Next door neighbor voyeur

Reflexology, also known as zone therapy, is an alternative medical practice involving the application of pressure to specific points on the feet and hands. This is done using specific thumb, finger, and hand massage techniques without the use of oil or lotion. It is based on a pseudoscientific system of zones and reflex areas that purportedly reflect an image of the body on the feet and hands ... Reflexology is an ancient healing art backed by modern research that you can learn how to perform in the comfort of your own home. Reflexology involves applying pressure to specific places on your feet, hands and ears, which have peripheral nerves that are connected to your central nervous system. What Is Reflexology? Reflexology (or foot reflexology) is a therapy based on the principle that there are small and specific areas of innervation in the hands and feet that correspond to specific muscle groups or organs of the body. In this system, the nerve endings in the extremities provide a “map” of the rest of the body. Reflexology is a type of massage that involves applying different amounts of pressure to the feet, hands, and ears. It’s based on a theory that these body parts are connected to certain organs and... Find the best Reflexology on Yelp: search reviews of 29 Berlin businesses by price, type, or location. Reflexology is the application of appropriate pressure to specific points and areas on the feet, hands, or ears. Reflexologists believe that these reflex points correspond to different body organs and systems, and that pressing them creates real benefits for the person's health. Reflexology is the application of pressure to areas on the feet (or the hands). Reflexology is generally relaxing and may help alleviate stress. The theory behind reflexology is that areas of the foot correspond to organs and systems of the body. Reflexology is a type of therapy that uses gentle pressure on specific points along your feet (and possibly on your hands or ears as well) to help you feel better. The theory is that this eases...

2020.09.08 21:28 Zealousideal-Art-974 Next neighbor voyeur door

Sunday evening my son 29 yo and his livein girlfriend 25 yo of 7.5 years came over for the evening/ night to see his younger sister whom was visiting from out of town and leaving the next morning. We live about 1 hour and 15 mins away. I cooked all day and went to bed about 1.5 hours after their late evening arrival. His girlfriends younger brother had a bday earlier at her parents home that they went to. Mind you his sister had been here since early last week and no attempt to separate the visits. My husband of 29 years this coming December, has enrolled in a massage therapist school to get licensed just recently. He is serious about opening his own business, and already has a therapeutic room set up in our home, including massage chairs, a pedicure bowel, portable foot massage and massage table. I awoke around 1:30 am in the morning, to noise disturbances and realized I had left my car door open. I go down and get the keys out of my car and lock it. Come back in the house and noticed the pillows and blankets were still on the kitchen island, that I had left for our overnight guest to use. They like sleeping on the sectional in the basement when they stay over...There is no sign of them or my husband in the basement, in the garage or on the main floor. So I go back upstairs and realize they are in the therapy room. I open the door, lights are dim, may have been some soft music playing and my husband is sitting there in front of my future daughter in law with her feet in his hands while she is stretched out in the massage chair, and he is massaging her feet. Meanwhile my son is stretched out in the other massage chair, and doesn’t respond when I open the door. My husband acts like nothing is wrong, I close the door and walk away to process what I have encountered, return to the room and let him know I was on my feet all day cooking and cleaning and I didn’t get a massage. I also mention that is what the portable foot massage is for, then I went back to bed. Well he comes in the bedroom and I ask him to leave, because I am offended that he is even trying to justify what he was doing. Then he goes and gets my son who comes in and ask what is wrong, then I get attacked by both my husband and my son... I feel as though all three crossed several ethical boundaries, I am sure the weed, and alcohol contributed to their misjudgment. I will never get that out of my head, my husband is a big critic of feet, always has been and always tells me how nice my feet are. One of the very few things he compliments me on. I believe I am headed for separation and ultimately divorce. Am I over reacting to what I encountered? I want to ask my family and close friends who have healthy relationships for advice, but the last time I did and they intervened, he accused me of severing his reputation versus accepting the criticism and advice. He is always looking out the garage window with binoculars, we had the windows tinted to protect the flooring and furnishings; we have several single women in the neighborhood and even watches one of his friends wife’s who is a fitness instructor. I am not jealous, just think we see things differently. I once told him that watching other people without their knowledge is considered voyeurism and he blew up.... this was 3 or 4 years ago... when he isn’t outside watching the neighbors, he is on the video game or I have to give him my undivided attention, sometimes for hours, and only him talking... I work all day from home and so does he, so after dinner, I like to catch up on the news and watch a show, but not able to do as often as I like and he regulates that indirectly.... any advice would be appreciated. I have read up on foot fetishes and ethical boundaries for those in the massage business, I don’t see where he is justified in massaging anyone’s feet, without the credentials, a paid fee and some people are just off limits. I don’t have a problem with him caring for his mothers feet, our daughters feet or grandchildren (if I had any) or young nieces and nephews, but he isn’t doing that behind my back. This really was a hard blow...may have to see my counselor regarding this.... would love to hear from someone who is in the massage therapy profession or educates those going into the profession. I know ethics is one of the first topics in the curriculum... he would not feel comfortable with me massaging another person period. I have been chastised for giving a male family friend a hug.
