8 comments/ 9203 views/ 4 favorites Incident at Cemetery Junction By: Handley_Page Bright lights were the last thing James saw, accompanied by the sound of a car smash. He had been trying to cross the road at what the local Council called the 'designated place' and the Volvo had rounded the corner with the shriek of tyres and struck him square on. When his head hit the windscreen there was a dull 'crack' and that was that. He thus missed the Fire Department, ambulance and police response as well as all the associated measurements, photographs and breath tests. Save being the principal participant, he also missed the autopsy. The well-attended funeral took place a few days later. As he walked to the Church, the Vicar looked sadly at the grave. James had been a decent bloke, he thought as he walked slowly away. He cheered up; maybe James can find these so-called 'Ghosts', his thought process continued. Then he smiled and offered a prayer to the Almighty. Choir practice tonight, he thought. Give 'em something to get their teeth into. . . **** Thump! He 'woke' with a start to realize it was very dark. And very quiet. It was a while before his brain realized that there were no physical sensations with his wakened state. His mind wandered around for a point of reference seeking sight, touch or sound, but nothing happened. It seemed like an age before a voice crept into his mind: "Do you mind moving a bit? It's tight in here." Panic: What was that voice? The voice repeated the question: "Would you mind moving a bit please?" "How?" he asked after a little thought. "I don't seem to be able to move. I certainly cannot feel my body, and whilst I can 'hear' you, I do not know where I am and I cannot feel you. I'm not even sure just how I hear you." The thought did not occur to him that he could speak. "Oh," said the voice, "You're here at last, eh? Well, trust me, you will -- sometime. I've been waiting ages. You are in Transit. My name's Mary, what's yours?" "James," he said. "What's transit?" "Transit is where we await our departure to our final destination," said the voice of Mary. "Am I stuck in some sort of railway yard thing?" said James. Purgatory was beyond his imagination. He went on: "What is it, 'Goods Inwards'?" "And what was the last thing you can clearly remember?" said Mary. "A car." he said. "There was a lot of noise and bright light." "A car? Is that some sort of vehicle? Sounds like you've been in a crash," said Mary. Her voice had slowly taken on a more physical dimension. His own voice seemed less an effect and more 'real'. "Yes, it is some sort of vehicle. So where am I?" "I told you; you're in transit. It's where we all wait for the next stage," said Mary. Her voice had now taken on a warm, dark tone. "If you wait a bit, you'll start to feel sensations in your limbs, although this is a mental thing; here, you don't have any that count." James became aware of a tingle in his right hand. He flexed his muscles and then wondered why, if, as she said, he didn't have any. "Where are you?" he said. "Well," she said, "in physical terms, I'm next to you. And you're still squashing me." "How come," he wondered, "I can not hear anyone else? After all, if this isn't physical, and we are too close, where's anyone else?" "That's because I am your guide," said Mary. "They put you next to me: A bit too next to me." "So if I'm here as a crash victim, what's your excuse?" he said. He felt his voice getting stronger and more resonant. His fingers were feeling warmer, and he could feel his toes. He suddenly remembered he'd forgotten to cut the nails. "I was in the water. I don't remember much else," said Mary. "Try moving your right hand outwards." "Why?" he said. "You'll soon see," was the reply. He did, and blanked out like a switched-off TV. **** It seemed like a very long time before he felt conscious, although time was a bit of an abstract concept he would rather not explore just yet. "Oh," she said, you're back." "What happened then?" He felt more puzzled than in panic. Curiosity was uppermost in his mind, but he was not in pain and experienced no cold or hunger. "You went through your first transition," said Mary's throaty voice. "There will be more," she added. He suddenly thought that if he & she were physical, he could be excited at that voice. It conveyed all manner of warmth and even a hint of promise. "What do you look like?" he asked. "You really don't want to know my current state, but I was dark haired, green-eyed, tall, widowed and over twenty-one. You do realise that we are what might be termed ghosts?" "Why can't I get up and do some serious haunting, then", he muttered. "I'd love to scare the pants off the idiot that did for me. I take it you can see me, so to speak?" "Too early for haunting," she said. "You'll have to wait a while first. And it isn't as much fun as it used to be. Now, try moving your right hand outwards. And yes, I can see you, if seeing is the right word. You don't look too bad." To his surprise, he noticed sensations of touch in his hand. He discovered a smaller, warm hand. Without thought, he clasped it. "That's better," said Mary. Her voice had dropped half an octave and it sent shivers down his spine. He tried to shift his hips, but the effort was too much and he blanked out again. **** The Vicar sat at his desk trying to write his sermon. He'd planned to speak on the subject of the Commandments, but his thoughts kept returning to the reports of noises and commotion in his graveyard. There were simply too many to be written off as 'kids'. Mrs Claverton was a widow and a member of the Church Committee. She'd been most insistent: "There is something nasty going on out there and it isn't the local lovers trying to find somewhere to plight their troth," she said, at the last meeting. "Something needs to be done." She was tall for a woman, and slim with brown hair which, when let loose from the customary bun, was streaked with iron grey. The villagers spoke to her when they needed some help about matters they did not want to take to the Vicar and were of no interest to the medical profession. If Mrs Claverton said, "things will