I hesitated. She got up from the bed and tugged on my hand, willing me to move forward. Maybe it was the knowledge that this was, in fact, happening in my dreamscape, but I allowed myself to be swayed by her disarming, unnamable traits. Something that reached past my panic and tugged at a quieter part of me.

  Slowly, reluctantly, I allowed her to pull me forward until I was perched on the edge of the bed beside her. Her palm settled over the back of my hand, thumb moving in gentle circles.

  “See?” she said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  My mouth was papery as I asked, “What do you want from me?”

  Her eyes searched mine, and for a moment, she seemed almost… wistful. “I want to show you what’s possible,” she said. “You gave that widower a night with his wife when he thought he’d lost her forever. But what’s more: you gave the dead a chance to live again. Think of what you could do. Think of who you could help. And fuck it, think of the money.”

  She reached up, her fingers brushing against my hair. I flinched but didn’t pull away. The gesture was surprisingly tender, almost affectionate. Her fingertips lingered, tucking a stray lock behind my ear.

  “You fucked a ghost once, right? You were being cagey about it, but I know you did. Why don’t you think of that? Imagine that memory. Picture what happened, but give it space to happen safely. Bring it here. Bring it to this room.”

  Amherst, Massachusetts

  Eight years ago

  Red brick, wood flooring, and the damp, musty scent of age permeated the building. I’d qualified for the housing assistance available to rent-controlled buildings, which was a godsend as a college student, and a nightmare when it came to the historic, soul-infested apartments available in New England.

  “What are you going to do with a history degree?” James said. He attempted to leaf through my book as he had many times prior, always surprised when his hand was unable to flip open the cover. His skin, once rich brown, was now a matte shade of gray.

  “I have deep genealogical ties to the area,” I said. “They’re mostly… unpleasant.”

  “You love history because you’re running from yours?” He prodded.

  “Something like that.” I tipped the brown glass bottle to my lips and drained the dredges of my beer. I fetched a third from the fridge as I evaded my studies, opting to get drunk with the spirits.

  “Leave her alone,” Daisy replied. She tilted her golden curls that had undoubtedly come from rollers, pouting what had once been full, red lips. “I think it’s great that so many women attend university now. You’re the new wave of feminism.”

  James abandoned the book. “Yeah, what she said. Thanks for letting us crash here, Lenora.”

  Crash here, I repeated to myself, certain my face was betraying my amusement. My apartment was haunted by a couple of lovebirds who’d fallen victim to a gas leak in 1961 while necking. Daisy’s spotted blouse would forever remain open, revealing a white, supportive bra. James’s belt would remain undone, hair askew, as they’d passed just before consummating their passion.

  “She keeps our place so nice, don’t you think?” Daisy sank onto the couch and extended her hand for me to mimic her movement. I liked them and was looking for a distraction from my schoolwork, so I complied.

  “How did you keep it?” I asked.

  James sidled over. “I owned this apartment for one thing only. Daisy and I needed a place to meet while I was in school, and she still lived with her parents.”

  “Oh,” I attempted to redirect the conversation into polite territory, but Daisy got the jump on me.

  “Well, we didn’t wear so much clothing,” she said, pawing at my top. They couldn’t touch me—not really—but I felt the weight of their intention like a firm hand running over me. I couldn’t help but wish that if there was a way for a ghost to kiss, to touch, to lick, to…well, it would be spectacular if they found it.

  Maybe it was the third beer, the high that came from living alone, or the recent A on a math final I was certain I was going to fail, but my entire body tingled when her spectral fingers brushed me. “You have such a beautiful figure, Lenora. Do you know that?”

  James leaned onto the armrest, attentive but not prying.

  “I’m all alone here with my tit half out,” Daisy continued, still running a silvery hand across my chest. “Let a girl see what you’re hiding under that top?”

  I tried to laugh it off, but James sunk onto the seat beside me. He ran a broad hand from my knee to my inner thigh. “You’re gorgeous, Lenora. Daisy and I talk about it all the time. We love sharing our home with someone so beautiful. We’d love to see you…happy.”