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2020.08.20 16:32 HaulA20Augl Neighbor next door voyeur

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2020.08.02 00:48 FrancescoAmic1 Neighbor door next voyeur

This is my translation of the first part of the journalistic inquiry on the connection between Zodiac and the Monster of Florence appeared on the website of the Italian weekly tempi.it two years ago. The second and third parts plus this are too long for Reddit. You can find them together here.
Other links related to the inquiry A recent news that confirms the connection First article on the suspect's admissions Ulysses' testimony at the Monster trial
Sorry for my English.
By Francesco Amicone
The voyeur, the Sardinians and the farmer
Sant'Angelo is a hamlet on the edge of Calenzano and Sesto Fiorentino: very few houses surrounded by fields and mountains. Not far from there, in a rural crossroads of the only way that goes around the valley, an inscription on a stone cross recalls two names: Susanna Cambi and Stefano Baldi. They were a young couple from Calenzano used to withdraw in the evening on the edge of an olive grove. On the night of October 22, 1981, they were shot to death by the man who went down in history as the "Monster of Florence", a brutal murderer who killed at least seven young couples in the Florentine countryside with a .22 caliber gun between 1974 and 1985.
More than thirty years have passed since those crimes, but the flowers at the foot of the cross that reminds Susanna and Stefano are still fresh. «It's nice that people haven't forgotten about Susanna and Stefano,» comments Edoardo Orlandi in front of their memorial. Orlandi was already a researcher of the "Monster" case before becoming a criminologist at the University of Florence. Like many Tuscans born in the '80, Orlandi grew up in an environment where the serial killer became an integral part of the history of the city through the trials of the '90. None of which came to any definitive truth about the main perpetrator of the murders. «Very few Florentines believe that the Monster has never really been identified,» notes Orlandi.
Crazy and wily
Law enforcement officers do not immediately understand that they are facing a serial killer. «Only the morning after the Calenzano crime - Orlandi recalls - the Florentine people realize that there was a homicidal maniac who goes hunting for alone couples on moonless nights. And that time the murderer also frightened the Tuscan public opinion which, in a somewhat picturesque way, to play down, had called him "Cicci, the monster of Scandicci”.»
From October 22, 1981, what a few months earlier seemed to have been the work of a schizophrenic drifter takes on new meaning. «The inhabitants of Florence are faced with a socially organized person, whose disturbances, however serious, allow him to act in a cold and lucid manner,» Orlandi explains. He was a madman, not a schizophrenic. The police now faced something that in Italy, before then, had only been seen in movies. An American-style serial killer. One of the shrewdest minds that Italian investigators have ever found themselves fighting and also, the criminologist stresses, «one of the very few serial killers who have been successful.»
From the day he committed the Calenzano crime and for five long years, the "maniac" armed with a torch, pistol, and knife, who had nothing in common with the Florentine or Italian chronicles, became the main news of the local newspapers.
A "provincial" killer
«Although he’s called the Monster of Florence - Orlandi recalls - the crimes claimed by the homicidal maniac never took place in the city, but in the neighboring villages.» Borgo San Lorenzo, Scandicci, Calenzano, Galluzzo, Vicchio, Baccaiano, Falciani. These are the names of the crime locations chosen by the serial killer. «These are small courtyards, where the chatter about the crimes quickly made the rounds of the bars,» the criminologist says. This created many problems.
Enzo Spalletti, an ambulance driver, was the first man who pays for a slip of his tongue. Spalletti practiced a "sport" very popular in the province of Florence in the eighties: spying on couples sitting alone in their cars. During the night, dozens of people searched the countryside of Florence to find couples who made love in their car. They lurked along the rows of cypresses, in the acacia woods, armed with infrared binoculars and microphones to caught couples in their privacy. Many of them met in the Chianti taverns the following day to exchange photographs and audio recordings.
«On the morning of 7 June 1981, Spalletti hoed his vegetable garden, then went to his favorite bar, where he told the patrons that he had seen the bodies of the two victims of Scandicci. He was immediately arrested». How did it end? «Three months later the killer struck again in Calenzano, leading to the release of Spalletti and virtually announcing to the Florentines: "You are facing a real serial killer, not a voyeur". The Monster would continue to claim his crimes with the same gun also in the following years, freeing one by one all the suspects sent in prison by the pre-trial judges. «He would only stop in 1985, when no one was jailed for his murders. It’s like he wanted to say to the police: "I don't need your help",» Orlandi observes.
Monster's gun
The so-called "Sardinian lead” ended up in a general acquittal, in 1989. Seven years earlier, about July 20, 1982, the detectives began to follow the track left by the Monster from bullets and shells found in a case-file of a double murder near Florence accrued in a “Sardinian” environment (Barbara Locci and Antonio Lo Bianco - August 22, 1968). The marks on the shells were identical to those found on the crime scenes of the serial killer from 1974 onwards. The man convicted for the crime of ‘68, Barbara Locci's husband, Stefano Mele, was in prison in 1974, however.