be all right" they invariably would be, such as when a person went into hospital, or a child's exams. The two Church Wardens, who could usually gossip with the best, remained curiously silent about the goings on in that corner of the graveyard and steadfastly declined to give an opinion one way or the other when asked by the Vicar. "I'll write a letter to the Bishop, then," he said, but, as he reported at the next meeting, there had been no reply yet other than a brief acknowledgment of his letter. Some serious Praying was due. He went into the Church to do just that. Perhaps it would clear his mind. The door creaked open and the Vicar entered, closing the door behind him. He flicked a couple of switches and walked forward to the Lady Chapel. Kneeling down, he began to pray. It was like talking to an old and trusted friend. **** "Welcome to the next stage," said Mary. He noticed that her voice was now a physical entity, and her warm hand was still in his. It felt nice; more than mere comfort, somehow. It never occurred to him to be frightened. The absence of light somehow did not bother him. "Are you still squashed?" he asked. "No, you managed that move very well, considering," said Mary. "It's a bit more comfortable, like spacing out in a narrow bed." "I cannot recall ever doing that, myself," he admitted. "Girls were never particularly high on my agenda somehow. I never seemed to understand them and escaped to do other things. I was always the one in the corner of the room watching all the fun with either the drunk or the dumpy one with glasses and/or a bad attitude to soap. When I did manage to take a girl out, it was not particularly serious. And attempts at sex were a disaster. For want of a better expression, I was never taught; maybe that should be - never learned. I do know that I was not attracted to men. I suppose it's a bit late now. What about you?" "I was sentenced to drowning as a witch," she said. "I wasn't one, but I'd always felt a certain ability to help folk, particularly births and so on, and my old Granny taught me the ways of plants. She was taught by the Good Sisters at the Convent where she worked as a lay sister until she married the gardener." Her voice had a pleasant country burr. "And when was that?" he asked. "And how come we share a small space?" "When you get to the right stage you will see my old stone in the corner of the churchyard. It wasn't holy ground then, but the cemetery was extended after some war or other. I've been here a long time, waiting for someone like you. The next thing I know is that you're here; and it's a tight fit." "So we share a grave?" he asked. He was beginning to worry about spending eternity with a very old woman with a nice voice. But she didn't sound that old. "Yes, we do; roughly," she said. "I was cursed to stay here until some good man would release me from my bonds, but with the right to help another. You're the one who can close the circle for me." "In how long?" The question was out before he could stop it. He forgot that time was relative. "Oh," she said, "about four hundred of your years. My daughter was sent away. I presume she married someone. We are, or were, a very matriarchal line back as far as the Conqueror. We have always been able to help people. I suppose my daughter carried on the good work of helping. It's in the blood." She paused. "You know, if my daughter had family in the usual manner, there's a chance she'd be helping the sick." The idea of being helped by a bloodless, four hundred year old, ghostly, widowed mother did little to calm him. Trying hard not to panic, he forced himself to concentrate on her hand. When the worst passed, he said, "Mary, how come you don't speak in old English?" "Just because I've been here a long time," she said with some asperity, "it doesn't mean that I'm ignorant of the current state of things up in the world." "I have seen the different clothes they wear and the horseless carriages; all sorts of things. And before you ask, when you can see, I'll look like I was before I drowned." Her hand squeezed his gently and he was reassured but nervous, rather to his surprise. He became aware of a perfumed smell. "What's the perfume?" he said. "You're getting better," she said. "It's a mixture my Granny taught me to make. Do you like it?" "Yes," he said. "It's very nice. If you were physical, I'd love to get closer. I'd like to have taken you dancing. What is it?" "As we are sharing a grave, it's difficult to get any closer, but dancing is out at present; mind you, I used to do a mean madrigal. And the perfume is based on Roses and Night Scented Stock," she said. She giggled and it was as if her laugh tinkled across time and space. He moved a leg and, to his surprise, felt another. "Yes," she said, "that's me. We'll get together sometime soon, I think. I hope they'll leave us alone for a while. I'd hate to be interrupted." "Doing what?" he asked. She giggled, "It's been ages since I had a man." Suddenly, he felt a gentle kiss. He blanked out before he could do anything about it. **** The Vicar was reading his mail. The letter from the Bishop's Office was not very encouraging, with phrases like "there is still some doubt about the supernatural, particularly these days," and an offer to put him in touch with the Librarian. Another letter from the Librarian went on to refer the Vicar to some very old books, which would be made available to him "in the event he really thought it worth the effort". "Yes," he thought, "it really is worth trying". He started telephoning the Bishop's palace librarian. He had some studying to do. **** "Ah," said Mary when he could think again, "that was maybe a bit early, but you are coming along well." "I'm beginning to feel things," he said. A note of wonder crept into his voice as he realised what he had said. "But I don't know how; or why." "You will," she said, "but don't rush it. These things take time and we've all the time in eternity." She blew a warm gentle breath into his ear. It tickled. "Ooh," he murmured, "I take it that these sensations are not actually physical?" Tingles went down his spine and frightened him