were written but I could make no claim to being the genius who created the material. And I was forced to admit this to Karen when I discussed the party with her. Unexpectedly she did not show any surprise at my awareness of her role in the writing of the Occult Visitation.
"It'll be alright, Uncle Gregory," she assured me. "You will say the right things at the right time. Count on me."
Now the she-devil was going to speak through me as well as write. Do you wonder at my feeling of being possessed?
But as the time for the reception drew near I found my excitement topping my apprehension. Fame, even though I could hardly lay personal claim to it, stood around the corner. And Karen's enthusiasm mounted too. I was surprised to see that she could, indeed, exhibit womanly vanities. She spent days seeking the appropriate gown and accessories. She spent hours the day of the reception at the hairdressers. The weather, foul through it was, cast no gloom over the apartment that day.
And aware of the problem the weather might cause, I very efficiently arranged in advance for a taxicab to pick us up at the apartment. Because of that foresight we were among the first guests to arrive at Ralph Eden's sprawling mansion in Scarboro.
Almost immediately Karen and I were separated. I was singled out by those whose only interest was the book. Karen, on the other hand, was spirited away by those who had an eye for beauty. I must admit, Vance, that Karen was the most beautiful woman present; at nineteen she was strikingly mature, and the gown she had chosen displayed her physical charms to perfection. It clung seductively to the rich curves of her body and provided a d'collet' that left little to the imagination.
He, who had an interest both in the book and in sexuality, was, of course, torn two ways. I think Karen won out in each case of such mental conflict. One such individual was Gordon Sanderson, literary critic for the London Evening Star. He dutifully paid his tributes to the author of Occult Visitation and then departed to pay homage to the author's companion. Jealously I noticed that he and Karen seemed almost immediately to be strongly attracted to each other. I wanted to intercede but found myself engaged in conversation by a distinguished middle-aged man who identified himself as Professor Albert Spears, a student of demonology.
"I was intrigued, Mr. Scott, by a particular story in Occult Visitation. The one called "Truth" In it you refer to a schism developing among the fallen angels and the Kingdom of Hell being divided. The result, you suggest, was the creation of two Rulers of Darkness. The one you name. Lucifer. The other, who is in reality the hero of your story, you do not name."
I was not aware of any hesitation on my part I opened my mouth and the words just came out. The same way the words flowed through my fingers to the typewriter when I was writing.
"Two reasons, Dr. Spears," I replied, speaking most knowledgably. "The first, literary. I believe that I heightened the impact of my story by not disclosing the identity of the other power of Hell. The second reason had nothing to do with the story itself. It was, I felt, improper, at least at this time to suggest the existence of a Deity of Eroticism."
That came from me, Vance!
"A Deity of Eroticism," Dr. Spear mused. "If you had identified this . . . this power, what would you have named him?"
"Boam, Dr. Spears. Boam."
You can imagine the shock my own words gave me. The curse of Boam on you, Karen had said to Cynthia Rivers.
"And Boam, my dear Dr. Spears, would not be a 'him'. I chose to identify the Deity of Eroticism as a female."
I turned away from my interrogator to reply to the question of another. I do not know what I answered, my mind was grappling with the significance of what I had already said. Little pieces of a puzzle were sliding together although I could not yet make out the finished design. I decided I should go back and read my stories. Perhaps therein lay other pieces with which I could construct a completed picture.
Much later I was aware of Karen touching my arm.
"I think we should be leaving soon, Uncle Gregory," she said. "Mr. Sanderson has offered to drive us home. We'd have to wait quite a while for a cab."
Sanderson. Well there was no harm in accepting the ride. She was right about the cab.
Karen and I paid our respects to Ralph Eden and met Sanderson in the driveway where he waited for us in his car.
We did not, however, go directly back to our Hempstead Heath apartment. Sanderson insisted on taking us to his club for dinner. It was well after midnight by the time we arrived home. Although I was tired Karen was fresh as when she started out for the party at Ralph Eden's. And, to my annoyance, she invited Sanderson up for a night-cap. I should have suspected that she had ideas other than just a social drink.
It has always been my contention that politeness dictates that a nightcap be consumed in short order and the guest depart without delay. Sanderson gave that idea short shrift He removed his topcoat and rubbers and settled down in one of the deep comfortable chairs in the living room. It was apparent he was in no hurry.
While I poured the drinks in the kitchen, Karen went to her bedroom. By the time I returned to the living room Karen had emerged clad in a revealing negligee, a sight which brought a glowing gleam to Sanderson's eyes.
"Uncle Gregory," Karen said softly, "aren't you getting tired?"
Up until that moment I had not been too tired to remain with Karen and Sanderson to protect my own interests. But suddenly an overwhelming sleepiness swept over me; I could hardly keep my eyes open. I felt like a drugged man.
"You're right, Karen" I mumbled. "I think I'll go to bed."
And, unable to fight the compulsion to sleep I staggered down the hallway to my bedroom.
As I slid off into unconsciousness I heard Karen's voice as if in a dream.
"He'll sleep until morning, Gordon. Take off your clothes."
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY
You may have wondered, Vance, about Karen's mother, Mrs. Rowe. You will recall that she returned to Washington after depositing Karen at the Carsgate School for Girls the year before. Then Karen wrote that she was spending the summer months with one of her schoolmates. Well, when the school year resumed Karen continued the deception. She informed her mother that she would no longer be boarding at the school but remaining at the friend's home and attending Carsgate as a day-student.
All went well until the next summer. That was when Karen received the letter saying her mother was flying to London to spend several weeks with her daughter. Karen was furious. And decidedly unfilial.
"The meddling bitch," she exploded when she read the letter. "Why can't she stay on her side of the ocean?"
"Karen," I chided her. "That's your mother."
"So," she asked, sarcastically. "She chose to be. I've never needed her and I don't need her butting in now."
"What do you mean, 'butting in'? "
"Just that! She'll arrive here and raise hell when she finds out that I've lied to her about the way I'm living. The fact that I've dropped out of Carsgate." She smiled, a sly mysterious smile. "That's if she ever reaches here, of course."
And she shredded the letter, scattered it around the living room, and disappeared into her bedroom.
For more than two hours that night I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. And during all of that time I could hear the faint incantations as Karen performed her ritual worship on the other side of the bedroom wall. Strange dreams haunted me when sleep finally did come. Vague, wraithlike creatures danced through my fantasies, their forms locked in obscene sexual expression. And from these unions seemed to flow intense radiations of power, crackling and seething. The emanations whipped out and enfolded everything they touched, destroying, consuming, disintegrating.
Five days later the day we were to drive to Croydon to meet Mrs. Rowe's plane Karen lay on the living room settee, lethargic and irritable.
"Karen", I said for the tenth time, I'm sure, "get dressed, we've got to leave soon for the airport. Your mother will be arriving in three hours or so."
She just smiled at me. "There's no hurry."
"I know you're worried about the deception we've created. But we'll find a way out."
The mysterious smile broadened. "I already have. I'm not in the least worried."
I kept urging her to get up an dress. Suddenly her eyes closed, her body stiffened. The smile gave way to blankness. Karen could have been in a trance. She remained that way for at least five minutes. It frightened me. I thought she was ill. Then, as quickly as the manifestation appeared it evaporated. The smile returned, Karen's body relaxed. She seemed to sleep.
I looked at my watch. Three-thirty. God! We'd have to hurry. It was a good hour-and-a-half drive across the city and Mrs. Rowe's flight arrived at five-thirty. Two hours' time. Unless it was late. I decided to check the airport.
"I'm sorry an impersonal telephone voice replied to my query, "I'm afraid I can't give you any information on that flight at this moment. May I ask who's calling?"
I identified myself, and why I was calling.
"Will you please give me your telephone number, Mr. Scott. I shall be in touch with you shortly."
How unusual, I thought. However, perhaps this was just good public relations. It would save me the trouble of placing the call again.
Half-an-hour later the airport called back. It was a man's voice this time, not the woman I had spoken with earlier.
"Mr. Scott," he said, his voice quiet, reserved. "My name is Geoffrey Loran of the Croydon public relations department. I believe you were expecting a Mrs. Rowe on Flight seven-three-two this evening. I'm afraid I have bad news for you. Flight seven-three-two crashed at sea this afternoon. As far as we know there were no survivors. Of course, we shall keep in touch with you."
I could hardly speak. Mrs. Rowe dead? Plane crashed? Karen!
