The Haunted Caretaker Read online

  The Haunted Caretaker

  By Gordon Phillips

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 Gordon Phillips

  ISBN 9781634867689

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission from the publisher, with the exception of excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  To Harold.

  * * * *

  The Haunted Caretaker

  By Gordon Phillips

  Chapter 1: Washout

  Chapter 2: The Cottage

  Chapter 3: The Trunk

  Chapter 4: Sunlight

  Chapter 5: The Big House

  Chapter 6: Caretaker

  Chapter 7: Hank

  Chapter 8: About Henry

  Chapter 9: Presence

  Chapter 10: Companions

  Chapter 11: A Confession

  Chapter 12: Revelation

  Chapter 1: Washout

  It was a dark and stormy night. Rain slashed against the windshield and lightning flashed, so that I had difficulty seeing the road. On top of that I was haunted, not only by the growing conviction that the road itself was wrong, that I had made a wrong turn some miles back, but by the memory of the incident that had been the cause of my making that wrong turn.

  I had stopped at a General Store situated where the road branched, to get directions. But then fortune, it seemed, had intervened. The guy being served at the cash register had been one of those big, naturally-built men who give off an air of virility. He was wearing a red checked jacket, and, I let my eye travel down his impressive form until—oh my God! The world’s most perfect ass, encased in jeans that might have been sprayed on, for they hid nothing.

  I felt like I’d been hit by a brick. Truly. I stared—my gaze fairly riveted, my mind in turmoil, my blood pounding. There was a moment of mortification, for I never like embarrassing anyone, and I looked quickly around. But there was no one else in the store, so I returned gratefully to my staring, deliberately savoring every moment of the incredible view. They were perfectly round, not too prominent but still—distinctly provocative in their masculine pertness.

  The shape, my mind kept exclaiming, the shape of those exquisitely beautiful, twin perfect curves! All I wanted was to stare.

  But then, all too soon, the owner of the ass finished his business and headed for the door. My gaze followed automatically, and now I got a breathless view of that ass in motion and in profile! I had the momentary impression the guy gave me a glance as he passed, but since I was not looking at his face I wasn’t sure. And then he was out the door, and it closed behind him.

  I turned to face the clerk, my face burning, my blood pounding, my brain in total confusion—and, to cap it all, sporting an almost painful woody in my pants.

  Thankfully, the clerk did not seem to notice my state. He gave me a casual nod and said conversationally, “Big storm comin’.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  He nodded, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. My mind was still whirling. I had no idea why I had come into the store, my only coherent thought being that of getting out there so that I might see Mr. Perfect Ass one more time. In desperation, when I noticed the cigarettes on display I asked for a pack, and matches. Then I flung the money on the counter, grabbed the items as they were handed to me, and almost ran for the door.

  But the man was gone.

  I felt deflated, heartbroken, bereft. Then came a growl of thunder and I looked up into the darkly clouded evening sky. Storm comin’, I thought. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing mattered now, in my empty state.

  Almost without thought I lit a cigarette and wandered back to my car. I was several miles down the left-hand road when I came to myself sufficiently to remember why I had gone into that store.

  Damn! I thought. But still I couldn’t get exorcised about it, for the central aspect of my being now was the image from the store of the World’s Perfect Ass; the image kept rising before my mind, intoxicating and maddening, for the memory was less clear than the experience itself.

  Full night had now descended, and with it the fury of the storm. And, as difficult as driving became, still the image of that ass returned to haunt me, so that I drove in a distracted state, a kind of reverie.

  There was another flash of lightning, quite close. It dazzled my eyes so that I could not see the road at all for several seconds, and then the wheel pulled to the left, hard. I wrenched it to the right, but a moment later the entire car tilted to the left, and I felt myself sliding, sliding down a fairly steep slope, while the rain still slashed down onto my windshield and the wipers moved back and forth uselessly. For there was no longer any road visible, and although I gripped the wheel fiercely and fairly stood on the brake, these effected nothing, for the sliding merely continued, at increasing speed.

  This ended in a shuddering crash and the air bag deployed, after which there was stillness. The only sounds were that of the rain hitting the car, and an occasional growl of thunder.

  Fuck!

  I sat there, stunned, while the air bag slowly deflated. Then, with shaking hands, I fished a cigarette from my pocket and lit it. The calming effect of the nicotine was especially welcome, and I sat there smoking, not thinking at all for a while.

  Then I began to see the humor of my predicament, and even chuckled a little. I told myself sternly that it had been my own fault, though in my defense I argued that providence at least had something to do with it—in the form of that Perfect Ass, whose image, even now returned to tantalize.

  “Damn you!” I reached down and squeezed my offending organ in a gesture of admonition—only to find that I was even now sporting a chubby. I chuckled, and sighed as the image of the Perfect Ass floated again into my mind’s eye.