witless. He stopped to wonder about that but decided it was too complicated. "Yes," she replied. "Try moving your leg again." He did and found another leg next to his. He wiggled the foot against soft skin. "But. . . " Before he could finish, he experienced a feeling of dizziness, like being drunk. Then his head cleared and he became more aware of her body. She noticed his efforts. "Can you move any other limbs yet?" she asked. He made a tentative flick of a few muscles and was surprised to discover he could. What amazed him was that there was even less an effect of cramped space and it felt as if the available space had expanded. "Yes," she said. "We've done that together. It now more resembles a double bed." She did not elaborate. He felt her hand move to his chest. He became aware of a head on his shoulder. "Have you ever made love to a woman?" she asked quietly. "A few fumbles in the dark", he said, "and an extremely embarrassing event in a hay loft, a few attempts from time to time, but apart from that, nothing of any note. Anything I know is from a book, just like most other things in my last life." She giggled. He realized that he could feel her body on his arm. It was warm and soft. Then suddenly he noticed no head on his shoulder and no body on his arm. He felt a feeling of relief, but could not think why. "Now try and move your arm outwards," she said. He did so and the head returned to his shoulder. He was very aware of her breathing. But he found he had to control his reactions, rather like when Dorothy tried to get him in the hayloft. "How come you can breathe?" he asked. "Not that I'm complaining, it's very nice, but I cannot feel myself breathing, if you know what I mean." If he'd had a heart to beat, it would have slowed back to normal. Warm breath wafted across his throat. "It's a bit of a trick. You'll get the hang of it when you need it," she whispered. There was companionable silence for a while as he made his fingers explore. He realized he was touching skin; warm fragrant skin. "Try it," she said. "I won't break. Gentle strokes please." He did, as feelings of touch explored her back. It wasn't a particularly bony back, he could feel muscles under the skin, which was smooth and soft. Her perfume was very noticeable and somehow, nice. "That's very nice; and rather comforting," she said as he ran his fingers up her spine. "I've missed this so much. Can you move better now? Try rolling my way." He tried a bit of a wiggle and moved his legs. He was surprised and he started to panic and stuttered: "B b but . . ." Her hand stroked his face. "Easy," she said: "Relax." Gradually, he did. "Assuming," he said as he regained some control, "that I could see, what would I see?" Her breath was just a whisper on his throat. "Ah, she said. "Seeing is about the last thing we get, and that takes practice. Naturally, if and when you rise up, you'll see quite well and in remarkable detail. In here, I don't bother with sight so I'm a bit out of practice. If you could see me, you'd see an adult woman with long chestnut hair. I'd have to concentrate on clothes, though; I don't know much about how they dress these days. It's been a while since I was up there. But I was wearing a shift when they buried me." Her hand reached out across his chest and started gently massaging a nipple. That woke up so many feelings and sensations that he blanked out. He did not hear her "Oh, Drat". **** The Vicar had been doing his homework. The books had arrived and he found several passages and prayers of real interest. If nothing else, he thought, it would make for a different service and the choir might actually enjoy it. He'd even discussed it with Mrs Claverton, whom, he knew, could be relied upon to keep the confidence. She suggested St. Gertrude: "Prayers to Saint Gertrude (patron Saint of the newly dead) would definitely help." There was also a copy of an old Anthem, which, a hand-written note said, would 'banish the evil ones', although the words were in Latin and he had trouble with that. Well, he thought, that's a problem for the Choir. He picked up the telephone and called his Church Wardens, the Organist and the Choirmaster. **** "Sorry," she said as he re-surfaced. "Perhaps I was a bit forward for a minute there. But you must learn to relax. Sex is natural." He heard the giggle and felt teeth on his chest. A tongue played with his nipple and then vanished. There was silence. He panicked but managed to concentrate. He separated his mind from anything else; he was surprised how easy it was. "I don't mind at all," he said when he felt her nudge him, "but can we take it in smaller bites until I get the hang of being recently dead? Are there still flowers on my grave?" She vanished. He felt very alone. He became aware of her presence again. "Yes, there are flowers on the grave," she said. "Please tell me next time you're going to vanish. It's quite upsetting. How long," he wondered aloud, "have I been here?" "Not long." she said. He felt her hand return to his chest. She went on: "Time is not a thing to be measured down here, but it has been a while for them up there." "So what happens after transit, then?" he asked. "You could go back; that's not too common, but it is done, depending upon the circumstances of your death," she said. "You could also go Up or Down. You could also hang about like me, waiting for something to happen, like you. They must think I have a chance or you probably wouldn't be here. Of course, there's always the chance of being re-assigned." "What do you mean, 'go back'?" he asked. "You go back to where you left. It might not be quite your original body or even time, but I think they try to make it as close as possible", she replied. Her hand continued to stroke his chest, flicking a nipple from time to time. This time it was not so disembodied; it felt like a real person. And it was nice; much better than anything he'd experienced in life. He took what would otherwise have been deep breaths and concentrated. He became more and more aware of 'being made flesh'. He could feel and move his limbs. Breathing was a bit tricky, but it was good to know he