She melted.
He closed the door, and it was as if they tacitly agreed that they were closing the door on the outside world of fear and sadness that had sucked them into its vortex all day. Her handbag hit the floor, along with his keys, and then their jackets. She forgot that she had ever been angry, forgot whatever had come between them. The natural intimacy they shared came sweeping back with a vengeance.
He picked her up and started to carry her up the stairs.
He bumped into the wall.
She cracked her head and laughed.
He apologized, and she only laughed harder.
They made it to the second floor, to the bedroom. And then, in the combination of hot, wet kisses and clothes flying every which way, he came upon the skimpy skull underwear she had bought and decided it was sexy. He kissed her through the silk that barely covered her, and the feel of his mouth on her in such intimate ways through the fabric was incredibly sensual. She wanted desperately to return the erotic favor, and she explored his skin with her hands, her fingers stroking, and with her tongue. Then he spanned her waist with his hands, lifting her above him, holding her so that she met his eyes, and he groaned, a deep, husky sound that was nearly as arousing as his touch. He brought her down on the length of his erection with an earth-shattering slowness that drove her wild, and they tangled in the bedclothes. At first she was on top, but then he rolled her beneath him and thrust with a rhythm that made the room fade away. There was nothing left but his body, his breathing, his whispers, and the pressure of him inside her, until she shrieked with the violence of her climax and lay beneath him, heart shuddering as he came seconds later, then cradled her in his arms and slid to her side.
They lay there then in a silence that was precious to her, it was so natural. Then, as their damp bodies began to cool, they teased and laughed, trying to straighten out the covers, which had been left in absolute disarray, finally managing to snuggle together beneath them.
It had been a long day, a very long day, and there was no encore.
She didn’t remember trying to fall asleep, she simply was asleep, and at first it was deep and pleasant.
And then she was back in the cemetery, listening to a guide she couldn’t see talk about the witchcraft trials. He was talking about the way the convicted had been executed on Gallows Hill, explaining that none of them were buried here, in a cemetery for those who had died in God’s good graces.
But any cemetery harbored the dead.
And even if it was hallowed ground, the Devil could still sneak in.
And it was there.
The whisper, the shadow, the malice that had come through time to find her.
It was dark, for darkness was the Devil’s realm. And she knew it would claw its way free from the earth with skeletal fingers that dripped blood, but those fingers would not be the yellow-white of natural bone but dark, black and red, the colors of blood and death.
The others were still listening to the guide as he told them about the upcoming Harvest Festival, promised that there would be vendors out on the streets selling apples and cider and soup, dolls made from the corn husks and ceramics to dress a Thanksgiving table.
She still couldn’t see the guide, but she had to make people understand that they needed to get out. That he had led them there because he drew power from the dead and would use that power against them.
And then she saw him, the guide, the evil, the source of the danger. She couldn’t quite make out his face yet, but he was there, a dark figure of menace and malignancy. And…
She knew him.
She knew him, even though he was in costume. A turban around his head, a false mustache and goatee. Makeup accented his eyes, and…she knew he was wearing contact lenses to hide the color, but still, if she just looked closer, she would know….
She stepped forward and was greeted by the sound of laughter, his laughter, swelling in the air and drowning out everything else in the world.
He wanted her to come closer.
He had herded her toward the cemetery before….
And now he was in her dreams, beckoning to her.
She had to stop herself. As much as she wanted to know who he was, she had to stop herself.
She heard a chanting now, rising above the laughter.
“Don’t fear the Reaper
Just the Harvest Man.
When he steals a soul
It’s a keeper, so
Don’t fear the Reaper,
Fear the Harvest Man,
For when he steals a woman’s soul
She’ll go to hell or deeper….”
The other people were moving away, and he was coming toward her. The others didn’t know, she realized. They still thought this was all a performance, part of the festivities.
“Get out!” she cried. “Please, just go!”