"What time . . . what time did the crash occur, Mr. Loran?" I asked, deathly afraid of the answer.
"About three-thirty, Mr. Scott. Why?"
"No reason" I stammered. "Thanks for letting me know."
I hung up. Karen still slept. Three-thirty! Just about the time she seemed to go into a trance. Brief phrases from Karen's comments of five days earlier, and of a half-an-hour ago flashed across my mind: "That's if she ever reaches here . . . "
"There's no hurry . . . " Her obvious delaying tactics that afternoon. Did she know there was no need of our going to the airport? Did she know in advance of the disaster?
The other question I could not keep from forcing itself into my consciousness.
Did Karen have anything to do with the tragedy?
I walked over to the settee and shook her.
"Karen. Are you awake?"
She opened her eyes and smiled up at me. "You don't have to tell me, Uncle Gregory. I know." She spoke with no emotion, either in her voice or in her expression. "So now we'll have no one to interfere."
"Good God Karen!" I exploded. "It's your own mother. It was your own mother. Don't you have any feelings at all?"
She swung her legs to the floor "You stupid emotional fool," she snapped. "I don't give a God Damn about her. Or anyone else. Just so long as my role is played to the full."
Role? Riddles. The time had come to get this whole thing out into the open.
"All right, Karen," I sighed. "Will you please answer a few questions?"
She just smiled.
"Did you know anything was going to happen to your mother's flight?"
"Certainly," she replied.
"And . . . . did you, in some way, have anything to do with it?"
Suddenly she laughed. We did it. Boam and I!
"We? Boam?" I was beginning to feel the hair on my neck stiffen. I regretted starting the whole discussion. I regretted everything-everything in the past six years.
Karen sighed. When she spoke her voice was flat, soft, tired, almost like a parent trying to explain something to a child, knowing all the time that the youngster would probably not understand.
"I suppose the time has come, Gregory" the "Uncle" was dropped for the first time "to explain a few things to you."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Boam! You will recall Vance that I had heard that name twice. Once when Karen used it to curse Cynthia Rivers only hours before her death. The other time was at the Ralph Eden party. I used the name in my conversation with Dr. Albert Spears the student of demonology. It was the name I said I would have used if I had identified the other Ruler of Darkness in my story, Truth, one of the several published in Occult Visitation.
As I promised myself I went back and read the story which had flowed from my typewriter. Of course it really wasn't my story, it was Karen's. It was the tale of a revolution in Hell in which one of the angels who had fallen with Lucifer challenged the Devil's right to omnipotent jurisdiction over Evil. The recalcitrant fallen angel was Boam, a female personification of evil. In an ensuing battle of powers Boam proved Her superiority in the realm of the erotic. She could devise more intriguing, more sadistic, more tempting sexual techniques than Lucifer. She claimed and was given the sole jurisdiction over the use of Sex in the furtherance of Evil.
Boam! And now I heard the name for the third time. We did it. Boam and I" Karen had said.
You'll remember Shakespear's observation in Hamlet, Vance: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." To give credence to the story Karen told me would require a paraphrase of that statement: "There are more things in hell and earth . . . "
"Did you read Truth, Gregory?" Karen asked me.
I nodded.
"Good. That is a true story. And you know, from the name I placed in your mind at Eden's party that the Deity of Eroticism is Boam?"
Again I nodded: I was afraid to trust my voice.
"I am Boam's daughter!"
I stared at Karen in horror. Now I spoke, my voice a hoarse croak. "Karen, you're insane."
For the second time in six years I made the same mistake. Karen's face filled with a hatred beyond descriptive words. Her voice was only a hiss. "Don't tempt me to prove it, you stupid fool. I have power beyond your understanding."
Slowly Karen's face relaxed and the innocent smile returned. "Boam's daughter, Gregory. Oh I was conceived in the usual fashion; naturally a child of passion. But the spark of life placed in the embryo came from Boam. And from birth
I have been Boam's disciple. Oh, I've had to pretend to lead the normal life, receiving the training of a child. It was essential to Boam's plan that I be able to move through a mortal society without rousing too much suspicion. But while I learned the ways of your world I also received the training of Boam's?
"At night." Karen's smile broadened. "Then tremor in my voice.
"The first time was about a year after I arrived in Paris. Do you remember the night your father knocked on my door . . . we were on the floor in my den. I followed you along the tunnel to your room and saw you before that . . . that picture."
I was glad I did not utter the adjective which slid into my mind when I mentioned the picture. Karen's eyes had narrowed when I paused momentarily. She relaxed.
"The picture of my mother and me. Boam and Karen. It is from that picture I draw my power, Gregory. And through that picture I communicate with the All-Powerful Boam."
"But . . . but why? What is the purpose of your, your . . . " I couldn't find the words.
"What am I doing? It's simple, Gregory. I represent the Evil of Sex. Sex, the Sin. The Seducer. The Tempter. Through the powers given me by Boam, I collect souls for Her. Like yours."
I recoiled. Like mine! "This is madness," I croaked. "I've got to be dreaming. This doesn't happen."
"It's happening, Gregory," Karen laughed, evilly. "Only with you, I'm satisfied with mere domination. For now! Because I like you and I need you to help satisfy my own sexual desires."
Oh, never again, I thought. I'll never give in to this succuba gain!
"Don't be naive, Gregory, you simple man!" The parent and the child. "You'll do exactly as I command. Watch!" She closed her eyes, her brows wrinkled in concentration.
Gradually I felt the stirring in my lower body, the arousal of my flesh, pounding into erection. Then my whole body was filled with desire for Karen, my mind created fantasies of her naked body; breasts full, nipples swollen red; the warm, moist depths of her womanhood; the grasping of her pelvic muscles; the peaking of my passion. Uncontrollably I felt myself reaching for the climax, the hint of ejaculatory-muscle contraction, and then the pulsing flood, my body tense and shaking. I grasped my loins, trying to halt the flow. But nothing could. I flushed as I felt the warmth of the sticky fluid seeping into my underclothing. Soiled. Contaminated.
Karen's laughter mocked me. "You see
Gregory. I have control over your body. Of course I realize I cannot command the impossible. At this moment you would be unable to make love to me. But, a brief rest, and I could again arouse your body to a new peak."
I squirmed in my physical discomfort. But I could not leave the presence of this demon. "Janet?"
"Janet? Janet? Oh, the artist you were involved with in Paris. Stupid little Janet. Unfortunately her body was given in love, not in perverted desire. I arranged her removal in a moment of spite. But her soul couldn't be touched." Annoyance flicked across Karen's face. "Boam was upset about that."
"And . . . and the others? Pierre, Cynthia, your father, your mother. What about them?"
"Pierre, the foolish man, was consumed by desire for me. But he tried to cover it by feigning righteous indignation. He should have relaxed and enjoyed it for a moment. Because we got him. And my drunken sot of a father. And Cynthia. They all joined Boam's ranks. Mother? She escaped me. But she had to be removed because she represented a threat to the plans."
"And now?" I asked the question like a man in a dream.
"And now, dear Gregory, it's time you shared the next climax with me. I'm certain you'd like to take your clothes off."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
And thus, Vance, began the four-year span of a living hell. Not that my life changed that much, it was just that I was now fully aware of Karen's complete domination of my body and, I suspected, my soul. I recognized that I was a slave to the wishes of this Servant of Darkness, this Daughter of Boam.
I continued to be the medium through which the stories of Evil were told. It was as if I were writing Boam's Bible. The Gospels according to Gregory! The propaganda of perversion disguished as fiction! Eros Embraced! And I was helpless to fight it.
There was the time I decided to warn Gordon Sanderson.
Sanderson, whose first experience with Karen took place the night of Eden's party returned frequently to sip at the cup of Karen's sexuality. For some reason the she-demon had not yet set her sights on Sanderson's soul. Or, I'm certain, she would have given more of her time to him. It was as if she were merely toying with the young critic.
My attempt to interfere with Karen's Boam's scheme was made about three weeks after Karen had informed me of the evil role she was playing. Sanderson, at Karen's request, had dropped by to discuss the possibility of our taking over his apartment in Scarboro. He was moving to less expensive accommodations.
I should point out here, Vance, that my writing my transcribing of Karens thoughts was highly profitable. And, with the death of Mrs. Rowe, Karen had inherited a substantial bequest. We were far from poverty. We could afford to move into more gracious quarters. And Sanderson's certainly were that.