could breathe into Mary's ear. "You're getting the hang of this, aren't you?" she said, and giggled. "Know any good ghostly jokes?" he asked flippantly. "No," was all she said. Her hand traced gentle patterns on his leg as she pressed herself closer. Just as he was getting accustomed to the idea of being made flesh in a useful way, he felt a jolt in his head and squirmed. "Easy", she whispered; "everything will be all right. No need for panic. You just rest here a moment whilst I slip out". He was suddenly alone and confused. It hardly seemed any time at all before she said: "I managed to get out and look round. It's changed a bit round here. It used to be near a cornfield. What's a hospital?" "A place to heal the sick", he replied. Without thinking, he turned and kissed her. Her response was a returned kiss; slowly, gently and with increasing passion. Her hands caressed his face. Her skin was very warm and smooth as silk and his fingers traced the curve of her ear. Holding his face with her hands, she slipped her tongue between his lips. The kisses went on a long time and he reflected that breathing was an unnecessary option, and their tongues worked. Incident at Cemetery Junction He felt her fingers working their way down his chest and across his stomach and became aware of what would, under other circumstances have been an erection. He stretched a bit, but when her hand found his manhood, he tried to stop her. "Whoa, there. Easy, me dear." "You really must relax if you are to learn", she whispered. Her hand was demonstrating this as she spoke, but he felt no vibration; just what the nerves would feel and that went up and down his spine like a taught spring. "You are nice and big," was her only comment. It took a great deal of concentration to remain conscious, a fact that she noticed as she continued her stroking of his erection. "You really are doing very well," she said. "Come for Mary. . ." and she kissed him passionately. Her hand moved again, but this time he felt physical movement. If he'd had a voice it would have yelled out loud with joy. All he could shout as the tingle steadily rose from his spine to his balls and to the tip of his prick was, "Ee Ah h h - O o o h - WOW!" as he experienced his first postmortem orgasm. "And how many times can you do that?" she asked a little later, with a giggle. Her question came to his mind as he recovered what would, under other circumstances, have been his breath. "As a physical being, once or twice is about it, unless you're a film star. That was the best I've ever had," he said. He didn't want to think about porn studs. She giggled. "Not here," she whispered. She took his hand and laid it on her breast. It was deep, soft, and smooth, round and had a soft nipple. With no conscious thought, he caressed and squeezed it gently and played with a nipple, feeling it harden under his touch. He cupped her breast and let his thumb brush over the now firm nipple. She let a little moan build in her throat as she twisted into a kiss. "Oh, more, yes; more, more please," she hissed, and pushed his head downwards. He bent to taste this ghostly nipple; it tasted good and it felt 'right'. Not the artificial stuff in films, just simply -- right. He gripped the nipple in his teeth and gently stroked the tip with his tongue. Her perfume filled his nostrils and she arched her shoulders, pushing her breast to his mouth. He felt her move. She shivered, feeling the heat between her legs. He kissed her again and she lost herself in sensations not felt in centuries. She whispered, "Touch my pussy please." She moved his hand over her smooth belly and down to her furry triangle. "Slowly," she whispered, "up and back, round and round." Her pubic hair was like soft down and he explored, down the lips and back up. She took his hand and guided his fingers round her labia: "Gently, like this," she whispered as she steered his fingers gently. He touched something that made her jump. "That's the spot," she moaned. "Go easy at it. Just stroke gently; do not stop even if I tell you to." Without wondering about this logic, he stroked her lips, her clitoris and felt moisture, rather to his surprise; this was uncharted territory in his life, let alone death. "Faster", she moaned, and he sped up his stroking. By now, he noticed, it wasn't so much moist as wet. She moved his finger into her wetness; he responded by exploring her warmth. She sighed and made little incoherent noises. "Ah, yes, yes," she moaned, and with a shriek more moisture flooded his hand. He could feel the ripples in her tummy for some while. There was a moment of silence and then she kissed him, long and with passion. It never occurred to him to wonder where the moisture came from in a four centuries-old widow. "That," she said, "was pure magic." She took his hand and tasted it. Then she gave him a lover's kiss, long and passionate. "Now it's your turn for a real orgasm." Without realizing how he'd done it, he was on top of her and her knees were wide. She grasped his prick and introduced it into her hot, wet and hungry pussy. "Now, my lover," she said, "go gently and slowly." She moved her hips and he got the rhythm. It was like a warm, soft tunnel wrapped round his prick and he felt the exquisite sweetness of her heat. His thrust came naturally, and they moved together like real lovers. She encouraged his movement by moving her hips and wrapped her feet round his back, pulling him into her warm and inviting wetness. She made little grunts with increasing tempo, stiffened, shouted "Yes, yes, yes" and let out a long breathy moan. "Don't stop", she shrieked, and continued the rhythm. He felt a strange draining sensation as he consciously emptied a lifetime of his semen deep into her pussy with a loud and happy yell of his own. All he could think of was "Wow!", and blanked out. **** The Vicar took Mrs Claverton to one side after Matins. "I've been asking the Bishop for guidance", he said. She nodded. "Good," she said. "And has he helped?" "I think he's reluctant to commit himself, but the Librarian was very helpful," he said. "I've found a couple of good things to put into