You can have doubts about the authorship of the crime of 1968, «but as regards Mele's responsibility - recalls Orlandi - it is a fact that Locci's husband had been found with the fat spread on his hands, the morning after the crime. Mele - continues the criminologist - has never been able to give a reason for what appeared to the investigators of the time as a banal attempt to deceive the paraffin glove (test to which Mele was positive).» Mele charged himself with the crime, then accused acquaintances. Finally, he was sentenced. Beginning in 1982 it was therefore thought that the serial killer might somehow have had access to the gun used in the ‘68 murders and used it later. All the people who may have participated in the ‘68 crime were arrested one by one: Francesco Vinci, Piero Mucciarini, Giovanni Mele. Salvatore Vinci was also arrested with another excuse. Nothing was found.
From the real killer to Pietro Pacciani
Who is really the “couple maniac”? What personality is hidden behind the mask he wears for his audience? The Monster, according to Orlandi, «most likely appears as a normal person, otherwise it would not be explained why it has never been possible to identify him up to now.» «He is a person with two lives - the criminologist explains - in the normal one, he is a citizen like the others, in the secret one, he is the maniac of moonless nights.» Perhaps this is one of those very rare cases in which criminologists face someone who embodies the protagonist of Robert Louis Stevenson, the famous "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde". The Monster seems to flaunt two faces also in his crimes. «On the one hand, he is the practical, efficient and smart person, self-confident who leaves no traces and clues; on the other one, it is the maniac who takes very high risks to respect his crazy rituals and challenge investigators,» Orlandi says.
The criminological expertise of a team of the University of Modena drawn up by Francesco De Fazio, Ivan Galliani, Salvatore Luberto in 1984 describes the Monster as "methodical", "systematic", "cautious", "astute". However, the experts point out that the Monster suffers from a serious psychic pathology, which reaches the peak of the acute phase when he kills. «The exceptional nature of this serial killer - underlines Orlandi, paraphrasing the expertise of the University of Modena - is that he completes his ambushes in a situation of strong emotional charge. Yet, in this phase of acute psychosis, he is capable of modulating strength, approaching victims in silence, shooting and hitting, moving bodies, and mutilating them. He also managed to quickly change weapons and torch in the dark. All this without making mistakes.»
«The Monster - Orlandi concludes - is a maniac who moves between Mugello and Chianti with the same security as a hitman.»
A man light years away from the depicted suspect was the result of the "super-computer" screening with which the Florence prosecutor led by Pier Luigi Vigna comes to Pietro Pacciani.
Where did the killer's booty go?
In 1990, the Florence Police Anti-Monster Squad (SAM) was still looking for the manic perpetrator of the seven double murders that occurred in the Florentine countryside between 1974 and 1985. A few years earlier, in an anonymous letter, an alleged Monster had warned the investigators: «You won't take me if I don't want to ... I'm very close to you.» Authentic Monster’s letter or not, it confirmed the impression of the SAM agents. The killer had always been one step ahead of them. As if he knew their moves in advance. Besides, why hadn't the fake couples, the police and Carabinieri blocks, the investigation, or the arrests been able to stop him? What had given the Monster the security to be able to challenge the city and the police, always acting in the same period, every year, for five consecutive years? How had he managed to plan his crimes in an area on high alert, strewn with Chianti and Mugello with euphemistic signs "Danger: risk of aggressions"? How was it possible that, despite the precautions and resources used, despite the 300 million Lire bounty (300.000 $) - the only one ever issued by the Italian State - the killer had escaped capture?
So, when Florentines discovered that the main suspect of the Florence Prosecutor's Office was Pierino Pacciani, a peasant, the "young wicked boy" whose minstrel Giubba sang at village fairs for his crime of passion of 40 years before, people shake their heads. It will take all the efforts of the mass media to make it possible for a larger minority of Florentines to accept that Vampa (blaze) - as he was nicknamed in the village - is the icy murderer who had terrorized the city for a shine and from whom the citizens still feel threatened. But the prosecutors led by Vigna were certain: Pacciani was the Monster.
When investigations into Pacciani begin, Ruggero Perugini, Sam's chief, has just returned from Quantico, home of the FBI Behavioral Science Unit - the world specialists in the "serial murder" discipline. Roy Hazelwood, guru of the unit, had warned the Italian detective: «If you find these trinkets, it means that you have found the killer.» Hazelwood had shown Perugini some objects that criminals like the Monster of Florence jealously guard. Criminologists call it "booty". These are the personal belongings of the victims that serial killers steal to remember and claim their murders. To date, nothing of the sort has ever been found.
The selection
It had been the voyeur's turn, then the Sardinians’ one. The defendant, this time, was a son and grandson of sharecroppers. His red face well known in San Casciano testified that the farmer had nothing of the cold and wily serial killer. At the trial, one of the witnesses would say that you could mistake him for the «god Bacchus», if you observed him serving wine at a Festa dell’Unità in the 1980s. Yet the prosecution had made a commitment to find someone who would tell something compatible with the accusatory picture (a serial murderer, calm, lucid, and above all sober). Maybe Pacciani terrified someone in San Casciano? Not even this. It was discovered that the Vampa had not only given them (the beatings) but he had also taken many, and many: a beating in 1951 by Giampiero Vigilanti, former French legionary of Prato; many handbags from "Cinzia", ​​a prostitute who walked between the Via Scopeti and Cassia, in San Casciano, near the Florence American Cemetery; a few slaps from the gamekeeper Gino Bruni, whom Pacciani had threatened with a pitchfork. These stories, however, appear to be more authentic than the "scientific" analyzes of Pacciani's "secret" personality which was shown in the newspapers during the trial period.