But I had decided that the discussion of our subletting his apartment was less important than my warning him about Karen. The opportunity presented itself when Karen left us alone for a few moments while she "put on something more comfortable". Her usual routine.
I lowered my voice so that Karen would not here me. "Sanderson," I began, "there's something I have to tell you."
"Yes, Scott?"
"Well I don't think there's any necessity of our discussing the apartment. I have decided to take it."
My mouth hung open. That was not what I had intended saying. I tried again.
"What I mean is, if you'll have the sublease drawn up I'll sign it immediately."
It was no use. My mind might have one intention, but Karen's had another. And hers was the dominant.
Sanderson seemed surprised. "Oh, good show, Scott. I was afraid the rental might seem a little high for you and your niece. But if you're satisfied, I'll have the papers drawn tomorrow."
Karen emerged from the bedroom. "What are you two chatting about? Looks like a conspiracy." She gurgled a laugh.
Gordon Sanderson stood up. Took Karen's hand. "Perhaps it was. Your uncle was just telling me that he has decided to take the apartment." He turned to me and smiled, handsomely. "Or wasn't I supposed to let her in on the secret?
I laughed, but without humor. "Well, I had thought of surprising her. Her birthday's coming up. But I guess she knew it all along."
Known? God, she had made the decision. I just announced it.
Karen changed the subject. "Oh, Uncle Gregory, will you pour the drinks?"
I obeyed the command. And the next, which was not spoken. "Go to bed!" Excusing myself I left Karen and Sanderson alone in the living room, knowing full well what was going to happen, and helpless to prevent it.
It was much later when I awakened. Karen, naked, stood beside my bed, her creamy white body visible in the light from the hall as it sliced the deep darkness of my room.
"It think it's about time you joined me in the presence of Boam," she said, her voice expressionless, almost dream-like. She extended a hand. "Come."
I don't know whether I climbed from my bed out of curiosity or blind obedience to a command. All I do know is that naked, Karen and I walked into her room. It was dimly lit by a flickering candle sitting atop the prie-Dieu. On the wall hung the symbol of Karen's weird power, the obscenity, the portrait of Evil.
Karen led me to a point near the prayer bench. Her voice was filled with strange reverence, almost awe, as she spoke.
"That is the Omniscient Boam, Goddess of Seduction, Deity of Eroticism. That is Boam, my beloved and all-powerful mother. She holds in her arms her child-servant. That is I. Protected and loved by the beautiful Boam."
I started in horror at the portrait. The picture had been frightening when seen from a distance, and now, seeing it for the first time, close-up, I was filled with a sickening terror. For, at this close range, I had the feeling that the picture lived, that the grotesque, evil features took on depth, moved, pulsed. The flesh portrayed there hung in loose, feculent folds, oozing, fetid fluid. Waves of nausea swept over me as the portrait developed before my eyes.
But slowly the portrait changed, the loose folds of flesh tautened, smoothed. The woman's face was transformed into one of unbelievable beauty. The child's features became vibrant, warm, alive.
The woman's face was Karen's, nineteen-year-old Karen. The child's face was Karen's a Karen as she must have been at the age of two. The eyes of both were the eyes of Karen, eyes filled with evil, with clouds of swirling impurities. And with obscene omnipotent wisdom.
I yielded to the drag on my hand and knelt beside Karen below the picture.
And, beyond self-control, I joined Karen in the erotic ritual which glorified the Evil Boam.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I'm certain you have had the experience, Vance of sitting alone in a quiet spot and suddenly believing you have heard a voice speaking to you. Clear and real. And yet, being alone, you know it cannot be real. You put it down to imagination, day-dreaming.
And yet, Vance, you may actually have heard that voice. It may have been a voice from another world, another dimension, a voice from the past or the future. But, we, slaves to rationality, would never accept such reasoning. No. Imagination, that's it. It has to be, because our minds cannot conceive of anything else.
Therefore by such process of rational explanation I imagined all that transpired that night in Karen's room. The unfettered flow of philosophies, concepts, tenets. The sexually-oriented fantasies. The pathologic desires. The obscene and pornographic visions.
Oh, Vance, how I wish they had been but products of the imagination, phantasmagoria figments! What I experienced was beyond reason, beyond rational interpretation.
I was given a burden, a knowledge, that night, no human being should be asked to bear. I watched the black forces of evil clouding the minds of men, tainting their hearts, engulfing them in waves of greed, perversion, hatred. I saw the thoughts of mortals dripping with the poisons of ugly desires, producing unbelievable obscene reveries. I watched the wraith-like spirits of the damned wallowing in vile excrement which flowed and oozed, its stench nauseous and suffocating. I witnessed the eternal struggle between Evil and Purity, tearing, crushing, squeezing, moulding, shaping and re-shaping mortal souls.
My body knew an unquenchable desire, tormenting and consuming. As I knelt beside the squirming body of Karen, Daughter of Boam, my flesh stood swollen with perverse passion which manual stimulation brought almost to completion, but not to climax. With each threat of ejaculatory muscle contraction the desire would ebb slightly and then flow back to the brink of satisfaction. Back and forth the passion oscillated, bringing intense ache deep within me, unbearable craving for release.
How long, oh, how long did the torment continue? It could have been a minute or it could have been a week. I don't know. Time had no meaning. Time did not exist. All that existed was the pent up desires, the erotic fancies, the magnificent Boam and her daughter, the powers of darkness enfolding and caressing.
At last the omnipotent Boam released Karen and me from the demands of worship. Somehow I knew as I whipped my flesh toward its repeated peaking that this time I should find release in an exploding exudation. Vaguely I was aware of Karen beside me, her moans rising like a tortured animal, her hips flaying madly in the expectation of her own completion. Then it happened. The most intense orgasm I had ever known. It was as if an electric current had been discharged deep in my abdomen; a massive hand contracted to pulse out, in quantities beyond conception, my creative fluid. Together, Karen and I soared high on the arms of passion and floated down, down to the depths of oblivion.
We collapsed, our bodies crumbling into a grotesque mass of legs and arms, flesh moist with spent desire.
The rites had reached their conclusion. Boam and the child she held slowly dissolved into their original two-dimensional putrescence.
I know not how, or when I returned to my own bed, but it was there that I awakened the next morning. Strangely, but for irritated genital flesh, I was not adversely affected, physically, by the occult experience of the night before. Indeed, I felt unusually refreshed, rejuvenated, peculiarly exhilarated. If I had not permitted my mind to dwell upon the experience I might not have settled slowly into the depression which gripped me most of the day. I suffered from a mental dichotomy. One part of my mind accepted the inevitable domination, not only by Karen, but by Boam. In fact, that part recognized the delights that were promised by such entrapment. But the other part of my mind rejected the anticipated pleasures of acceptance. It warned Of the dire consequences of yielding to seduction by the Deity and her offspring. It fought against erotic fantasies by building barriers of deeply entrenched moral teachings, quotations, symbols of good, of right, of purity.
So intense waged the battle within me Karen was unable to penetrate. I did not write that day. Nor the next. I did not yield to Karen's attempts to embroil me in nocturnal rituals.
For a week I was idle, lethargic, only vaguely aware of the passage of time, sitting on the sidelines as the forces of Good and Evil fought within me. Then it was over. The dichotomy disappeared. Boam had won. I emerged as a disciple of the Deity of Eroticism.
Now I wrote. I did not care whether the inspirations came from Karen or from Boam herself; it was sufficient that I should produce effective propaganda in support of the spread of the Cause I had embraced.
An ancillary benefit of my espousement of the black religion was a significant upswing in my sexual powers, an increase in virility which all men dream of. Karen and I gave ourselves to worshipful orgies of sex, indulging in perversions that were foreign to me and that would have disgusted me had I not been possessed Boam.
You must realize, Vance, that Boam did not confer on me the powers Karen possessed. I am not aware of ever being able to transfer my thoughts into the mind of another person. Nor could I silently command obedience as Karen did. Boam did, however, give me an intensely keen sense of physical pleasure, far beyond any I had ever known. And she gave me a knowledge of the occult exceeding that of anyone who had not been converted to Boam's evil.
Of course, there were other converts!
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Gordon Sanderson's Scarboro apartment was a place compared with the Hempstead Heath quarters Karen and I had shared for almost two-and-a-half years. It was a two-story apartment, the striking feature of which was a large, domed room rising the full height of the two floors. It was designed as a library, but Karen saw immediately its potentialities as a temple for Boam. The large, cathedral windows of stained glass provided the religious atmosphere; all it lacked was a dais and an altar.