evensong sometime soon, when the Choir get it practiced, and there's a curious Anthem which has a note to say it 'banishes evil'; it's in Latin." He passed her a copy. Mrs Claverton looked at it, thought for a moment and said: "Yes, that sounds like just the thing. It might be better on All Hallows: Evensong, perhaps." The Vicar looked into her eyes and felt as if she was forcing her will upon him, but he wasn't frightened. Rather, he was encouraged. The discussion between the Church Wardens, the Organist and the Choirmaster went on long into the evening. "Look," said the Vicar, "with all these rumours about ghostly doings, it strikes me that, at the very least, we can be seen to be doing something." He banged the table in emphasis and went on: "I've been digging around and consulting the Bishop's Librarian and I've got these". He spread the sheets on the table. "Even Mrs. Claverton seems to think it worth our while," he added. There was a distinct pause. The Choirmaster picked up the music for the Anthem: "This Anthem is a good one," he said, wondering why he'd not seen it before. "But it's very old." The Organist looked at the music and said to the Choirmaster: "How many extra sessions to get this right?" He wondered if the Choir would really be up to it without a lot of practice. "We'll just have to practice it a bit more often", said the Vicar. "I think one Evensong is suitable; perhaps after the Harvest Festival, or when the kids go back to school after the autumn half-turn break; say, All Hallows?" He looked round the table. "And I wonder if our local newspaper would be interested; maybe drum up a little more than the usual support from the locals". "Good thinking", muttered the Choirmaster and he read the words. The Organist was humming as he read the music. The Vicar wondered if the Bishop would care to attend, but then thought perhaps not this time. The Bishop seemed to have little or no interest in the local problem. The Vicar wondered why. **** "You know," she said as he surfaced again, "I've never experienced that feeling." Thinking about the books he'd read on the subject, he said "It's called an orgasm, although the Japanese used to call it the 'clouds and rain'. He wondered why he'd said it. "When can we do it again?" she asked, rubbing her hand over his chest. This time the answer came without thinking: "Any time you want, my love." It came as something of a shock that he meant it. "Can I be your love?", she asked quietly. He leaned over, kissed her and said: "Oh yes," and he felt a surge of energy throughout his body. He didn't bother wondering why; it just felt real good and he held her tight to his chest. "Can you see me?" he asked as he stroked her back. "I'm beginning to," she answered. "You've got curly hair, and your toenails need cutting." He thought about that for a moment, concentrated on an image of clippers on his toenails and then stopped. "That better?" he said. Her foot found his and explored. It was almost prehensile, but it was gentle. "How did you do that?" she asked with some surprise. "I just thought about my clippers," he said. "Can you see anything?" she asked. Her hand kept up its gentle massage of his chest. "Not much; a few shadows and that's about it." It came as a shock to him that he could experience anything, let alone sight. "Wow," was all he could say. She kissed him again. It was long, deep and loaded with all the passion she could muster. After a few centuries of nothing, she could muster quite a lot. Eventually, she stopped. "Hang on," he said. He tried his eyes again, concentrating on things he remembered. Slowly, as if a heavy fog was lifting, he could see a shape; a female shape. The concentration was too much and things went very dim in his head. She reached up to steady him: "Easy, my lover," she said. He suddenly felt that things were almost physical. She was lying next to him, her head on his shoulder as if asleep; it felt good, somehow. The idea of spending eternity with her did not make him nervous anymore and he began to think about possibilities. The idea of Eskimo Nell's 'skeletons rattle in sexual battle' had something going for it, then. Her hair swam into focus. "You have got dark hair and it's long and wavy", he said. Her head lifted off his shoulder and giggled: "You worked that out from the feel?" "No," he replied, "I can just about see it; as 'through a glass, darkly'." "Thou art good," she said. "Very good." "How come we are back to medieval speak, then?" he wondered. "It is a little easier at times," she whispered. Her hand weaved its magic way down his stomach and his previously dormant erection became manifest. He could feel the tingle in his prick; the demand from his body to mate. His hand gently caressed a nipple. She made little noises in her throat as he did so. His hand gently smoothed its way along the smooth curve of her hip and down to her sex, stroking gently round her labia and clitoris. She made urgent noises in her throat as her passion rose. "Oh, come to me, my love," she whispered, and pulled him on top of her. With a little wiggle, he was in her and they were making sweet love, but this time with more passion, less frantic and no panic. Her warm wetness gripped his manhood as he swung, her hips meeting each thrust. She moaned and cried "Yes s s s s" as her own orgasm built up. Her legs folded round his back and pulled him deeper into her as her hands raked his back. She stiffened and little animal noises came from her throat as the waves took her. "Come for me", she said, "Fuck me -Hard." At her climax she pulled him deeper, that exquisite feeling in the tip of his prick took over and he pushed harder as he emptied even more of his seed into her. He rolled sideways and they clung to each other kissing and smiling. It was good, he thought, that breathing was not necessary here and now. If they'd been alive, they'd have slept. They rested, happy in themselves and with each other. After regaining their composure as the tingles eased back he asked: "When can I do a bit of haunting?" "You've a lot to learn yet," she said, "but you are coming along very well. You have nice