GATEWAY 2: JACOB

CHAPTER 2: JACOB

If that appearance I encountered in the hallway was what scared the other buyers of the house off over the years, it had a different effect on me. Could it have been the wine? Or, was it my already peaked arousal? Or, could it merely have been that in the short time since my arrival I had committed to new experiences and opportunities for both my personal and professional lives? Whatever I saw, it had quite an effect on me.

After the apparition disappeared, I continued to my bedroom, turned off the hall light but stood there. I turned on the hall light, again, and checked the hall. It was, of course, empty. I closed my bedroom door for perhaps the first time since moving in. Even lying in bed, I gave a nervous giggle at the idea. Did I think a closed door would stop an apparition … a spirit … a ghost? I lay on top of the sheet, still naked, a comfortable buzz in my head from the wine, a warm hum still flowing throughout my body. It wasn’t my imagination, I was flushed. Did I believe I saw that in the hall? Did I think it was real? I didn’t know what to think, but my fingers weren’t being limited by what I might think. My fingers were rolling and teasing my nipples, my other hand and fingers stroking lightly over my stomach, abdomen, and down over my pussy. My legs opened, knees raised and splayed to the sides. The light from the moon and stars sent shadows through the French door with the softly moving sheer curtains. I wondered if the shadows were him. Him? Shadow? My mind flashes to the shadow that passed before the mirror when … when … when I teased, taunted, and pleasured myself. My God … was the shadow him? Had he watched me? The voice I heard in my head, that deeper voice … was that him? Who was him? My eyes searched as the shadows moved but my fingers continued my light arousal. Why didn’t the appearance, the thought of the apparition, scare me? Instead, the idea of the apparition suggested a reason for the feeling I had always had about the house, the feeling that the house had an energy, an energy that seemed to feed me and fuel me.

So, with my mind pulling forward what I had seen, or thought I had seen, in the hallway moments before, I brazenly, greedily probed my pussy with two fingers as my other hand twisted, pulled, and pinched my erect nipples. And, it felt so brazen … so exhibitionistic … so lewd. Was I displaying myself to him … to it? Was I flaunting my need? This time I didn’t look in the mirror for an exhibitionistic feeling. This time I imagined him.

* * * *

As I entered Book Space, Marge’s bookstore and sometime realty office, the bell attached to the top of the frame dinged as the door opened and again when it closed. There were three other women in the shop, all middle-aged or older. Marge turned from one of the women, a bright smile coming over her face at seeing me.

“Ladies,” she said to the others in the store, “I know you gossips have heard someone has purchased Gateway House. Ladies,” she moved to me and took my arm in hers as the other women gathered in front, “this is Lexy Dorman, our new town celebrity.”

One of the women gasped. She was maybe a bit too old for the makeup and hairstyling and a couple buttons too many opened on her blouse for her weight but was clearly her accepted image. “THE Lexy Dorman?”

The other women gathered closer, their collective eyes moving from Marge to me and back to Marge for the answer they all seemed very intent on hearing. Marge patted my arm and her face glowed with the apparent honor of being the first in the community to appear to be my friend. “YES! THAT Lexy Dorman. And, NOW she’s living right HERE!”

It was almost embarrassing … almost. I smiled until I thought my face might start hurting. They fawned about my books, how much they all loved them, even the last two. They all seemed in agreement that they were not up to my standard but weren’t as bad as the reviewers said. I had apparently moved into a hot-bed of my fans. So, I gushed back to them.

“You are so nice.” I paused to appear that a thought just came to me, “Since we’re going to be such friends, I’m sure you have ideas for me …” They all nodded excitedly. “Ohhhh, I know … what do you think about maybe being written into a scene of a book? You know … a full de***********ion of yourself, even you name, if you want?” Oh, that hit the spot. I’d never done anything like that but this was a small town and fitting in was going to be different than the anonymity of the big city.

Finally, I took my opportunity. “Can I steal Marge away for a few moments?”

Marge was puzzled, then worried. She led me into the back where she had her office that obviously shared function for both the bookstore and her few realty listings.

“Did something happen?” After closing the door and we both sat, her behind her desk and me in a visitor chair in front, she nervously blurted it out. “Did something happen in the house to you, too? You aren’t wanting to back out of it, are you?”

I chuckled to reassure her. “No, no … I love the house. I love the peace, the views, I even love the way it creaks and talks in the wind. The sounds remind me of my grandparents’ house on the farm.” She leaned back into her chair relieved. I smiled at her. “I want to know more about Gateway. I know it’s old … back to the mid-1800’s … but who built it, who lived there, what was it for? I mean, a house like that in the middle of nothing else like it? There is no indication of a big, sprawling farm, orchard, or vineyard.”

Marge rose, turned to her 4-drawer file cabinet, and pulled out a file pocket. She cleared off space on her desk and started pulling documents, clippings, and pictures out. The original owner was Jonathan Hardaway. He was a sociology professor from back east and had been teaching at the University of California for some years. He had been caught by the diversity of people in the region and the lack of opportunity for some. He had an idea that received little acceptance so he put his idea into action. He believed that people weren’t limited by what family they were born into or the economic condition they were brought up in. It was an idea that wouldn’t get serious consideration for generations. To prove his point, he used up all his savings and inherited wealth to move and build an estate. The grounds included the house, the only piece still remaining, a dormitory, barn, and shop building. The dormitory would house up to a dozen young men. The other buildings and the house would be classroom and skills training. Each young man would go through aptitude testing and then focused skill training. At the end, there were 10 young men.

