Ghost Stories

Chapter 2: Mysteries and Riddles

When Harry Creek awoke the next morning he was a mess. His bedsheets were soaked with perspiration, the result, he was sure, of another night-sweat. He lifted his head from his pillow. His neck was stiff and sore, his throat parched. Rolling onto his side, Harry reached for the rocks glass on the nightstand. He raised the remains of last night’s vodka to his lips and drained the half-glass in one gulp. The alcohol burned his esophagus, making his body shudder and jolting him awake. Harry shook his head and ran his hands through his matted hair, curled and damp with sweat. He took a deep breath as he sat up and reached for his black horn-rimmed glasses. As his eyes adjusted to the morning sun coming through the blinds, Harry focused on the ceiling fan turning slowly above him. Out-of-balance, it rocked hypnotically. Falling back onto his pillow, Harry ran his hands over his tired body until his fingers found the stream of still- wet semen that ran from his stomach to its source. He didn’t remember masturbating last night, but then again, Harry didn’t remember much from last night. There were no torn foil condom wrappers strewn about...no lipstick stained high-ball glasses next to his own...no foreign cigarette butts crushed out in the ashtray. No, from all empirical evidence Harry had spent the night alone. Judging from the volume of ejaculate, Harry thought, it must have been one hell of a dream...

Blinking his eyes, Harry shook off the remaining fog and finally sat up. Swinging his legs over the bedside, he put his feet on the floor and stood. He walked to the bathroom without staggering, thanking whatever powers he didn’t believe in that the hang over wasn’t as bad as it could have been. He flipped on the fluorescent light over the vanity and winced as the flicker and pop strained his still-tired eyes. Harry walked across the cold tiles, pulled back the shower curtain, stepped into the tub, and turned on the water. Steam filled the room as he let the water run over his body, washing away the sleep and sweat and semen from the night before. Reaching his hand between his legs and taking hold of his penis, Harry steadied himself and urinated, emptying his bladder of last night’s anesthetic. Relieved, he put his head under the torrent and let some water fill his mouth, swishing it from side to side, and spit it down the drain. Harry began to turn his back to the shower but jumped when the hot water stung the flesh between his scapulae. From the rear of the tub, Harry adjusted the cold flow so that the water no longer scalded his skin. Leaning back under the shower he washed his hair and soaped his body. Sufficiently cleansed, Harry turned off the water, grabbed a heavy white bath sheet from the wall hanger, and dried himself.

Harry emerged from the steamy bathroom and walked back into his bedroom. He grabbed a pair of black knit boxer-briefs from the top drawer of his dresser and, bending at the waist, stepped into them, pulling them up over his thighs. From the next drawer down he grabbed a white crew neck undershirt and pulled it over his head. Turning to make his bed, Harry Creek stopped with a shudder. The white sheets on top of which he had slept the night before were streaked with blood, outlining the shape of his torso. He reached for the rocks-glass on the nightstand but it was empty. Turning away from the bed, Harry doubled over and vomited the liquid contents of stomach onto the wooden floor where he stood.