"Gregory, Boam will be pleased," Karen said as we stood admiring the lofty room. "We can conceal the picture at that end, behind drapes. And an altar. We must have an altar suitable to Her glory." She was ecstatic.
I was caught up in her fervor. "But it must be a special altar, Karen. It must portray the sexual powers She represents. But how? Where? It'll have to be made and I don't know anyone we can trust to make it for us."
Karen's face took on a mysterious look. "I do, Gregory. I'll call him and ask him to meet us here tomorrow."
"Who is it, Karen? I asked, my curiosity aroused.
"You've never met him. Howard Broxton. A parapsychologist at the University. And a Boam-ist!"
My face reflected my surprise.
"Did you think the Mighty Boam would be satisfied with just two disciples, Gregory? Not She; there are several of us. And Howard is one of Her most active. Very slowly, very quietly, he has built up a nucleus of followers at the University."
"Where did you meet him?"
"At Ralph Eden's reception, six months ago. Of course I knew him through Boam, long before that"
* * *
Howard Broxton had no such difficulty. He was inspired by the Forces of Darkness when he placed on paper the plans for the altar he would produce in his basement workshop.
The actual labor took all of Broxton's spare time over a period of six months. It was the spring following our move into the Scarboro apartment that the altar was ready to be installed and dedicated to the glory of Boam.
I must admit, Vance, I had no concept of the consecration service Karen and Broxton had evoked for the new temple. I imagined that he, Karen and I would kneel to the Diety, express our devotion in the usual ritual service of worship, and that would be that.
But no, Vance, the dedication would be much more elaborate.
The altar was transported from Broxton's residence at the University in a rough outer box, securely closed to avoid the prying eyes of the uninitiated. Broxton insisted on uncrating the altar in privacy; he wanted the full effect of its design to be saved for the dedication. Once unpacked, the altar was draped in heavy black velvet.
"We shall have an unveiling during the consecration service, Gregory," the parapsychologist said to me.
"Has a date been set, Howard?" I asked. We were now on a first-name basis.
"Well, old boy, I discussed that with Karen earlier and we have decided on Saturday, April 18. That is the anniversary of the day on which Karen's embryo was imbued with Boam's spirit. And, it being a Saturday, none of my coven has classes."
At nine that night the first guest arrived. Broxton, and a fellow professor at the University, Lenore Holden. Prof. Holden was a beautiful woman, young, about twenty-six. We hit it off immediately.
"Mr. Gregory," she said, her voice soft and musical, "how long have you been a disciple of Boam?"
"Under a year" I replied. "I was brought to understanding by Karen about seven months ago.
And you?"
"Just a year. Through Dr. Broxton. And the indescribable joys I've known since that fateful night." Her face glowed; she must have been thinking of the nights of worship she had known.
Then Howard Broxton moved to join us momentarily; "Ah, you two have met Splendid. May I suggest you drop the formalities. It's Gregory and Lenore. You two shall be partners during the service."
It was obvious that Lenore shared my ignorance of the ritual to follow in a couple of hours. However, I had no objection to sharing with this beautiful woman whatever erotic experiences might lay ahead.
Shortly after the arrival of Broxton and Lenore, the remainder of the converts began to join us. There were twenty-eight students in Broxton's University group. All of them were younger than I. And I noted there was an almost equal distribution of males and females. But the arrival of three older persons surprised me. Two of them I knew. Dr. Albert Spears and Gordon Sanderson. Of course I knew nothing about Spears beyond my brief encounter with him at the Ralph Eden reception. But Sanderson! I had seen him so many times, the most recent only a few weeks ago when we were arranging to sublet his apartment I could hardly believe that I should be kept ignorant of his conversion to Boamism. And
I had tried to warn him!
The third adult, a man of about forty, was introduced as Saxon Leigh. By occupation he was a press agent for a motion picture studio. I did not warm to him, finding him slightly effeminate and affected.
Lenore and I remained together for the social part of the evening, chatting easily about our past, about the people whom we knew attending the buffet dinner. But we avoided all reference to our conversion and our personal experiences associated with the rites of worship. But I found myself wondering what she looked like during her supplications to Boam, how she reacted when the Deity released her from the peaking but unsatiated desires.
Shortly before eleven, Karen, Howard Broxton and Sanderson disappeared into the room which would soon become the Temple of Boam.
At exactly eleven the rest of the faithful were summoned into the presence of the AU-Powerful, the Mighty Boam, the Deity of Eroticism.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"Followers of Boam, you are commanded to enter the presence of our Beloved Deity."
Karen's mental command knifed through the thoughts of each man and woman present. It would have been impossible to disobey. Each of us turned toward the closed door of the domed room, and, as if drawn by some invisible wire, moved in that direction.
"No one shall enter bearing the marks of the infidel. Disrobe."
Like automatons we paused at the door and began removing our clothing. I had questioned the purpose of the racks placed outside the room earlier in the day. Now I understood; they received our clothing. Under the influence of Karen's mind none of us felt any embarrassment in our nudity.
Lenore undressed beside me, slowly, deliberately, smiling as she noted my admiring observation. Hers was a body demanding admiration. Soft, curved, feminine. And I noticed her eyes taking in my own body, studying the rippling of my chest muscles, the flatness of my abdomen, the massiveness of my flesh even in its quiescent state. It was evident she shared my mental observation that we would make an admirable couple in Boam's ritual.
Automatically the Boamists paired up as they moved into the room. In a few cases it was female with female. I noted, with passing interest, that Saxon Leigh, the effeminate press agent, and Dr. Albert Spears, the student of dem-onology, entered together.
The only light in the room came from the two large candles but, strangely, the flickering flames provided sufficient illumination for each of us to see our fellow worshippers.
The force of Boam's presence was felt by each disciple as he entered. It struck us like a vibrant electric current, surging through us, arousing desire, stirring flesh toward engorgement. I could feel my own loins warming under the stimulation of erotic thoughts which began to swirl in my mind the moment I entered the temple-designate. Rapidly my flesh rose to throbbing tumescene, waiting, aching, desiring. Glancing sideways I observed Lenore's face glowing with mounting desire, the swelling of her cherry-red nipples, the slight movement of her hips as thighs compressed the lower flesh of her pelvis. Everywhere I looked I could see the same manifestations of arousal, of sexual excitation. Unconsciously hands groped to caress self and companion. I became aware of Lenore's hand grasping my engorged flesh, and my own stroking the fullness of her hips.
The worshippers arranged themselves, standing, around the dimly-lit room, facing toward the three naked people standing at one end of the room, near the draped altar and the concealed picture. Karen, Broxton and Sanderon. Boam's priestess and her two priests!
I recall that a part of my mind toyed briefly with the question of Sanderson's place in the hierarchy of Boamism. But the building passions soon drove the query from my mind. It was of no importance.
Karen turned to face us. Her magnificent body was a swirling scene of light and shadow in the dancing flame of the candles. Her legs were spread to accept the caress of her left hand; her right hand extended above her as if bestowing a blessing upon the congregation.
"Disciples of the Mighty Mother, Boam, Goddess of Evil, tonight we shall consecrate this, the first Temple to glorify the forces of our Beloved. And, as befits Her greatness, we shall dedicate to Her cause this altar. Cast yourselves down before Her Presence and pay homage."
As one we knelt as Broxton whipped away the black velvet drape which had hidden his creation. The massive carved block leapt into view, its erotic significance instantly apparent. It's top was flat and smooth but the sides visible to us portrayed in magnificently executed carvings myriad sexual activities; men and women locked in sexual embrace; sodomy, fellatio, cunnilingus, were all captured in life-like carving.
It was indeed an altar befitting Boam!
Karen and her two male associates intoned some strange incantation, Karen standing behind the altar each of the men standing at the sides. Their bodies, hands and faces reflected the sexual excitement with which they were seized.
Then Karen turned and undraped the obscene portrait which she and I had hung the night before. Immediately we were all seized with a new sexual frenzy. In that moment I was vaguely a-ware of Karen throwing herself upon the altar, the two men joining her in some perverse union. Almost immediately, however, all thought was obliterated by feeling, intense and over-powering. Lenore and I fell to the floor, locked in passionate embrace. Deep within her moistness I was trapped, my flesh aware of the pulsations of her desire, the ache in my loins almost unbearable.
Boam kept us writhing in the grip of desire, refusing us release though time and time again Lenore and I almost reached the pinnacle of fulfillment, only to be forced back to seek the heights again. The room was filled with the groans of aching desire.