  Daisy’s voice dropped a register as she corrected, “We’d love to make you happy.”

  The pair exchanged a look. The room spun, and I knew it wasn’t the alcohol.

  “Why don’t you take this off, Lenora?” Daisy prodded, and for the first time in my life, I complied with the whims of a ghost. I unbuttoned my black silk top, revealing the lacy underwire of a cupped bra. I tossed the top to the side while James picked up where his partner had left off. The tingle followed his hand as it ran from my jaw to my sternum, to my belly button, to the space between my legs.

  James looked at me like I was something to eat. “Your clothes look awfully uncomfortable. They cut into that milky skin of yours. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable without them?”

  “Please, Lenora,” Daisy said breathlessly.

  Something about the prospect of her pleasure knocked me from the pedestal of the living. I was simultaneously alone in my apartment, fully within my rights to undress as I please, and also in the company of a devastatingly attractive couple, salivating for my body. Perhaps it was the knowledge that their satisfaction hinged on my carnal pleasure, that whatever release they craved, I knew they couldn’t achieve it without me.

  I unsnapped my pants. The moment I began to shimmy them down over my hips, Daisy lunged for my throat, dragging tingly kisses from my neck to my collarbone. James’s hand followed mine, doing his best to help me wriggle off the pants, though his lips went to his partner. I kicked the pants to the middle of the room, revealing my pale skin, unobstructed. Daisy broke free from my throat to lock lips with her boyfriend, gasping for breath long enough to offer a question.

  Her eyes remained on James as she asked, “Those soft tits, Lenora… how do they feel?”

  I struggled to catch my breath. The pulse between my legs throbbed. My mind twirled. My eyes remained trained on the devastatingly attractive pair as my hand ran up over my chest.

  “Warm.” I stumbled over my words. “My nipples are hard. My breast fills my hand perfectly. I…” I squeezed it in my palm, back arching as I savored the feeling.

  “I can hardly see them through that bra,” she said. “Take it off and show me those gorgeous naturals.”

  I heated under the weight of her gaze, then melted at the small sound she made as I unhooked my bra.

  “Fuck, those are perfect. What I would give to pop a nipple in my mouth. I’d kiss, and suck, and caress…” Her voice drifted as she touched her own chest, rolling in pleasure as I mirrored her touch for touch.

  “And those panties…” James continued, dragging his thumb along Daisy’s jaw, lost in her gaze. “No, no, don’t reach inside just yet. Take your fingertips and graze over the top of the fabric. Feel along the length. Good, good. Now, make slow, intentional circles with your fingertips. Tease that clit for me.”

  My eyes fluttered shut as I sank into the sensation. One hand kneading my breast, one working my pussy, two perfect beings cooing and urging me every step of the way.

  “Describe what it’s like when you reach between those legs.”

  I complied both with compulsion and desire. I slipped my fingers beneath the black lace of my thong, feeling the hot skin along my lips, testing the warm, slick evidence of my arousal. “I’m soaked,” I gasped.

  “Slip a finger in,” Daisy urged, one hand on me, one hand on her partner.

  “Make it three,” James urged.

  “There you go,” Daisy encouraged. “Lay your head back. Keep your eyes closed. Let yourself feel.”

  “In and out. Back and forth. Keep the pace. That a girl.” James practically growled his delight.

  Drenched, aching, dizzy, and full, I came harder than I’d ever come that night.

  Naked, writhing, surrounded by two horny spirits, I understood at last why I’d never been satisfied by sex with the living.

  I had one foot in the grave, after all. And nothing had ever made me feel so alive.

  “You did it, didn’t you?” Cora asked. “You saw what this room could be. How magical it feels to be with a ghost.”

  I swallowed, but the knot stuck in my throat. The memory was the height of my sexual adventures. It wasn’t quite the lurid, physical fucking Cora seemed to imply when she referenced intimacy with the dead, but I knew there was no passion like the souls of humans with nothing to lose.