  Still, I told myself, and was surprised that I believed it, the journey wasn’t a total loss, whatever else happens now. For I have had a glimpse, albeit momentary, of the World’s Perfect Ass.

  I thought about this, and laughed out loud. You slut!

  Then I began to search for other, better words to describe my evident fixation: incorrigible, degenerate—those were good, but not quite spot on. Prurient? Too clinical. Then—wait a minute—the perfect word began to come to me. It hovered in the periphery of my mind, and then—concupiscence! Yes, perfect! It meant strong sexual desire. But it was perfect because of its archaic sound. I had loved the word ever since encountering it in a class on Elizabethan poetry. What was it? Spenser, yes—Spenser’s Faerie Queene. I laughed again at the vague sense of appropriateness.

  I had finished my cigarette now, and hesitated before lighting another. Then lightning flashed again and I saw the tree trunk that was embedded in the l
eft side of my car, just in front of the door. I shuddered. If it had been two feet further back I probably would have been seriously hurt. The sight of that tree brought me back to my predicament. I decided it was time to call for help. I searched my jacket pockets but couldn’t find my cell phone. When I tried to turn on the overhead light, I discovered it wasn’t working. That’s when I noticed then that the headlights weren’t on either. Something in the crash must have damaged the electrical circuits. I turned the key. There was no response from the engine. I was in a dead car stuck on the side of a hill in the middle of nowhere. And still the rain slashed down and the lightning flashed.

  It was indeed a dark and stormy night.

  I relieved my frustration by pounding the steering wheel. Damn, damn, damn!

  After this I began to feel around me in the car for the cell phone. But, after a concerted effort, I found nothing. My search wasn’t helped by the fact that the car was tilted at about forty-five degrees, so that my shoulder was pressed against the door and “horizontal” was a term that no longer applied to any surface of my car’s interior.

  So I gave up and lit another cigarette. As I smoked I began to realize that I would have to do something. A further search of the car interior did not recommend itself in the current darkness. I could wait until morning, maybe have a nap, but I was uncomfortable in my current position. So I decided to get out and “seek help,” whatever that implied. The point, I think, was that car was beginning to feel like a coffin, and I wanted to get out, even if that meant getting soaking wet.

  So, after I’d finished my cigarette, I pulled on the handle and opened the door. Unfortunately, I hadn’t taken into account the car’s angle of tilt. The car door flew open, or, rather down, and I followed it, losing my hold and flying headlong into space.

  I landed face-first in a heavy and viscous mud, and lay there, winded and slightly stunned. Gradually, I became aware that I was sliding slowly down the slope, along with the mud.

  I was still recovering my wits when my shoulder came up against a tree trunk and my downward motion stopped. I wrapped my arm around the tree and lay there for a while. Finally, using this source of stability, I struggled to my feet—not easy since my shoes had no purchase in the mud.

  When I finally achieved verticality and stood there, hugging the tree, I looked around in the darkness. At one point I thought I caught a glimpse of a light—warm and rectangular, partially obscured by the trees. But when I shifted my position to get a better view my feet slipped and I fell. And, when I had recovered, lightning flashed, several flashes in a row, which dazzled my eyes. After that I decided it would be better to head toward the light, and since it was downhill, this would not be a problem.

  So I let go of the tree and half-slid, half stumbled to where I remembered the next tree to be. My outstretched hands caught this, and I swung around it, hugging the trunk to stop my downward motion before setting off again. In this way I gradually descended the slope. Fortunately, as I went the going got easier. The land became less muddy, and the slope diminished, so that finally I was able to stand securely on grassy horizontal ground.

  I looked around for the light. But everything was blackness, so that I began to doubt I had even seen it.

  “Damn!”

  But I still had a sense of the direction I thought I had seen the light, so I headed off, holding my hands outstretched in front of me.

  Shortly I came to an end in the trees and, as I stood there, lightning flashed, and I saw, some twenty feet away in a small clearing, a cabin or cottage. A moment later the darkness returned, but I had definitely seen a door.

  The fact that there was now no light in any window discouraged me slightly, but I told myself that they might just have gone to bed, and in any case, perhaps the door was unlocked and I could find sanctuary for the moment from the storm—for I was beginning to feel cold. It was still spring, and not very warm.

  I walked forward, felt the wall, and moved along it until I came to the door. For a little while I leaned my forehead against the wood of this in weakness and relief. Then I knocked.

  There was no response. I knocked again, louder, and called, “Hello? Hello?”

  No response again.

  Now my doubts about whether I had seen a light at all returned, for the place seemed deserted. I felt for the latch, and tried it.

  It was locked.

  Shit!

  With this realization, fatigue and despair overcame me, and I slid down the door, turning as I did so, so that I landed with a bump on my ass, my back against the door. I was cold, and headed toward freezing. Unbidden, newspaper headlines came into my mind. City investor discovered on cottage doorstep. Cause of death: exposure.