Suddenly Boam released us. Simultaneously, the Deity's disciples soared upward to completion, all of us crying out in the intensity of our climaxes.
Silence fell upon the Temple of Boam. Except for the hoarse breathing of the participants in the consecration orgy.
Slowly awareness of the others crept into my thoughts I lay wrapped in Lenore's arms, feeling the gradual relaxation of my flesh within her warm body. Next to me lay Saxon Leigh and Albert Spears. Their worship had taken the form of male intercourse. Two young girls lay in the reverse position of cunnilingus.
Inch by inch, step by step, the sterile banner of White Robes' champion forced back the feculent form of Evil. They moved out of the swirling mists of the distance.
I fainted.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The human mind, Vance, is a battlefield upon which Good and Evil constantly war. But for most of us the struggle goes on below the level of consciousness. Conditioned as we are to follow certain moral teachings, we reach decisions which direct us in the pathway of Right.
But it is a frightening thing to witness the battles taking place before you, powerless to exercise any control, impotent to influence the outcome.
I can recall wondering, when I awakened the next morning, whether or not I was going insane. Whether or not these visions with which I was cursed were the forerunners of complete madness. Hallucinations signifying the destruction of mentality.
I opened my eyes. Karen, Broxton and Sanderson stood by my bed.
"I say, old boy," Broxton said brightly, "you had us frightened. Just couldn't seem to bring you 'round, you know."
"What happened?" I murmured, trying to recover the events of the night before. I remembered the orgy, the intense orgasm, awareness of the other couples locked in the exhaustion of post-climax relaxation. A vision of two gladiators. Then blackness.
Karen's face was darkened by some deep emotion. "Boam is displeased, Gregory. Another episode such as last night's and she will order your destruction. Please don't let that happen". She strode from the room.
Sanderson smiled down at me. "Don't mind her, Greg. She's concerned about you, that's all." He patted my arm and followed Karen out of my room. Broxton alone remained. He pulled up a chair and sat down.
"I say, Gregory, what seems to be the trouble ? "
"Howard, tell me. Do you ever have the feeling someone is fighting over you? Fighting to possess you?"
His brow crinkled into furrows of thought. "Well, I suppose something like that happened when I toyed with the thought of joining Boam-ism. Yes. Happened in a dream once following a . . . a session with Karen. But it didn't bother me. I made up my mind and that was it."
"My dream keeps coming back, Howard. I have no control over it."
When he spoke Broxton's voice was cold. "I suggest you exercise control over it, my boy. If you know what's good for you. Remember Karen's warning." He too left the room.
I sat up, swung my legs to the floor. For the first time since that first night of worship with Karen I did not experience the exhilaration, the buoyant spirits. I showered and dressed then wandered aimlessly downstairs. The apartment was deserted. Apparently Karen and the two men had gone out. I presumed the converts who had attended the consecration service had left immediately afterwards.
To the left the "Temple" door was closed. I walked over to it, opened it and entered the room. It was dark and quiet The air hung heavy with a perfume of sex, pungent and musky. I pulled back the drapes cloaking the cathedral windows letting the tinted light flow into the room. It was hard to believe that an orgy had been staged there almost twelve hours earlier. The only evidence, aside from the odor, were the scattered white stains dotting the black carpet. The altar, undraped, stood obscene and evil at the end of the room. The picture was again concealed behind the closed drapes.
Or so I thought!
I walked up to the altar to examine more closely the intricate carving. Then I noticed that the drapes behind which Karen and I had hung Boam's portrait lay against the wall. No telltale bulge. Curious I drew the drapes. The picture was not there!
Where could it be? I wondered. Who would have removed it? An hour passed before Karen returned to the apartment. She and Sanderson had had a luncheon meeting with Saxon Leigh to discuss recruitment at the motion picture studio. As soon as she entered I asked her about the missing picture. It was apparent from her reaction that she knew nothing about it.
I had never seen Karen seized by explosive anger before. She screamed wildly, invoking the curse of Boam upon the violator of the Temple's sanctity.
"I must have it back. I must" she shouted hysterically. "I am nothing without it." And she dashed into the temple-room. Then she called me.
I entered the room to find Karen madly drawing all of the drapes, plunging the room back into darkness. Then she lit the candles and tore off her clothes, beckoning me to do the same thing and join her at the altar. The gesture became a mental command. In a daze I obeyed and soon both of us lay naked upon the altar. Although the power of Boam was considerably less than it had been the night before probably because of the absence of the picture it was nonetheless sufficient to fill Karen and me with erotic excitement
Karen locked her body to mine and together we quickly soared to completion. This was not the delayed fulfillment of the normal ritual of worship, although the intensity of the climax was as great. For me it was simply the satisfying of sexual desire. But for Karen it was more; it was the tapping of a knowledgeable supernatural force. And as she arched against me in the throes of orgasm, she gasped out a name. "Lenore Hold-en."
For several minutes we lay quietly, un-speaking. But I sensed a building of emotional tension in Karen. Suddenly she tore herself from me and jumped to the floor. In the candlelight I could see the expression which twisted her face. It was ugly, hateful, evil.
"That sneaky bitch. Idolater." She whipped around to stare at me. "Did you know anything about this?"
I was dumbfound. "About what?"
"That Lenore Holden was a policewoman, an undercover agent gathering evidence about Boamism?"
"No," I protested. "I did not."
Karen relaxed slightly. "It was she who stole Boam's picture. And now she will pay. The wrath of my Mighty Mother shall be visited upon her."
Lenore, a spy! I couldn't believe it. She had entered into last night's ritual with such realism. And I had liked her. Should I warn her? I wondered if I could do it; after all my efforts to speak about Karen to Sanderson had failed.
My thoughts were read. "It won't work, Gregory," Karen said, her smile unpleasant. "You shall not speak with Lenore again. Even now she is doomed. Irretrievably." She pointed to the door. "Now leave me while I pray to Boam."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lenore Holden's body was still in the small English car when it was dragged from the Thames River. Following a lengthy investigation, Constable Holden's death was attributed to an accident of Providence. If the activities of the Boam cult was suspect, the police did not tip their hand. Of course, Vance, it was possible that Lenore had not filed any reports on her investigation so that her superiors would be unaware of the individuals to question. That is a speculation you would be in a position to verify, I am certain.
It had taken Karen less than forty-eight hours to carry out her threat against Lenore and to recover the picture. Howard Broxton delivered the picture the same day that the young woman's body was discovered. He, apparently, had taken it from Lenore's apartment. But I was not prepared for the revelation which was to follow.
I answered Broxton's knock when he arrived at the apartment with the recovered picture.
"Hello, old boy" he said as he swept through the door. "Mission accomplished. Jolly good show, eh what?" And he held up the securely wrapped picture.
"You recovered the picture, Howard," I murmured.
"Right, old sock. Although I must say, ditching the policeman was a bit of a sticky wicket. Really didn't you want to go under for me."
Karen's arrival in the foyer put an end to the conversation. "You talk too much, Howard," she snapped, making a slight gesture toward me with her head. "He didn't know about the disposal plans."
"Oh, I say, I am sorry dear girl. Dreadfully sorry." He rubbed his forehead with a worried motion.
"No harm done," Karen said, her voice softening, "he won't talk. He's even afraid to dream!" She took the picture and entered the "temple" alone. Broxton and I walked into the den for a Scotch-and-soda.
"Tell, me Howard," I ventured, after pouring us each a drink, "just what is the significance of that portrait? Where did it come from? And where does it get its power?"
Broxton sipped the Scotch appreciatively. "Very good, old boy, very good," he murmured. "What was that you asked? Oh, yes, the portrait. What can I tell you? First, where it came from. Knowing Karen as well as you do, I need not elaborate on her artistic talents. As I understand it, her affinity for oils developed at a very tender age. Four, I believe. And one of the first if not the first work she produced was the portrait of Boam and Daughter."
"At the age of four?" I exclaimed.
"Quite so, Gregory. Amazing, isn't it? But you must realize that the guiding force behind that work was the Omnipotent Boam. Karen was but the medium."
"Like my writing," I grunted.
Broxton heard me. "Ah, yes, Occult Visitation. And all the rest you have produced." His brow winkled. "Where was I? Oh, yes. The portrait. Of course Karen did not show it to anyone. Boam's power guided Karen in concealing the painting. The reason for that brings us to the second part of the explanation. The significance of the portrait.