eyes." "I'm not the only one who's been practising, am I?" he whispered. The reply was a bare whisper, laden with all manner of sweet promise. "No." "I wonder if I can see any more of you," he asked. She removed her head from his shoulder and rolled away. "And can you?" she said It was as if he'd sat up. Lying beside him was the most delightful female form he'd ever seen, even in pictures. There wasn't a great deal of detail, but enough for him. He took in every gentle curve from her breast to her pubis. He gulped and then started to panic. He concentrated and the image stayed. He said, "Was that really you, or were you projecting some image?" "Oh, no," she said, "that's me all right, although it's as I was before the water." "Bit of jealousy in the village then?" he asked, "I thought it was all supposed to be Old Crones, not sex-crazed passion on legs." "There were certainly several young men after my favours," she replied. "But some of the women were less than pleased that I was fancied by their menfolk or sons. I had no brothers or sisters; just my old Granny, and we were less trusted, more tolerated. Our cottage was set apart from the others, closer to the forest." They lay cuddled together for a time; he didn't want to work it out; he was happy with things as they were. Her hand restarted its exploration of his body but stopped when it encountered what might have been, under other circumstances, puckered flesh. "What's this?" she asked, "a scar?" "Yes," he replied, "machine accident a while ago." He thought about it for a moment and recalled how it happened. "How come you and I can feel it?" he said. "I told you," she said, "You are getting more used to it. And, if I may say so, very well." She had her head on his shoulder. They spent some time just lying together, at peace. She whispered: "Tell me a bit about your world." He did and told her about politics, wars, electricity and cars. "When," he asked after a bit, "can I do some real Haunting? I'd really like to do for that idiot." "Haunting is not quite the revenge it once was," she said. "These days it's all contact by 'Clairvoyants' and so on. But I think we might manage a bit of old-fashioned haunting sometime soon. You're coming along very well indeed." "Have you got sort-of green eyes?" he said. "Yes," she replied. She thought about it for a while and asked: "How did you know?" "I can see them. Though art indeed beautiful," he whispered. "I think that you might be ready to try and rise," she said. "I thought I'd already done that", he replied without thought. Her response was a dig in what would have been his ribs. She giggled. "Think about standing up," she said. He did, and nothing happened. When he regained control, her head was not on his shoulder, nor anywhere that he could see. He concentrated and saw her legs. They went on forever, shapely into the darkness. Her shift was just short of her knee and, if she'd been a modern girl, she'd have worn a great mini-skirt. "Where are you?" he said. "Stand up," came the instruction. "Hang on," he said. "You have great legs." "Oh get up, do," she replied, and then added "And thank ye kindly, Sir." The soft burr of her accent was more noticeable. Without thinking about it, he stood up. He wondered where the roof was, but then stopped. It didn't matter any more. "Take my hand," she said. He felt her hand in his. "Now," she said, "concentrate on being on the ground, not in it." In the blink of an eye, they were standing on the grass beside an old Yew tree. "There's my stone," she said, and pointed to an aged marker stone in the corner of the wall a few yards away. "My granddaughter put it up before she died and she lived to a ripe old age. She's down somewhere over the other side." But he was looking round and realised exactly where he was. Behind him was what must be the modern graves, each with its headstone, in neat rows. He was standing by an old stone wall that had marked out the original plot. On the other side of a busy road, a huge building was brightly lit. "The hospital," he said, "where most folk get out alive, if not completely cured." "You mean people come to this place to get healed?" she said in some surprise. "Yes," he said, "we don't need to find a wise woman these days, although sometimes it might be better. Now, how do we go about finding the man I want to see?" "There's two ways," she said. "Wander round the road where it happened and wait and see if its part of his regular journeys, or you might wait here and see if you can catch him. That takes longer, of course. I've sometimes been over the road. I think they reckon I'm an old woman that cannot leave the place." "Hang on," he said, "What sort of good deed are you supposed to do to free your personal curse?" "I told you," she replied, "help someone. That will complete the circle." "Do what?" "Well, in your case, I assume it's restoration of what you never learned in life," she said. "And apart from the swiving, at which you are getting better, you have a few more other things to gain. Come on, let's go back." They turned, but he held her back. A few yards away, a courting couple were cuddling & fumbling at each other. "Look", he said quietly. She turned to look as the girl lay down on a grave and pulled her boyfriend towards her. She lifted her hips as he deftly removed her knickers. Mary was interested, as if she'd never seen it before. "Can they hear us?" James whispered. "Why?" she asked. "I've always wondered about haunting", he said, and chuckled. "You'll have to project your voice if you want them to hear you," she said quietly. They watched for a while longer, the girl's head going wildly side to side and making noises as the boy pumped into her. In the midst of wild passion, the boy lifted up his head. James leaned forward and said loudly: "Do you two mind? I'm trying to sleep down here." The girl's screams changed from barely restrained passion to real fright. The lovers panicked and ran. She had her knickers in one hand and her bag in the other. He was trying to fasten his trousers as he sprinted, yelling, down the path. Her screams could be heard for quite a while. "I've