The former Florence attorney general, Piero Tony - who represented the accusation against Pacciani in the appeal trial- asked for Pacciani's acquittal and obtained it. Twenty years later, he still has the same idea about Vampa's guilt as his lawyers Rosario Bevacqua and Pietro Fioravanti: «Pacciani was a man who committed many crimes in his life, but he was not the Monster,» Tony says.
The former Florence attorney general has always criticized the method that the Public Prosecutor's Office decided to use to arrive at the identity of the Monster: «The mechanism by which attention was focused on Pacciani - says Tony - was the following: between many things, it was assumed that the serial killer had attracted someone's attention; then, that he had a dirty criminal record and was resident in the province of Florence.» «Pacciani - continues the former prosecutor - had been reported by an anonymous letter, had a criminal record (he had killed a man in 1951 and had abused his daughters for years), lived in San Casciano and was not in jail when the Monster had killed. It was therefore deduced that Pacciani could be the serial killer.» «This mechanism - explains Tony - has not been fully respected. According to the parameters that the investigators had given themselves the name of Pacciani must have been off the list of suspects. For two reasons: he did not respect - at all - the profile drawn up by criminologists; at the time of the crimes he was not healthy (he had suffered a heart attack).»
The “hunchback” bullet
For some reason, the idiom "farmer: big shoes and clever mind" was heralded by the press lined up with the Public Prosecutor's Office as an indication of guilt in a serial murder case. It was forgotten that the syllogism made all people with work boots and an above-average IQ suspicious. Not just the farmers. But also - for example - the man from whom Pacciani felt "persecuted". It was this «long-legged intellectual» who had prevented him from entering the house of an old fortune-teller in the village. Or the mysterious man who stalked him in nightmares, the "General of Death". And also the character in military clothes and with "Mickey Mouse" military boots, which appeared in a drawing by the Chilean artist Christian Olivares, a sketch of a theatrical scenography for the filmmaker Raphael Ruiz that was found in the Vampa’s house.
Pacciani had renamed the work of Olivares: «Dream of fairy science (instead of “science fiction”), a summer in San Casciano.» He had put his signature on the bottom and put the painting above the fireplace in the living room. The psychologists heard by the prosecutor's office did not see in it a denunciation of the Pinochet regime - which in fact it was - but the work of a deranged, a sexual maniac suffering from serious disturbances. The famous critic Vittorio Sgarbi, having heard that the Florence Public Prosecutor's Office attributed the hand of a follower of Salvador Dalì to Vampa, obviously took the ball for one of his reprimand. The real author - in voluntary exile in the Canaries - sent a fax to La Repubblica, explaining the meaning of drawing to psychologists. Vampa simply shrugged: «I always said I just colored it.»
In early 1993, not even Perugini seemed to be certain of Pacciani's guilt. While investigating the farmer from San Casciano, the chief of the SAM had publicly appealed to a still faceless serial killer. Perugini had offered him a hand to «get out of the nightmare.» How did the Monster react to the appeal? A few months later, in April, during a search, the detectives found a 22-caliber bullet in the farmer's garden of Pacciani (this bullet had been forged, a Prosecutor’s Office expertise found out in 2019 – here’s the news TLN).
«A “hunchbacked” nail?» Vampa asked, while Perugini showed him the artifact. It was not a "nail", but a “hunchbacked” bullet, a misshapen cartridge similar to what the Monster had left on crime scenes. Was stuck in a stake in the farmer's vineyard. Right at the breaking point of a stake broken for less than a week.
It was necessary to wait for the appeal trial for the Court and the Prosecutor to be informed informally by the defense expert, Enrico Manieri, that that bullet was a "fake": he had been loaded on a weapon other than that of the killer. The conclusion was obvious: someone had wanted to frame Pacciani.
«An infamous column»
«Before the trial, we also received an anonymous letter. A guide rod of a Beretta was attached - Tony says - The author of the letter said that it had been buried by the Vampa, “a devil who enchants the fools on TV”. But even that was an indication of little value, as well as of dubious origin».
Regarding this “gift”, the president of the Court that acquitted Pacciani at the Appeal, Francesco Ferri - a magistrate who continued to be inspired by the books by Alessandro Manzoni and the Verri brothers also at the time of Tangentopoli - observed that if the guide rode was one of the 48 parts of the supposed Beretta that would be buried by Pacciani at various points in the campaign, the prosecutor Paolo Canessa and his team of investigators would have had to unearth another 47 parts before holding the whole proof. «Have you at least found the map?» Ferri ironized in his book “The Pacciani’s trial, an infamous column?”.The accusatory picture that the prosecutor Canessa had brought to court collapsed piece by piece at the Appeal. Among the most important ones was the Giuseppe Bevilacqua’s testimony. He was a former criminal investigator of the U.S. Army and the superintendent of the Florence American Cemetery, at the time of the Monster's crimes.
Lawyers from the US Embassy in Rome had warned him about Italian justice. Joe - that’s what he called himself - could get into a mess. He benefitted from diplomatic immunity granted for international courtesy to the technical personnel of the American mission, why take the risk?