"You see, old boy, Boam knew that power could flow through a representation of its source. If the Powerful Deity was to effectively reach a potential discipleship, what better way than through an icon.
"Boam had, indeed, reached out early in
Karen's embryonic stage to implant in the fetus the spark of life. Karen was, in effect, Boam's daughter. She was chosen to lead the crusade against Good, to propagate the teachings of the Deity of Eroticism." He smiled. "And I'd say she makes a charming priestess, Eh? What?"
I agreed. "But Karen indicated . . . and indeed I sensed it a couple of days ago . . . that she can communicate directly with Boam through the picture."
"Absolutely correct. In some mysterious fashion, the mechanism of which it is not ours to know, Karen can reach out telepathically to speak with her Mother. And the Mighty Boam responds. Without the picture some communication is difficult for both."
"But it worked. She received the information about Lenore Holden." I felt a pang of hurt as I mentioned the name of my partner of a few days ago.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Many years ago, Vance, when I lived with my parents in the Midwest, I used to pal around with a kid whose father was an Episcopalian minister. I used to be amazed at how little privacy the family had. Day and night, it seemed, parishioners would call at the manse. A sort of permanent Open Door Policy.
I was reminded of that often following the consecration of the Temple of Boam. Our door was now open to every convert who wished to worship at the feet of the Deity. I am surprised that the neighbors did not complain about the day-and-night traffic flowing to and from our apartment. Karen, of course, witnessing the furtherance of her crusade, was delighted. And she spent much of her time united with these Boamists in the rituals of supplication. I, too, was a frequent participant in these services of worship. But I was never at ease; the possibility of reappearance of White Robes and Black Robes while I was in the temple hung over me. The visions had returned several times while I slept, but, since Karen's warning, they fortunately did not invade my mind in her presence.
I can recall one close call, Vance. It happened one night when, strangely, Karen and I were the sole worshippers. At least for the moment. We lay atop the altar, locked in ritual love. The powers of Mighty Boam reached out to fill our writhing bodies with massive passion, un-sated and insatiable. In the midst of my desire I became vaguely aware of a third person in the temple. Saxon Leigh, the studio press agent. He was alone, an unusual situation. Normally he came to the temple in the company of Albert Spears, the demonologist.
Out of the corner of my fogged eye I saw him standing close to the altar, naked, inflamed with desire. His face was contorted with mad passion as he stared at my mounding hips heaving in search of release from the unbearable sexual tension which gripped my loins.
The command was simple, decisive. I do not know whether it came from Karen or Boam. It doesn't really matter. I was to accept Saxon Leigh while still engaged deep with Karen. It was a natural thing; after all, we were giving ourselves to the debauchery which the Deity represented and propagated.
Leigh must have been aware of the command, because he climbed upon me with a hoarse cry. I can recall the warmth of his body upon mine, the sudden tearing as his swollen flesh forced into me. And I accepted him, blinded by the powerful force of my perverted passion.
Seized by insane sexual excitement, the three of us thrashed in a primitive search for satisfaction. Vaguely I was aware of Karen climbing from one physical plateau to another; I felt Leigh's slight contractions as he almost peaked, only to slip back and reach upwards again. And deep within me I knew the maddening tingling as ejaculatory nerves cried out for relief.
Then, what maniacal passion consumed us as Boam finally released us from our worship and opened the flood gates of fulfillment. Karen's depths grasped in writhing completion; at the same moment I flooded deep within her warmth, the unseen hand within me squeezing out the last drop of my seminal fluid. Leigh matched us, pulsing madly, copiously into my body.
Then the slow detumescence, the relaxation, the exhaustion, the gradual ebbing of emotional involvement. It was then that I saw the swirling mists along the horizons of my mind threatening to clear the expose the eternal struggle. And with it a sickening sense of revulsion at the perversion to which I had been a party a few minutes earlier. The feeling of guilt grew as I felt Leigh's flesh restricting in its inevitable return to quiescence.
I fought the feeling, Vance; oh, how I fought it. I realized it would spell my doom.
Then Karen's voice, harsh and shrill, cut across the vision, shrouding the visions and the emotions. "Don't, Gregory. Give yourself completely to Boam. Or be destroyed."
Perhaps out of some perverse affection she may have had for me or out of the years we had spent together Karen saved me. I believe that, Vance. I know, with certainly, that she clouded the thoughts welling in my mind to protect me from the wrath of the evil goddess.
Like one in a trance I disengaged myself from the male and the female and climbed from the altar. The clouds lifted momentarily as a wave of nausea engulfed me at the sight of a small quantity of my seed mingling with that of Saxon Leigh.
I turned and staggered from the room.
Karen must have known the dangers I would be exposed to should I participate too frequently in the temple orgies for she stopped enticing me, or insisting that I join the other worshippers. My own rituals were limited to conventional sexual relations with Karen in the absence of other Boamists.
I was left alone much of the time, permitted to devote undisturbed hours at my typewriter. There could be no objections to that, Vance, because mine was an important function; the creation of deceitful propaganda.
The months slipped by with little to mark their passing except for the publishing of two more anthologies of my short stories, The Magic of Sex and Seekers Embraced. At the same time the Doctrines of Boam were being accepted by more and more people. Broxton's university group recruited an average of seven converts a month. The studio coven took hold and Saxon Leigh assumed a leading role in the Boamist movement.
Albert Spears, however, made a mistake. He disappeared from among the followers of Boam. And, like a few others, from the ranks of the living.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Albert Spears, unfortunately for him was a scientist first and a Boamist second. This meant that the inexplicable had to be explained. Mystery had to yield to solution. The unknown had to be known.
The powerful forces of Boam had to be uncovered, dissected, explained, revealed. Not in the interest of destructive exposure, but simply to satisfy the questioning mind of the scientist.
I believe, Vance, Spears felt he could find a sympathetic listener and, perhaps an associate, in me. It is possible he read into my writings a kindred interest.
Whatever the reason he dropped in to see me yesterday morning, to engage me in a serious discussion of Boamism.
The conversation started out simply enough, with Spears asking general questions about my earlier writings and their significance. I could now discuss the import of my stories intelligently. My conversion to the Boam cult made it possible for me to tap a superior source of knowledge.
"You'll no doubt recall our conversation during Ralph Eden's party, Mr. Scott," Spears said, channeling the discussion toward the subject which obviously was of primary interest to him.
"You mentioned the name of Boam at that time." I agreed.
"When did you first encounter the movement?"
"A long time after that evening, Dr. Spear." And I explained the circumstances.
"Ah . . . then it was not you who wrote Occult Visitation! Fascinating. Indeed, fascinating. Here we have evidence of telepathy either between two human minds or between one human mind and a supernatural force." He assumed a professional expression. "You know, Mr. Scott, you study the science of demonology you begin to accept the existence of powers beyond those that we can assess with our normal senses. But, such powers, frequently can be measured by scientific equipment. Because they must utilize known media to be effective in a mortal world."
He noticed my puzzlement. "It's not so strange, my dear sir. Our thought processes are the result of electro-chemical changes within the brain. Now, should you wish to impose some control over such processes, you must control the electro-chemical changes. Quite simple, you see.
"Now I suggest, Mr. Scott, that what transpires down there in the Temple of Boam indeed, what transpires within the minds of all Boamists, regardless of where they may be is the subtle imposition of thought control by the Deity of Eroticism. And I am convinced that the forces obtaining such control can be detected and measured by sensitive electroencephalographic equipment. Equipment which I have designed recently."
He hesitated for a moment, glancing around my study. When he spoke his voice was conspiratorial. "And, I believe, too, that I could cast up a radiation screen which would inhibit, if not completely repulse, such thought-control forces."
The man was mad! I was certain. Scientist he might be, but he must have been aware of the fate of those who had clashed with the wishes of Boam in the past.
"And you propose to try this?" I exclaimed?
He became thoughtful. "Ah, Mr. Scott, that is a most pertinent question. You see, I am not an absolute fool. The risks involved are monumental, I agree. But should I be successful in installing the equipment in the absence of both the picture and our charming Miss Karen Rowe I believe I would be able to circumvent the wrath of the Omnipotent Boam. And, perhaps prove that she is not omnipotent."
He stared at me for a long time. His next statement was almost a physical blow.
"Tell me, my dear Mr. Scott, are you rooting for the White Robes or the Black Robes?"
I could feel the blood drain from my face. I could not speak.