often wondered about that," said James. The Church lights were on and they could hear the Choir practice. The Choir were having difficulty, going over some lines several times. "You know," said Mary, "I've heard music like that before." She went on: "Come on, let's go back, you are getting better all the time." "How do we go back?" he asked. "Think under, not on." she said. He thought, and nothing happened. He tried again, with the same result. She came back to him. "I'm stuck," he said. "Take my hand," she said, taking his. "Now, concentrate." It wasn't so much a flash as the absence of flash and they were back underground. His head was cradled in her arms. "Is that how they do it these days?" she asked. "Sometimes," he replied. She kissed the top of his head as a mother would her child. His mouth found her nipple. She crooned and rocked and kissed him. He gently caressed the other nipple. "Thou art indeed lovely: You have lovely breasts", he said. "Come to me". He lifted her on top of him and then realized he could feel some weight. Her hands did their slow, gentle magic around his chest and his erection grew. He could feel each and every nerve reacting to the massage. He reached out and explored her pussy, round and round the labia, fingering the spot by her clitoris. She was soon very wet. "Come inside me please, now," she said urgently. A quick shuffle was all it took and he was deep inside her, rocking to an ancient rhythm, gentle, loving and beautiful. He pushed away the thought that this was what he'd missed in life. His hands caressed her breasts, pinching each nipple as her hips rocked. She sighed and moaned in pleasure given and taken freely, with little sounds from the back of her throat. He felt her muscles tighten and he pushed hard. Her head rocked back and she screamed as her back straightened as she willed even more of him into her wet cunt. Her essences flooded as he released even more of his semen into her waiting womb. She collapsed on him and kissed him; very gently and with a lifetime of love. He was beginning to feel more of her weight; he rolled her sideways very, very gently and pulled her to him. He rested. There was a smile on his face. "You've been gone a while," she said, when he became aware again. He started and then stopped wondering about just what consciousness was down here. He was warm & dry, not hungry and he had a gorgeous sex-mad granny as his companion. Life, if that's what it was, was definitely better than hitherto, even if it was a bit puzzling. Incident at Cemetery Junction "Yes," he said. "It is rather strange. I can feel your weight on me. You getting used to the sex, then?" "After four hundred years of abstinence, you can bet on it," she said. She giggled and her voice tinkled like bells in his ear. He put his arms round her and just simply held her tight. He thought for a moment. "Tell me," he said, "does a ghost sleep and if so, dream?" "Sleep -- no; rest -- yes," she said. "You rest as if you were asleep. After all there's no real point in being out in the daylight if even fewer can see or sense you, is there? And as to dreaming, I cannot recall doing it." They lay in each others arms, resting and giggling at little remarks. He told her more of modern life and his experiences. She looked at him. "Would you like to try a little outside exercise?" she said. "Oh, yes please," he replied and so saying found himself on the grass. The moon was bright on the graveyard, casting dark shadows of the old stones. He saw the leaves moving but did not feel a breeze. Her hand linked with his as if it belonged there. "How do we move?" he said. "Concentrate as if you were walking," she said. "Your feet won't touch the ground noticeably, but you will move." The ground was covered in leaves, but he felt nothing as his feet shuffled. It took considerable effort. "That's better," she said. "Are we likely to see anyone else?" he asked. "Occasionally," was all she said. He struggled to the wall overlooking the road and she guided him with little pressure on his hand. "Easy now," she murmured. He looked up and down the road. "You see just down from that road crossing over there?" he said. She looked and saw it. "That's where I was hit, blast him." "If he comes back this way, you'll feel his presence," she said. "There's a strong bond between you which we must break. It might take a while, though." She turned back. "Follow me," was all she said. He followed her, but with less uncertainty. Over in a dark corner a couple of shadows moved. "Who . .?, but she'd gone. "What or who was over in the corner?" he asked. "Nothing for you to fret about", she said. With several windows open, they could hear the music from the Church. It sounded much better this time. They stood by the cemetery wall watching the cars go quickly by. They'd done this on several nights. "Would you care to dance?" he said. By some mysterious way, they managed to hold one another and he showed her the steps of a basic Waltz. She enjoyed it and soon they were waltzing along the paths and he explained cars, traffic lights, and a few more things, which were strange to her eyes. They were about to leave when he quickened. "I can feel him. The Bastard's coming." "Just watch this time," she cautioned. The big silver Volvo came smoothly and swiftly round the corner and accelerated up the hill before disappearing. "He's single," she said as she watched. "How did you work that out?" he whispered. "No need to whisper," she said, "there's nobody to hear you who could do anything practical. And," she went on, "he's got a girl friend of sorts. I've seen her in the car with him. Is a Volvo a good car?" "Oh, yes," he said, "very: But sometimes heavy on the juice." "Juice?" she inquired. "Sorry," he said. "A term meaning that the fuel in the car does not take it as far as some other types. I used to be an engineer." "What is that?" she inquired. The gentle wind plucked at the grass but he could not feel or smell it. He thought he rather missed the smell of the grass. There was a huge anvil-shaped cloud mass building up to the west. "An engineer is one who designs or fixes things for a