The Repubblica article “Pacciani was in the woods” by Franca Selvatici, on 7 June 1994, signed also reports that the official of the American Battle Monuments Commission was very busy on 6 June 1994. On the day of his deposition, he would have to go to the D-Day ceremony which also attended by President Bill Clinton.Bevilacqua decided to make his contribution to the inquiry on the serial murders of the couples, despite everything.
“Joe “ told the Court in an Italian-American slang what he had seen near the scene of the Monster’s latest crime, which took place between 6 and 8 September 1985 in Via Scopeti, San Casciano. The place was located 300 meters as the crow flies from the cemetery, where he lived.
In his deposition at the Pacciani trial - the audio recording is available at radioradicale.it - Bevilacqua claims to have seen the French victim Nadine Mauriot in a “black bikini” while sunbathing under the pines of Via Scopeti. He saw her again, the next day, in the place where she would be killed a few hours later. In the same period of time, he spotted a man whom he then recognized as Pacciani about 500 hundred meters. He was walking at the edge of the woods, near a path that led to the crime scene. The dogs, Bevilacqua claims, barked fiercely that night.
The superintendent of the Florence American Cemetery says he doesn’t know Pacciani. At that point, a dispute arises over the height of Vampa which leads to a confrontation between the accuser and the accused. The two are brought together. They huddle. The scene ended with the astonished words of the counselor Bevacqua: «They are very similar, Your Honor!». Pacciani's lawyer highlighted how difficult it could be to distinguish two unknown people who look alike. When Bevilacqua then insists on claiming that he learned of the murders since the following morning of the crime (the news had not yet been released), his memory is believed to be flawed. That's where it ends.
After a first condemnation, the Vampa was acquitted: «Pacciani - judge Ferri writes - is condemned at first instance without the necessary proofs, on the basis of dialectical tricks, obvious illogicality, speculations, and mere invectives». Ferri resigned as judge in controversy with the judiciary and calling the entire trial of Pacciani “an infamous column “. The acquittal will be canceled by the Supreme Court, but the farmer will die before a second appeal trial, on February 22, 1997.
The companions of snacks
Giancarlo Lotti, called “Katanga”, didn’t go back even when he was wrong. The fact that he didn't even have a primary school certificate is one of the reasons why he had to beg for food and accommodation on a daily basis. However, at fifty he still said: «The school is useless.» Lotti would not go back on his decisions, not even on the testimony on the alleged “monsters” of Florence.
At the beginning of 1996, Pacciani was about to be acquitted, the State - usually absent in this case - arrived at Lotti's house (that is, from the priest who hosts him) offering him real accommodation and a salary. In return, Katanga had only one thing to do: become the famous witness who defeated the Monster of Florence. Lotti knew Pacciani. He knew he was a violent individual. And then he was stingy: he had never given him a penny in his life. This is how Lotti, who had no money for gasoline or wine, accepted and began to “sing”.There is a reason why Katanga is the Beta and not the Alpha witness: his testimony is later than that of his friend of “tours”, Fernando Pucci. The Alfa witness, Pucci, is the origin of the theory of the “Companions of snacks”.
In January 1996, Pucci reported to the SAM led by Michele Giuttari at the time that he and his friend Lotti had seen Pacciani in Scopeti on September 8, 1985. They were driving in Lotti's (uninsured) car. They had stopped at the pitch where the French were to urinate, then - Pucci recalled - he felt one, two shots, and went to see that he was there. In the video filmed at the trial, the images following the moment when Pucci told this story, focus on his friend Katanga, in the Court House, who raised his hand and said: «I told Fernando those things.» The story that Pucci has just told was invented: it was not at Scopeti. And Pucci himself immediately confirmed the words of his friend: «Yes, Lotti told me about these things.» It was now clear to the whole Court that the certificate of oligophrenia (or dementia) of the Tuscany Region that Pucci had exhibited before testifying had been given to him for a reason.
Former prosecutor Tony comments on the decision to bring Alfa and Beta to trial as follows: «Let's forget Pucci, who - poor fellow - had a mental illness. I remember, however, that when Lotti's name came out, the priest who had him in charge called to the Prosecutor's Office to warn us not to listen to him.» Yet, Beta would be the pillar (the only one, after Alfa's exploit) of the theory of the so-called “Companions of snacks”, a group composed of the farmer Pacciani, the illiterate Lotti and the postman Mario Vanni, called Torsolo, who would have killed the couples.
«Neither Torsolo nor Katanga knew how to shoot,» Tony observes, «and none of them had the physique or mind of the serial killer. Not even Pacciani.» None of them, on September 9, 1983, with a demijohn of red wine in the stomach would never have succeeded with one loader to hit the two young Germans - Horst Wilhelm Meyer and Jens-Uwe Rüsch - to death in the dark, and through the plates of a Volkswagen minibus.
«Lotti has made several mistakes in reconstructing the dynamics of the murders - concludes Tony -. Sometimes his lies are hateful. Like when on the ‘84 crime, in which Pia Rontini and Claudio Stefanacci lost their lives, he says that the girl died screaming and moaning. But all the forensic doctors' reports say that Pia immediately lost consciousness.»