"That surprises you, doesn't it, Mr. Scott," he said, smiling. "Well, as a scientist I have made a few inquiries among our fellow Boamists. And a startlingly large number of them have reported strange dreams involving the two battling forces. And I must include myself in that number. My comment to you was but a shot in the dark. But I would infer from your expression that it did not go too far astray of its target.
"Down through the ages, since the beginning of man, Mr. Scott, the forces of Good and Evil have struggled for his soul. And I believe the unique visions each of us has experienced is simply our awareness of the intense battle waging between those two powers. Evil, in this case, is Boam. And perhaps She is the most powerful of the black forces because she appeals to the most base of our appetites Sex."
He leaned forward, staring into my eyes. "I say all this, Mr. Scott, to elicit your support for the experiment I wish to conduct downstairs. Here in your apartment."
He held up a hand as I opened my mouth to speak. "Before you answer, Mr. Scott, I need not warn you of the dangers involved, should you agree. But in the interest of science I intend to force your participation. Should you not agree I shall evoke in you the revulsions which will in turn bring forth the visions which will destroy you."
"How? You are aware of my own deviant sexual tendencies. I shall impose myself upon you in the Temple. And you will be compelled to obey. And my activities will not be those of our friend and fellow-follower's, Saxon Legh." He shaped his lips to form an "O". "You get my implications, I believe."
I swallowed hard. Either way I could see disaster ahead. "What do you expect of me?" I croaked.
Spears relaxed. "Ah, yes. Well my dear fellow all I required of you is removal of the portrait, the source of Boam's power, for about an hour. During that time I shall install my equipment. I can transport it here in a small suitcase. Once it is installed you will return the picture to its place behind the drapes. That is all I ask. The rest of the experiment I shall conduct alone. Agreed?"
I agreed, reluctantly, but aware of the consequences.
That, Vance, was the day before yesterday. The day before my birthday.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The rest of my story, Vance, covers the events of the past twelve hours. It is now eight o'clock in the evening, September third. It was eight o'clock this morning when I slipped into the Temple of Boam, into the atmosphere still thick with the lust of last night's orgies.
I was trembling from a dual fear . . . the wrath of the Deity and the possibility of discovery by Karen. But both fears were groundless. Karen was sound asleep upstairs; she seldom arose before noon. And for some unknown reason the portrait exuded none of its fearful forces. It hung lifeless and obscene behind the black drapes.
Quickly I lifted the picture from its hanger and almost ran from the room past the impatient Spears waiting beside his large suitcase in the foyer and up the stairs to my room. I slid the picture under my bed and dropped the dust curtain to conceal it. I was surprised to find that I was gasping madly for breath. I stood for a few moments until my breathing returned to normal. Then I began the longest wait in my life. One hour. Exactly. Spears and I had agreed that I should return the picture sixty minutes after its removal.
Finally the hour was up. Quickly I ran down the stairs with the ghastly portrait under my arm. When I entered the Temple I noticed Spears giving the final adjustment to some strange apparatus beyond the altar.
"Ah, Mr. Scott" he whispered. "Right on time. Now, if you'll just return the picture to its place behind the drapes I shall excuse you."
I did as I was instructed. Then I left the room. But, I'm afraid my curiosity was too overpowering. I slipped back into the Temple and stood quietly in the shadows at the end of the room furthest from the altar. Spears had turned on the electrical equipment so that it hummed quietly. It consisted of a small box-like control panel from which ran two sets of wires. One set was connected to a recording device consisting of a number of wiggling pens which drew queer lines on a slowly emerging strip of paper. It looked like the recording mechanism of a lie detector.
The other set of wires ran to a tall, narrow mesh screen which threw off a faint yellow glow. Thinking back to the discussion I had had with Spears the night before I could assign to the various pieces of equipment certain functions. The emerging strip of paper probably recorded thought-control impulses picked up by the tall screen. At the same time, if indeed the equipment was capable of emitting an inhibiting radiation the yellow glow bathing the screen would be such emissions. A sort of receiver-transmitter combined in one.
Spears threw a switch on the control box and the glow died instantly. He walked to the drapes and pulled them to expose the portrait I had just re-hung. Walking back to a point behind the screen he undressed, and, naked, turned to face the portrait. For almost a minute he stood staring at the picture, unmoving, silent.
Then, with a crackle, the several pens on the recording device danced wildly, streaking valleys and peaks of ink across the rolling sheet of graph paper. Spears face contorted in agony, his body shuddering, doubling over suddenly as if he had been struck in the stomach. He cried out and threw himself at the control box. The screen suddenly leapt into flowing life.
Spears must have lain immobile by the box for at least ten minutes. Then he stirred, rose to his knees, keeping the screen between him and the picture. Although he was white as a ghost the expression of pain had left his face. Indeed, it was replaced by a look of exaltation. It was apparent, Dr. Albert Spears, the scientist, had proved his theory. The radiation from his screen repelled the thought-control forces of Boam, the forces which only a few minutes before had slashed at Spears and had driven the recording pens into their wild dance.
"Ahhhhh," I heard him murmur. "She can be stopped. And White Robes can succeed."
It was then Spears made his mistake. He turned toward the control box, lost his balance and lurched from behind the protective screen. It was as if he had been struck by some powerful invisible hand. His body slammed back against the altar with such force his neck snapped. The sickening crack of breaking bone filled the room. Spears dropped lifeless to the Temple floor.
I don't know how long I stood staring at the picture and the equipment. The screen continued to flow benignly; the recorder pens, no longer receiving impulses, locked in one position, drawing straight lines along the slowly emerging paper. Spears body was hidden by the altar.
I had to do something. What? Mentally I calculated how many steps I would have to take to place my body so that it was protected by the screen. Then I would be able to approach the altar. Three long paces would do it. I took a deep breath and plunged forward.
In the eternity it took to cross the narrow gap I was lashed by vicious head-splitting forces; my mind knew turmoil beyond description. Currents of unimaginable hatred, contempt, and malevolence seared my soul.
Then an unbelievable peace embraced me. I was in the safety zone provided by Spears screen. Confidence filled me.
As I walked toward the altar keeping the screen between me and the picture visions of White Robes' champion routing the evil representative of Black Robes glided across my mind. For the first time in many years I felt clean, washed.
I knew what I had to do. To reach the screen I had to climb over the altar and down the other side. I disconnected the leads between the control box and the recorder. Then, picking up the box I shoved the screen forward until it stood touching the obscenity Karen had painted many years ago. Then I closed the drapes so that they covered both the picture and the protective screen. I tucked the control box out of sight beneath the folds of the drapes.
Now I was free to move about the room; Boam's power was contained. The recorder I concealed behind one of the window drapes and Spears body I placed behind the other.
I felt a twinge of sympathy for Albert Spears. He had known the taste of victory for such a short time.
Unfortunately he did not live to know how effective his equipment was to be.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I left the Temple shortly before noon. I was seized by a new resolve. Success begets success, I suppose. Boam was contained by Spears equipment. The High Priestess would have to be next.
There was a bounce in my step as I headed for the stairs leading to Karen's room. The sight of Broxton and Sanderson descending stopped me in my tracks. Both wore only bathrobes.
"I say, Gregory, good morning. You're about early, aren't you?" Broxton asked.
"I might say the same about you, Howard," I retorted. "Spend the night here?"
"Not a bit, old boy. Gordon and I paid an early call on our dear Karen. I say, she is a bit seedy this morning. Don't quite understand. Came over her all of a sudden as we . . . what should I say . . . practiced some Boamism." He smiled evilly.
"Isn't she well?" I asked.
"I'd say not." Sanderson spoke for the first time. "Started talking rather queerly a short time ago. Half-an-hour ago. You might drop in and see her. Howard and I shall be in the Temple."
My heart skipped a beat as they continued across the foyer. This I had not thought of. However, there was Karen waiting for me upstairs. First things first.
I took the stairs two at a time. As I approach Karen's room I could hear her calling.
"Gregory. Gregory, where are you?" It was like a child's plaintive cry.
I swung open her door. She lay naked on the bed, tossing and turning. Her face was flushed as if gripped by fever. I strode to her side, amazed that I could still be aroused by the beautiful body stretched out below me.
"What's wrong ? "I asked softly.
"I don't know. Oh, Gregory, I'm frightened. The things I've felt. Howard and Gordan just finished making love to me, and for the first time I felt a strange uneasiness. No, that's not the word. I felt revolted. And I mustn't. I can't." She grabbed my hand in a vise-like grip. "I am Boam's daughter. Do you hear? I am Boam's daughter."
