There’s Something Sinister In My Grandma’s Old House And Nobody Knows About It But Me

Loralei and I locked arms about halfway through the 20 minute walk to my grandma’s house. The touch of another felt so refreshing to my tortured body. I think it had been a couple months since I had enjoyed the true touch of another person.

I was a little bit scared of what Loralei might think when she came into my grandma’s old school house and saw all the quilts, glass elephants and family portraits from the 80s, but I figured if she was used to the scene we just ditched, she wouldn’t bat an eye. I let her in behind me. My brain raced with the usual fears you have when you have someone over unexpectedly. Did I flush the toilet? Is there porn pulled up on my laptop? Is my dirty underwear lying on the floor?

All my fears evaporated when Loralei grabbed me in the dark room and kissed me. She pulled me close and we stumbled over to the stale couch where she fell on top of me.

She covered my mouth and started unbuttoning her jacket. My heart began to race in a good way for the first time in quite a while. I started to take my clothes off while I admired Loralei. I was so excited I almost didn’t know what to do.

I think she could sense my nervousness. She leaned down, bare-chested and we made out for what seemed like quite a long time. It had been so long for me and I was so high I thought we might have made out for an hour when we finally pulled away from each and gasped for air. I smiled at her and tried to catch my breath.

I was going to say something sweet, but something I saw out of the corner of my eye caused me to bite upon my tongue and quiver in pain.

Sprinting down the hallway with a lit candlestick in hand was my ghost, her dark hair whipping in her front of her face in her full dash, her speed nearly extinguishing the candle in her hand.

“Holy shit,” I yelled out.

Loralei’s eyes transformed from sensual to horrified in a flash. I tried to scramble out from under her, but wasn’t fast enough.

The lighted candlestick flew into her head, fell down her jacket and landed on a quilt on the couch next to us, quickly igniting it.

“What the fuck?” Loralei screamed out.

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About the author

Jack Follman

Jack has written professionally as a journalist, fiction writer, and ghost writer. For more information, visit his website.

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