The scientific proof of Lotti's lies
«It is a historical fact that in the trial of the “Companions of snacks” there was not a single evidence of guilt that supported Lotti's testimonies”, says Nino Filastò, at the time lawyer of Mario Vanni. But there is scientific evidence to the contrary. One of these was found by a certain “De Gothia”. Behind this nickname hid a brilliant “mostrologist” who for years dedicated himself to the study of the crimes of the Monster, divulging his investigations in publications on the web. De Gothia demolished Lotti's testimony starting from an image taken by Ennio Macconi, photographer of La Nazione, on June 22, 1982, in the aftermath of the crime “number 4” of the Monster. The photograph captures the victims’ car, kidnapped in the parking lot of the Carabinieri di Signa, and scientifically proves that Lotti simply “copied” the investigators' version. But he saw nothing.
The Fiat 147 in which Paolo Mainardi and Antonella Migliorini were killed in 1982 had been found by rescuers and law enforcement officers a few minutes after the crime, in a drainage canal that flanked the road, on the opposite side to where the victims had parked. The driver's door was locked.
The investigators and Lotti have always claimed that the “Companions of snacks” attacked the couple and, therefore, that Paolo, in an attempt to escape, ended up off the road in reverse with the car. Things didn't turn out that way. De Gothia promptly dismantles the official reconstruction of the crime, based on the law of gravity. In the photograph taken by Macconi to the car of the victims, a drop of blood appears clearly perpendicular to the ground on the lower part of the driver's door, at the height of the seal. Blood dripped onto the hull while the car was level and the door was open. The car, however, was found in an oblique position and with the door closed and locked. As the blood thickens in six long minutes, the victims could only have been mortally wounded when the killer had closed the car door. Evidently, concluded De Gothia, it was the Monster, not Mainardi, who had driven the car out of the pitch, making a mistake and ending up in the canal. Angrily throwing the car keys and wasting three bullets - as the Monster did - one per headlight and one on the windshield, after such a slip, was certainly more logical than doing it before having killed the couple in the spot.
Lotti lied. This is scientific proof. Not as objectionable as they were, in the Court's opinion, the other six testimonies of that evening which contradicted the Beta’s version.
The companions’ motor pool
According to Lotti's words, he and his acquaintances moved through the streets of Mugello and Chianti with a little fleet of cars to plan and carry out their crimes. «According to Lotti, on the evening of June 19, 1982, two cars were parked along the straight stretch of Via Virginio Nuova,» says Francesco Cappelletti, writer and specialist of the Monster case, «but nobody has seen them. How is it possible?».
Via Virginio is a strip of asphalt that runs for kilometers in the Chianti countryside. The point where Mainardi's car was found is at the center of a stretch hundreds of meters long and without crossbeams, apart from a closed alley. «And still», Cappelletti comments, «there are five eyewitnesses who did not see the Companions of Snacks’ cars that evening». «The cars the witnesses drove - the writer continues - proceeded from the two opposite directions of the road. They noticed the victims’ Fiat 147 before and after it fell in the canal, but not the two cars described by Lotti. The interval of witnesses’ sighting is a few minutes. If none of them saw one of the Companions of Snacks, nor did they ever cross one of their cars, it is because Lotti lied».
To support the fact that Lotti has told a lie, in addition to the force of gravity and the eyes of the five witnesses who saw the crime scene that evening immediately before and after the aggression, there is a sixth witness, Lorenzo Allegranti, the stretcher bearer who rescued the two victims. Allegranti has always claimed that the boy dying was in the back seat and not on the front seat of the car, where instead he should have been, according to Lotti's story. Allegranti's testimony was ignored by the Court which condemned Lotti and Vanni as accomplishes of a supposed Monster (Pietro Pacciani, who died before another trial).The definitive sentence of the Court of Florence transformed the serial killer of the couples, lonely, cold and calculating, who successfully challenged the police, in a grotesque combination of the cultured and secular “black soul” of Florence, and a bunch of patrons from the “Taverna del Diavolo” of Scandicci who killed on the commission of some Masonic lodge.
Italian Authorities in the ’90 and 2000s had gradually passed from an investigation on a murderer on whom all criminological science pointed (and points) to the search of a large community of sinners, without ever reaching the real culprit. It is no coincidence that the only existing “procedural truth” to date is that no one was found definitively guilty as main responsible for the crimes charged to the Monster of Florence. «The serial killer, if he is alive, is still at large,» Cappelletti comments.
This inquiry continues here.
submitted by FrancescoAmic1 to UnresolvedMysteries [link] [comments]


2020.06.17 16:26 Boop108 Next door neighbor voyeur

What an odd movie Wonderwall is. It was made in 1968 by Joe Massot, who would later co-direct The Song Remains The Same. Wonderwall could have been a simple kind of 7 year Itch film, but the main character, Professor Oscar Collins, is not your typical straight man. He is is almost completely out of touch with everyone and everything around him. He is barely able to function when he is away from his microscope. He is a bit like a misanthropic Mr. Magoo.
Professor Collins’s inability to connect with the world around him seals him inside his own idiosyncrasies. He is a hoarder as is evidenced by the ramshackle piles of newspapers, cases of framed butterflies, and piles junk that fill his dark apartment. He is not a likable, or relatable individual, and yet he is the only developed character in the film.