She pulled me onto the bed. "Oh, Gregory, lie beside me." I started to stretch out as she had requested. "No, not like that. Take off your clothes. Please?"
I could not remember Karen asking me to do anything before. It had always been a command. And because it was a request, I complied.
As I lay beside her warm, feverish body, she placed a gentle hand on my cheek. "Gregory, please don't condemn me for the things I have done to you all these years. Those things I had to do. It was the life I had to lead." She rolled toward me, the fullness of her breasts brushing against my chest. "Please love me. Love me as a man loves a woman."
Vance, you must believe me when I say that I loved Karen at that moment with all my heart. Tenderly, for the first time, I took her into my arms and ran my hands over her magnificent body from top to bottom. She moaned softly, calling my name again and again, desperately searching for my lust hardened weapon.
Her rock-like nipples drilled into my chest as she rubbed herself up and down the length of me like a sex-crazed cat. Her nails cut into my back, pulling me closer, closer, deeper into the curve of her wanting body.
"Please, Gregory. I beg of you . . . make love to me . . . just this once!" I could resist no longer and, with a sob, took the object of my desire for so many years into my arms and showered her with kisses.
Arching beneath me, Karen spread her legs wide, wiggling her hips in the heat of desire. Her beautiful pussy was thus exposed to my searching eyes . . . but I need not have wondered . . . she was wet with anticipation of the thrills to come.
"Karen," I commanded her. "Open your eyes . . . look at me!" It was somehow extremely important, at that moment, that she be fully aware of the act she was about to perform. I would not let her drift into the far away world of primitive passion.
"Watch me," I urged her as my bullish organ began the long descent into her moist, wet tunnel. "Watch . . . this time I'm making love to you because you asked me, Karen!"
Against her will, Karen's eye traveled down to the joining of her thighs, opening wide as she watched me begin to penetrate her yawning vagina. Her nether lips almost seemed to suck my instrument in, pulling and clamping around the head of my rod with extraordinary muscular control.
Taking a deep breath, I hung suspended on my arms above the waiting girl for just a moment, savoring the unique delight of our union . . . of her asking, no . . . begging me for it and then I plunged in one mighty stroke deep into the tightness of her belly.
A low, long groan of delight escaped her lips. Her head snapped backward, her eyes searching for mine. She was surprised, I knew that she could enjoy my domination of her body . . . she, who had always been the leader in our sex interludes.
I didn't move for a long moment. I buried myself deeper into the core of her being and tightened the muscles at the base of my tool. The subtle movement deep within her vagina served to make her even hotter than before. It was not long before her own internal muscles began to match the stirrings of my own. It was time!
I grasped her long head of hair in one hand, using the other to maintain my balance and, pinning her head to the pillow, began a slow and sensuous stroking of her secret valley. Her eyes kept getting wider and wider as the pleasure of my thrusts grew to undreamed of heights. I could feel myself begin to swell to enormous size within her it was as if I could change her wicked, vile heritage if I could fill her with the pureness of our union.
Karen was now beyond control and her streamlined hips began to match the rhythm I had set. Suddenly, I stopped all movement and sat back on my haunches, my organ still buried deep within her pink and frothy opening. Slinging her legs over my shoulders, I pulled her up tight against my groin, allowing her weight to rest on her shoulders. She was extremely vulnerable at that moment, spread wide before my onslaught.
Thrusting one hand beneath the small of her delicate back, I began to move her up and down on my burning tool while at the same time using my free hand to caress her hot and throbbing love button. I could feel her exploding in a series of volcanic eruptions as the double teasing of my organ and fingers brought her off time and time again. She was now a mass of squirming, jelly-like lava, pouring forth an abundance of juice that threatened to drown my poor buried organ.
"Aaaa, Gregory! Why . . . didn't you tell . . . ooooh, me it could be this way. Yes, yes darling. There. Oh yes, rub me harder, pinch me, hurt me!"
She was insensible to her surroundings, babbling forth a string of love words I had often wished I could hear come from her lips. My wish, for once, had been granted.
"Harder," she urged me. "Ram it into me harder! I beg of you don't stop not yet!
Her frantic pleadings were beginning to have their desired effect and I could feel myself losing control. My body began a series of jabbing, thrusting strokes, slamming against her groin and backside with a resounding smack each time we made heated contact.
Faster and faster we moved, each straining up against the other, each trying to pull from each other the essence we knew lay buried deep within our bellies. The wet, smacking sounds of love resounded in the quiet room as Karen continued to explode in a series of never ending climaxes, pushing harder and faster to obtain the one ultimate orgasm that would leave her drained and spent.
I was of the same mind! It seemed as though we had been at each other for hours, yet each new thrust of my organ into her tightening vagina only served to excite me the more.
I closed my eyes and continued to pound at the beautiful flesh beneath me. And then she touched me, taking my jewels in one hand, rhythmically squeezing them until I knew I could contain my ejaculation not a moment longer.
Heavens fell upon my head as the liquid tribute to our passion spurted forth, bathing the walls of her quivering love cave with the steaming proof of my desire. It was exactly at that moment that I felt her arch one last time against me and give forth a deluge to match my own. We collapsed in each other's arms, my organ still buried within her, when I felt Karen stiffen beneath me, seeming almost to pull away from the circle of my embrace. I looked into her eyes, quickly, and saw again the evil that was hidden there. Giving me a defiant glance, she pushed me away from her.
"Boam. Dear Mother Boam. Forgive me. I could not find you before.
Then I knew. The screen had been found. The screen had been removed. Boam's power had been unleashed again. By Broxton and Sanderson.
And even as my flesh lay engaged in Karen's moist chasm, I strangled her.
Strangely, Vance, she did not struggle. The clouds which had swirled deep within her eyes a moment before vanished as my fingers pressed into her throat. I cannot bring myself to believe that what I saw take their place was love, adoration. No. Karen could not be capable of that
And so, Vance, six hours ago I destroyed Boam's greatest protagonist. Within minutes she was dead. It was only then that I withdrew from her.
Now the time has come, my unknown friend, to do what I must do.
I don't ask you to condone any of my actions, including this final one. But, as I said at the beginning, I hope you can understand why I have acted as I have.
I have always heard that the easiest way by which one may terminate his existence is to open the veins and permit life to drain out slowly. That is the method I have chosen. I shall open the large vein in my left arm my left arm, Vance, so that I may continue to keep the dictate button on this microphone depressed and talk with you as long as possible.
Click.
Back with the razor blade. God! How that vein stands out as I dangle my arm. I don't want it to be too quick: I want to savor the slow approach of death, the knowledge of final release.
Click.
The blood flows warm. Strangely, there was little pain when I opened that vein. I hope you will commend me on my neatness. The waste-paper basket makes a fitting container for my blood.
There's some humor in that. Here I am concerned about neatness and all the time there is the possibility that none of us will be found for a while. The result of an extended delay will be anything but neat.
I didn't tell you, did I, that I bolted the front door. The Temple is closed to worshippers for good. Click.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I'm sorry, Vance. I suddenly became very dizzy and had to stop talking. Where was I ? Oh, yes. I closed the Temple for good.
You see, when I had finished with Karen I went downstairs. From Karen's reaction during our love making I realized that Broxton and Sanderson had released Boam from the effects of Spears' shield. I don't know what I had in mind, but perhaps I thought that I could entrap the evil force.
It wasn't necessary.
The Temple was quiet and dark when I entered. A strange smell hung in the air: burnt flesh! Broxton was a charred mess beside the altar. Of course, you know that already. Sanderson you also know about. He's the one with the splinter of wood through his body.
Of course, I can only guess at what happened. I figure that Broxton discovered the shield and in his attempt to pull it away it toppled on him, electrocuting him. The toppling struck the altar, shattering its edge and lancing a long splinter into Sanderson's heart.
And that picture frame still hanging. I'm certain if you examine it closely you'll find traces of oil paint on the canvas. They'll match the blob of dried paint mounted on the floor below the picture. I don't know what power Spears' shield had beyond that of containing' Boam's force, but I suspect it could also destroy. And so it must end, Vance . . .
White Robes glow anew with the turning tide of victory. Their champion sweeps across the tract, destroying the ugly force which cringes in its own mire. But does the struggle end? Will that feculence again renew its power?
Is that a vacant seat I see? There in the front row of the arena? White Robe? Or Black Robe? Make way. I am coming to join you . . . Click.