  “You don’t have to be afraid,” Cora smiled. “Think of what we can do. Think of what we could accomplish.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Right now? You just have to wake up.”

  Her lips brushed against mine, soft and fleeting, like the touch of a butterfly’s wing. My breath caught, the world tilting on its axis. For a moment, everything else fell away—the room, the bricked windows, the rising panic. The frost on her tongue worked its way down my throat as she tasted me, and despite myself, I kissed her back. I leaned into the embrace, running my hand up her arm, caught in the mindless aphrodisiac of the perfect, terrible room.

  Then, like a gust of wind scattering leaves, the dream dissolved.

  I woke with a jolt, my heart racing. My room—my real room—was bathed in the pale gray of dawn. The bed was stiff and uncomfortable once more. The sheets were the same threadbare set I’d plucked from the shelf a decade prior. My lips still tingled from the kiss she’d left. And I was alone.

  For the moment, the only ghosts were in my mind.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE GHOSTS SPEAK

  Coraline Winters

  The museum was a different kind of haunting at daybreak. Before the first footsteps of visitors or the soft hum of Lennie’s coffee maker upstairs, it felt less like a house of artifacts and more like a mausoleum. Shadows stretched long and eerie across the hardwood floors, and the glass cases caught the weak, amber light of dawn, throwing it into fractured patterns. I wandered the corridors slowly, letting the quiet settle over me like a shroud.

  I’d been dead for hundreds of years, but the chest that had once been an heirloom, treasured in parlors and studies, more recently stored in dusty attics, was making me feel like a true ghost. I’d been mind-numbingly bored for the better half of my death, save for the windows of stolen joy when I’d shoved my way into a living body. But now? A collection filled with haunted items was the strange sort of community I’d never hoped to find.

  Above, I could hear Lennie stirring. A floorboard creaked; a door clicked softly shut. She was awake. I smirked to myself, imagining her groggy and annoyed that her new housemate had likely disturbed her sleep. Good. I was enjoying keeping her on her toes.

  Near the corner where the displays of antiquated toys lived, I caught a giggle. A soft, tinkling sound that floated on the air like the song of a bell. I turned and spotted the doe-wide eyes and long lashes of a little girl. She couldn’t have been more than seven when she—well, when she stopped aging. Her damp curls dripped onto the hardwood floor; her frilly dress permanently soaked in a way that denoted her death. Her translucent hands clutched a tiny music box, and she stared up at me with wide, curious eyes.

  “Can I show you something?” she asked.

  “Let’s hear it,” I said, crouching down to her level. She turned the crank, and the music box emitted a thin, tinny melody. She danced, twirling slowly, her soggy gown floating around her spectral legs. It was both beautiful and sad, the way she tried to find joy in something so small.

  “You’re good at that,” I said, nodding at her delicate movements.

  “Thank you,” she replied with a little bow. “Can you do any tricks?”

  I grinned. “Watch this,” I said, plucking a doll from the wall and setting it beside the little girl’s music box.

  Her eyes bulged. “How did you do that!”

  “Lennie isn’t the only witch around,” I said. “Though let’s keep that piece of information between the two of us, alright?”

  “Alright,” she nodded. “Will you be around often?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And what of the humans? Are the living here often? Aside from museum guests, that is.”

  The young girl considered the question, tiny toes wiggling. “Aside from Miss Lenora? Dev is here most. I think she likes him.”

  My mood soured. “How much does she like him?”

  The girl shrugged. “He never stays long. What about you? Will you stay and play?”

  “Maybe another time,” I said. She pouted, but only for a moment before vanishing in a swirl of faint light. I wondered where she went when she left the museum. Were there other children with whom she could play? Was she caught in a memory loop of happy days before she’d drowned? I supposed if I spent long enough in the museum, I’d have the answer.

  The atmosphere shifted as I continued through the museum. The strong, pickled odor of death emanated from a glass display case. The air took on a greenish hue as I approached the small black apron, unrolled to display antique bottles and tools. The space itself braced for the unsettling presence that populated the moment I got too close.