For all its color and groovy music the film is actually pretty spare. There is very little dialogue, just three locations, and not a lot happens. Wonderwall flirts with several conventional tropes but manages to skirt predictability.
Professor Collins discovers a small hole in his wall and begins spying on his neighbor. Wonderwall came out the same year as Rosemary’s Baby and the movie adaptation of The Odd Couple. The alienation of apartment life was a frequent theme in 1968. Collins is drawn into the seemingly magical world on the other side of the wall. Each time he peeps through the hole he is rewarded with spectacular, multicolor visions of sexy women and groovy people undulating to Indian music.
As his obsession grows he tears apart his wall and his apartment in effort to gain more access to the vibrant world next door. His apartment is cramped and dilapidated and the more he disrupts and destroys it the more depressing it gets. This only heightens the contrast between the two apartments.
The comparison at the heart of the film is not as simple as a square, nerd longing for the freedom and excess of a hip life style. Collins isn’t attracted to the psychedelia he sees in the little hole, but his relationship seems a little more like an obsessed observer than a voyeur.
There are references to other stories that expand the meaning of the film and foreshadow some of it’s themes. In the beginning we see Collins looking at an etching of a siren from the Odyssey. The apartment next door belongs to a beautiful, female, model who seems to be the center of all the activity. She may be luring Collins into danger but in the end it may well be all her acolytes and friends who she has lead astray. It may also be that the siren is the hedonism itself that is leading all of them toward destruction.
There is a painting of Saint Sebastian on Collin’s wall. In a fantasy Collins sees the young model’s boyfriend tied to a tree and shot full of arrows in a pose that mimics the painting. Saint Sebastian was shot for leading Roman Soldiers away from paganism and into Christianity.
The music in this film is wonderful. There are some beautiful Indian pieces which were relatively new to Western ears back 1968. Wonderwall also features quite a bit of music that sounds like it came right off The Magical Mystery Tour album which The Beatles had released a year earlier.
The whole situation could all be in Collins’ head. There is a strange moment. When his peeping session is interrupted when a door in his apartment swings open and a cloud of smoke emerges. Just visible in the fog is a wheel chair and an arm holding a cigar. The shrouded figure begins to speak and it becomes clear that she is Collins’ overbearing mother who has come to shame him. Then, after doing so, she just disappears behind the door again. She is like a message from some conflicted part of his brain that reproaches him for his indulgences. Between her and the peep hole we are reminded of Norman Bates in Psycho.
As the movie progresses the three worlds of Collin’s life become indistinguishable. His life at home, his life at the lab where he works, and the fantasy life that is both in his head and on the other side of the wall begin to bleed into each other such that groovy chicks start appearing under his microscope or sitting on the edge of his desk.
Eventually Collins ends up on the other side of the wall and there are some interesting reversals. The professor ends up saving the model from the vapid hedonism of her life instead of her saving him from the dark isolation of his. It isn’t a satisfying ending, and the resolution is awkward but it reflects an ever-present ambivalence that is seen throughout film and art from this time. There is an obsession with new found freedoms, and transgressing of old norms, but there is a fear of where it will all lead.
submitted by Boop108 to CultCinema [link] [comments]


2020.06.08 22:02 unknownhorrorwriter2 Idol Worship (Part 1/2)

The Crane house was just ordinary, abandoned trash. Boring even. The house was a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Miles of woods surrounded it. Needless to say, there weren't any neighbors for miles either. The house's mailbox stood tall, wearing its abundance of rust for a paint job. Rather than a paved driveway, a long stretch of faded dirt ran through the house's tall grass and weeds, all the way up to the decrepit front porch.
The clear country sky illuminated the home in a vivid light. The house a beacon that only drew local paranormal enthusiasts and juvenile delinquents looking for cheap thrills in the small town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Even if you didn't believe in ghosts, the Crane house certainly did look the part.
The once-pretty country home looked to have gone uninhabited for decades. Crooked shutters guarded the large cracked windows. Busted wooden steps led up to the house's creaky front porch. The home's bricks all faded with age.
An archaic lantern hung on the porch, its glass case long shattered. The rocking chairs were at least functional if you could look past the layers of thick cobwebs wrapped all around them.
Given the house's many deficiencies and its hopeless place in the open market, the hot Georgia night brought a huge surprise when a pristine and shiny new convertible zoomed down the long dirt driveway.
Appearing with the sudden quickness of a mirage, the car's tires scattered dust everywhere. The convertible's top was down, the occupants inside blasting loud and obnoxious pop music.
The car came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from the porch. As the rag top started coming back down, the music and lights were shut off. After the doors swung open, jovial laughter echoed through the night.
Out stepped two beautiful young women. Bonnie Campbell and Carty Elizabeth, both of them in their late-20s and both of them ultra-attractive. A gay couple just as clever as they were sensual. These weren't the nerdy ghost enthusiasts, the Stanwyck High dropouts, or any of the other typical yokel explorers. This was a couple straight out of a Beverly Hills photo shoot.
Bonnie was a tall and streetwise Latina. Fit enough to be a supermodel, but too anti-establishment for that kinda shit. Everything about her was rebellious. From her hairstyle all the way to her attire. But instead of being scary or intimidating, the aggressive swagger was hot thanks in part to her pretty face.... a fact Bonnie was well aware of.