  At this fear rose up inside me. “Oi!” I shouted, “Anybody home?” And I banged my head, hard, against the door. “Ow!”

  I massaged the bruised spot on the back of my head. Then, a moment later, filled with another burst of desperation, leaning forward I then threw my shoulders back against the door with all my weight. I expected this would hurt, and it did. I didn’t expect the door to give. But it did.

  Chapter 2: The Cottage

  That took me aback. For a second I doubted my senses—for it had moved only slightly. But I leaned forward again and repeated the action, harder. This time there was definitely a movement, perhaps an inch. So I got to my feet and, stepping back, ran at the door, hitting it with my shoulder. The door flew open. It banged against the inside wall and rebounded back, hitting me as I stumbled forward. I was in the cottage at last, and it was dark and still, the only sound that of the rain.

  “Hello?” I called, and was mortified by the quaver in my voice.

  There was no answer.

  Another lightning flash came, giving me a momentary glimpse of the room, and what caught my attention was a fireplace to my left, and what looked like a stack of firewood.

  In the darkness I edged in that direction, and soon encountered it, knocking a piece of wood onto the floor. It fell with a bang and in the stillness of the room this unnerved me. Then came a second, louder bang. I turned and, in another flash of lightning outside, saw that the door had closed.

  I stood there shaking, my heart pounding. I licked my lips, wanting to call out but unable to. I listened, but there were no footfalls, no suggestion of anyone. My rational mind began to consider that slam, deciding at last it must have been the wind. I hadn’t noticed any wind before, but doubtless there was some.

  As I began to recover from my fright, I became aware that my teeth were chattering. I was wet and very cold. I was also still uneasy but, taking my courage in hand, biting my lip, I moved around the wood pile until I felt the stones of the fireplace against my back—for there was no way I was going to put my back to the door!

  I felt behind me for the mantelpiece, and then along this for what I hoped was there. Yes! There was a small box that, when I shook it, seemed to contain matches. With shaking hands I lit one of these and, holding it up, took my first good look of the shadowy room. There seemed nothing out of the ordinary, and close beside the stack of firewood I saw an upright brass cylinder filled with slender pieces of wood. Kindling! A wash of gratitude and relief filled me, and soon I was standing in front of a blazing fire, still facing the room.

  Opposite the front door was a counter and kitchen cupboards. Beside this was a small table with two wooden chairs. Other than that the room contained only an old leather-clad armchair and a large chest against the far wall between two doors. These, I thought, must lead to a bedroom and, hopefully, a bathroom.

  Now that I began to feel less cold, I was dismayed to discover that my earlier fear was returning. The room was still, but it was not comforting. Quite the opposite. Irritated by this, I tried to analyze it, but could not identify any cause for the feeling. It was at this point that the heat, drying me, now caused some of the mud that covered me to crack as it dried. Quickly I stripped, throwing my clothes in a heap on the floor. I looked down at myself with di
sgust. Somehow, fine mud had gotten through the clothes.

  Water, I thought. I need a wash.

  The idea of going outside into the rain did not commend itself. Not only was it cold out there, but going outside would mean having to deal with that door again. I looked around and noticed for the first time a candle and holder on the mantelpiece.

  Brilliant! I lit the candle and decided to explore the cottage.

  Beyond the left-hand door was a bedroom. It was decorated sparsely, only a bed with a bare mattress and a wooden chair against one wall. The other door disclosed rather better—a bathroom containing a claw-footed tub, a ceramic sink, and toilet. I lifted the lid of the last, and saw the pool of water in the bottom. A flush toilet! I looked up, and sure enough, there was a cistern near the ceiling, with a pull handle hanging from it on a chain.

  Yes!

  I turned to the tub. Could it be? There was a shower curtain, a shower head, and two taps. I set the candle carefully down on the sink, and stepped into the tub. Then I pulled the curtain and bent down to the faucets.

  Experimenting with these, I discovered disappointingly that both released only cold water, and in very modest amounts. Still, it was a shower. So, remembering the fire in the other room, I gritted my teeth and started the spray. Then, standing up, I turned under the spray, shivering and rubbing my skin to facilitate rapid cleansing. A moment later I forgot all about the icy coldness of the water. I could see the glow of the candle flame through the translucent curtain, and now a shadow, vague and indistinct, passed slowly across this.

  I froze, and there was a roaring in my ears, so that I thought I might be about to pass out. I squatted down, my back to the taps, still staring at the glow from the candle. There was no further occlusion, but it took me some time to recover from my terror. I was helped by the fact that I was now freezing with cold. Reaching behind me I turned off the taps, then, standing up, tentatively reached out and pulled aside the curtain.

  There was nothing to see. Everything was as it had been. The candle flame was steady, and the shadowy room was just—a bathroom.