  “Behold, the new arrival,” came a low, guttural voice, thick with a Russian accent. “You are not dressed properly at all. Your hair should be braided and pinned. Beet juice would give those cheeks a nice rouge.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the man. “Let me guess. You’re the mortician who played with corpses like they were his dolls? I read your placard. Not very flattering.”

  “Grigori, at your pleasure,” the man said. His bloodstained apron was smeared with grime, even in death. His pale, waxy skin was stretched taut over his face, and his beady eyes sparkled with unsettling amusement. “That mouth will not be so unpleasant when we sew it shut.”

  “Fuck off.” I glared.

  “Walking, watching, plotting… You and I, we are the same, I think.”

  “We’re nothing alike,” I said, stepping past him. He trailed after me, his heavy boots echoing on the floor.

  “You wound me, Coraline. Truly. I only wish to be friends. Perhaps you would join me for tea?”

  Clearly, I was not poised to get along with all my new neighbors. If this creep didn’t leave me alone, I’d make banishing him my first order of business. I told him so.

  His expression darkened, but only for a moment. Then he chuckled, a sound like gravel scraping in his throat. “You will need me. One day. You will see.”

  He disappeared before I could respond, leaving a faint, acrid scent in his wake. I exhaled sharply and continued my path through the museum until I reached my chest. The sight of it always stopped me in my tracks. The stag’s horns remained notched in the open position that had led to my freedom. The others—the bear, the wolf, and the mountain lion—remained in their pristine, locked state.

  Bile rose in the back of my throat at the memories that assaulted me as I surveyed the chest. The four of us fleeing Salem, our coven bound by desperation and a fragile hope. We’d found refuge in Providence, but safety was an illusion. The witch hunts followed us in whispers and shadows. We’d made a soul pact—a pact that had led to this.

  Three hundred and thirty-some years later, I was back in enemy territory.

  “Coraline,” came a snaking female voice from within the chest. “Let us out.”

  I ignored the voice my throat tightening. Another added to the plea. The voices overlapped, growing louder, pleading, demanding. I pressed my palms against the lid as if that could silence them.

  “You can’t keep us trapped forever.”

  The sound of Lennie’s footsteps on the stairs jolted me from their threats. She appeared at the bottom, her hair slightly disheveled and her expression skeptical. Her eyes darted to the chest, then back to me.

  “Hi!” I said brightly, stepping in front of the chest as if my nightgown would block sight of it. “How’d you sleep? Any interesting dreams?”

  Lennie’s hands went to her hips, and she narrowed her eyes. “If you do that again, I’m going to trap you back in your chest and rearrange that stag back where it belongs. From now on, I’m wearing onyx to sleep.” She tapped the black crystal around her neck.

  “Ah, come on, Lennie,” I teased, leaning backward onto the chest as casually as I could. “You can trust me.”

  She chewed her lip. “What’s in there, anyway?”

  I shrugged. “Smallpox blankets, mostly.”

  Lennie’s eyes narrowed. “That’s deeply unfunny. Smallpox murdered millions of Indigenous people.”

  “And it will murder a gothic medium and her handsome, dark-haired suitor if you open the chest. But, hey, then your soul can be with me forever. Maybe that would be nice.”

  “I’ll pass,” she said, turning away from the chest. I hoped she didn’t see my relieved exhale.

  I changed the subject. “I just want to help you. In fact, I thought of some ideas to scale your business. We just have to get the word out about your new service.”

  Lennie snorted and pulled out her phone, holding it up for me to see. The screen was filled with notifications. “Ted seems to have done it for us. Three former clients messaged me in the night asking when they could schedule a new séance. I just don’t know if I’m comfortable hosting an undead sex party.”

  “You don’t want to be the Madame of a ghost brothel? That’s not very open-minded of you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I just don’t know how I feel about the ethics of using my energy to let people fuck.”

 

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