“The end? When was that?”

A sad sigh escaped from Marge. She dug through her files and notes. “Less than a year.”

“A year?” Why so short, I wondered. “Did the locals object? Was he driven out? What happened?”

“There’s some notes in journals I’ve recovered that indicate Gateway was received with mixed feelings. Remember it was an even smaller town back then. Some didn’t like the intrusion of suddenly having about a dozen young men of mixed heritage brought into the area. Some, though, saw it as a potential source of labor and skilled tradesmen, if Hardaway was successful. No … fire. Accounts and journals indicate that it was horrible.” She stopped as if she didn’t want to say more.

“How many?”

She sighed, “All.” She glanced up at me, “All the young men died. Documents point to the boiler of the furnace in the dormitory. It was a particularly cold night … the thought was that the furnace had been stoked too high, it ruptured sometime during the night, fire spread quickly in the wood structure … the boys … they were trapped. Some were found in the remains still in their beds.”

I stared at a blemish on the desktop. It was unimportant but something to hold my eyes rather than Marge’s eyes. “It moved that fast?” I finally looked up, “How many at the end? What kind of boys were there?”

She shrugged, “Who knows for sure. Indications are between 10 and 12. There were notes that he had a mix for his study: white, black, Hispanic.” She looked up at me, her brows squeezed together showing puzzlement. “Why the sudden curiosity about this? Again, did something happen?”

I leaned back into the chair, again. Yes, I saw a young black man in my house last night as I strolled around naked. No, I don’t think so. I met her eyes with a reassuring smile. “No, just interest. The house shows obvious style and character. It had to have been designed and commissioned by someone with something in mind. I already feel a connection with the house.” Is it possible what I saw last night was real? Are such things real? Are they especially so where there is a concentration of tragedy? It is said that battlefields can have an energy … like Gettysburg. Is that what I experienced? I stood and took her offered hand in mine. “Thanks, Marge. I might want to work the house into a book. Kind of a period piece. Would you mind helping me with background?” She, of course jumped at the idea.

As I touched the door knob, though, I stopped and considered another thought. I turned back to her. “Marge, did you find any record of what became of Professor Hardaway?”

“Yes, I did.” She moved a couple of the spread-out documents. She picked up what she was looking for. “It was reported locally that about 5 years after the tragedy he was committed to a mental hospital down in Sacramento. It was the closest hospital of its kind. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

* * * *

All day and into the early evening, I looked for signs, both listening and watching. I had only noticed the apparition once in the hallway. Or, was it only once as I remember the shadow in my bedroom? My God, the fire had consumed 10 to 12 young men. On this property. I stayed busy with my normal activities and routine. Nothing happened. Of course, I had been in the house for weeks before last night happened. Maybe it was a one-time thing. Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe I was just losing it with all this quiet and solitude. Maybe wine and orgasms caused it. I shook my head feeling silly. I perused my latest ***********ion of local wines, ***********ed a Merlot from a vineyard just to the east, opened it to breath, and went upstairs to change. If nothing is going to happen, I may as well stay with my routine.

In the bedroom, I turned on the light in the closet, kicked off my sandals, pushed the shorts down my legs, and pulled the t-shirt up my body and over my head. I stood looking in the mirror at the other end of the closet (yes, there, too … I like mirrors). I smiled but it came out a bit sad. I still have a great body. I could still attract men. After all these years of blaming all men for the one who betrayed me, wouldn’t it be nice to feel a man between my legs pressing into my pussy? My toys and fingers have been good, but … I shake my head vigorously. I *********** a baby-doll negligee with thong panty. It’s a light red and very sheer. The thong is so sheer my shaved pussy slit is visible. As I tie the single fastening bow below my breasts, my nipples are clear. The hem falls to my butt without completely covering it and the part in front leaves the thong exposed. I raise a hand to cup a breast. Maybe the men here are different. I sigh and return downstairs barefoot to the wine.

The stairway is off the entry. With lights blazing in the house, I have a thrill as I pass the open front door and the window with curtains open. It isn’t really so risky, though. I could reasonably move around naked all day for the likelihood of being seen but evening is my time to fully relax, to read, or to muse.

I fill the glass, much more than the normal serving size, return the cork to the bottle, and exit the kitchen. I move into the room I use as a library which is cluttered with fiction, non-fiction, and of course my books along with various magazines. This room is where I can be diverted by any number of subjects. I keep my work-space upstairs spartan to focus my mind and organize my thoughts while writing. Now, though, I ignore all the books and magazines. I want to go about my new life but last night and what I learned today from Marge fill my mind. I am filled with mixed feelings and filled is a good concept of it. I cannot settle, relax, empty my mind, which is my intention at this point in the evening. Even if my intention is to use the wine as a slight buzz to settle me for sleep or to explore my body with fingers or toys, to bring the feeling of euphoric pleasure, it is to leave behind the other things of the day. It isn’t going to be so easy tonight. I feel consumed, burdened by what I have learned.

The switch at the door turns on only two floor lamps. It provides a soothing, subdued atmosphere for reading or getting lost in thought. A second switch turns on focused strip lighting for searching the shelves. I am standing at the window which overlooks the grounds to the north of the house and only then does Marge’s more detailed comments about the property sink in … the dormitory and other attached buildings were right there.

I turn and look, searching really, around the room. If I am not losing my mind, what was it about last night that brought the apparition out?