living." "Like our village Blacksmith fixed the wagons?" she asked. "Sort of, but there's more to it now than then." he replied. "Let's go back now," she said. They walked slowly back to the tree. Over in one corner of the churchyard, shadows were moving with some agitation. "Ignore them," she said. They really are doomed". The shadows disappeared by a very old grave in the far corner, under a large old tree close to the road's edge against the wall. "Is there any salvation for them?" he said. "Unlikely," came the cold reply, "that used to be unconsecrated ground. Even the local cats stay away from that corner". In what seemed the blink of an eye, they were under the ground, her head rested on his shoulder. "Can we ever be affected by weather if we are outside?" he said. "Not normally, but there are times when a storm can cause strange feelings and could send you back rather quickly. It's only happened to me once, but it was not pleasant." They made love slowly, gently kissing and stroking. Her nipples were hot as he kissed them and he stroked the smooth sensual curves of her hip. She stroked his head and pushed him down. He kissed his way down and gently licked at her clitoris, then up and down her lips, poking his tongue into her warm wetness until she tightened her legs round his head, moaning, shrieking then yelling at the top of her voice and flooded his chin. She relaxed as if limp. His head rested between her thighs. When she pulled him on top, she went mad and bucked like a bronco, making little animal sounds. When her orgasm came, she was yelling, "Yes - Yes, YES," loud and long. They rested. He wondered if the sound could be heard up top. "You make a real racket when you climax," he said as they had a restful cuddle. "Can anyone hear us up there?" "Unlikely," was her reply. "I don't know," she went on; "it's not something I've tried." She put her head on his shoulder and they rested. He felt at peace, warm and comfortable. **** It had been a hot day and the heat stayed heavy and still in the evening. The Church lights were on and the service was under way. The Choir were in good form, too. They were resting comfortably, in each other's arms. Their rest was, however, terminated by a very loud 'boom' followed by a shaking in the ground. "Great Heavens, what was that?" he said. "Lets find out," was her reply, and she vanished. He followed her, and they were standing by the Yew tree in the middle of a terrific Thunderstorm. "It will do little good for the telephone exchange," remarked James. "What's that?" she replied "A telephone is an electrical means of talking to someone who's not near you, like in another town or village." He explained to her what lightning was and they watched the electrical storm cascade its bright flashes in the sky. She watched with interest, asking questions and nodding at the answers as the storm drew steadily closer and more violent. "Looks like Judgement Day," said James, as more lighting twisted and thrashed about the sky. The storm was obviously heading directly towards them. Great flashes of lightning lit up the clouds and the boom echoed round. The wind whipped up, swirling the dust on he paths and shaking the trees. There was a pause, as if the storm was drawing a breath. The Choir was singing the Anthem with a determination that surprised and pleased the Vicar. Just as the last chords echoed through the chancel, a bright flash and a very loud bang shook the graveyard as the lightning bolt struck the old tree in the corner. There was a series of very loud cracks and the tree fell slowly down over the wall and into the road. Where the tree had stood was now a large, smoking black hole. "It is for them," she said. There was a pause as she lifted her head to the sky. "Time we parted," she said. "Pardon?" said James. "You are going back," she whispered softly. "And you?" he asked. "I'm allowed up," was all she would say as she vanished. The echo of the thunder rolled dismally round the churchyard. **** The Volvo sped along the roads. Jimmy was late and he was rushing. There was little traffic and he was pushing it; the car digging into the road as if on rails. As he turned the bend, he saw a figure and instinctively flicked the wheel. The last thing he saw was the trunk of a large tree. **** "Hello; nice to see you awake at last", said the pretty nurse as he awoke with a bad headache, tubes everywhere and a general sense that all was not well. She had green eyes and her hair was the colour of a newly minted conker. "My name's Mary." He looked carefully at the rest of her. Her skin sparkled, her blouse was tight against her breasts and the belt she wore showed a very trim waist. Her perfume was familiar, somehow. Then he had a flash of inspiration and concentrated. "Let me guess," he said. "An old family name, right? And the perfume is something handed down from generations of Mothers, yes? Roses and Night-scented stock? You're from a very matriarchal family and you had a distant Grandma drowned as a Witch. And you like to dance?" "How did you know all that?" she said. "Have dinner with me one evening when I get out and I'll tell you," came the reply. She smiled. **** Some time later, the Vicar invited Mrs. Claverton to the Vicarage for tea. "Any thoughts?" he asked, after the customary greetings and inquiries. The Vicar poured the tea and handed it to her. "Well," she said, "it's really not so cold in that area and the graves that were there have been completely destroyed by the lightning. You might like to re-dedicate the churchyard, particularly round there. Get the choir going and make a bit of a show of it. The locals will notice and there will be less talk." She took a sip of tea and said thoughtfully: "Have you noticed anything about the other corner, by the old yew tree? There are flowers round there now: A bit late, mind, but a pleasant sight." The Vicar had indeed noticed, and made a mental note to bless whoever had wound up in that old corner next to James. The ancient records were somewhere in the dusty basement and a little note in the margin about the outcome could do no harm. The circle would be complete.