On the other hand, Carty was less confrontational in both her personality and style. While Bonnie gladly wore the "Butch" persona, Carty was the feminine "girly-girl" of the pair. But like Bonnie, Carty didn't take much shit either. After all, these ladies were entrepreneurs. Bonnie was holding a wireless mic and Carty a camcorder for a reason. They knew how to exploit what God gave them.
The couple stopped and looked on at the derelict house, both of them awestruck for different reasons. Bonnie with excitement, Carty with more than a little unease.
"Fuck, it's gorgeous," Bonnie said. "Absolutely perfect..."
Carty gave her a weird look. "Gorgeous?"
"You know what I mean." Bonnie grabbed a hold of Carty's hand and led her up to the front porch. "Come on. Let's explore."
With big frightened eyes, Carty looked on at the imposing farmhouse as they got closer and closer to the porch's battered wooden steps. It was a country home from Hell, she thought. A cross between a Cracker Barrel and Amityville.
Like a playful older sibling, Bonnie leaned in toward Carty. "Creepy..." she teased Carty in her best horror-host voice.
Carty pushed Bonnie away from her, annoyed. "Fuck you!"
"Aww, you scared, hon?" Bonnie replied.
"Who wouldn't be?" Carty said. She stole a glance back at their car.
"I've seen worse." Bonnie noticed Carty hadn't even turned on the camcorder yet. Outraged, Bonnie stopped and snatched Carty's arm. "Carty, what the Hell are you doing!"
Carty yanked her arm away from Bonnie's grasp. "What!"
Bonnie waved at the camcorder. "The camera, girl!"
Groaning, Carty turned it on.
"Establishing shots, hello," Bonnie reiterated.
"Here's your damn establishing shot," Carty responded. Agitated, she pointed the camera at Bonnie. "Scene one, enter the bitch Bonnie."
Bonnie cracked up.
Still pissy, Carty lowered the camera. "It's your idea to come here in the first place."
"Man, this ain't even that scary!" Bonnie protested. "That old motel in Decatur was way freakier."
Carty went silent and looked on at the house. Technically, Bonnie was right. This place was no different than your average abandoned shack... but something about it felt different. Maybe they’d gone too far off the beaten path of local haunts. After all, there wasn't a whole lot about the Crane house on-line.
"Shit, the graveyard in Bainbridge," Bonnie went on. "I still have those ant bites on my ass."
Carty chuckled. "Well," she began as she stole a glance at Bonnie's shapely booty. "It still looks pretty nice."
Bonnie admired her own ass. "I think they made it bigger."
"Still not as big as mine," Carty quipped.
"Mmm, but I'm getting there," Bonnie replied. She slapped Carty's bubble butt.
Giggling, Carty pointed the camera at the house. "How'd you find this place anyway?" She looked on at the rocking chairs, both of them mummified in cobwebs.
"You know, just the interwebs," Bonnie said.
"Reddit?"
"Pretty much," Bonnie replied with a smile. She faced Carty and ran her hand along Carty's arm. "Let's go."
Still uneasy, Carty looked at her.
Sensing Carty's unease, Bonnie leaned in closer. For once, Bonnie pushed the camcorder away, giving them a sense of privacy.
The couple shared a sweet kiss. One not for the cameras but for themselves. Its potency certainly did the trick for Carty. She felt all of Bonnie's love for her in that one pleasant embrace.
They smiled at one another. Playing teenage lovers in this magic moment.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked mischievously.
Grinning, Carty looked over at the farmhouse. Either the house wasn't that scary to begin with or the drug that was Bonnie's kiss really had calmed my nerves, Carty thought. "Sure," Carty said.
Bonnie pulled Carty in closer to her as they approached the porch's first step. "I got what I could for the legend."
Carty aimed the camera at the house, getting the "establishing shots." "Any of it true?" she asked Bonnie.
Stopping them in front of the porch stairs, Bonnie turned and grinned at Carty. "True enough."
"Okay," Carty said. Using the camera, she motioned Bonnie toward the porch. "You want the honors?"
In a confident stride, Bonnie stepped up in front of the camera. "Absolutely." She glanced back, making sure the house could be seen behind her for a foreboding backdrop.
Carty pointed the camera right at Bonnie. A steady grip. "Awesome," Carty congratulated herself.
Facing Carty, Bonnie fixed her shirt. Now it showed off her boobs even more than she realized was possible. She straightened her hair quickly for good measure. Her and Carty knew they had to look good on camera. Even when they were trespassing onto creepy private property.
"You ready?" Carty asked Bonnie.
For a final test, Bonnie raised the mic and gave it one firm hit. Ready to go. "Yeah, roll it," Bonnie said.
Eager, Carty flashed her a thumbs up.
Bonnie paused for a moment, letting the camera capture her in all her candid glory: pretty face, a stern yet commanding expression, and some really big breasts. In the staunch darkness and with the terrifying house lurking behind her, Bonnie had the aura of a Playboy-sponsored horror show host. A more sexualized Elvira. Just what Carty knew Bonnie was going for.
"Welcome back, voyeurs," Bonnie said in a ghoulishly campy voice. She squeezed her big boobs together in sexy, obnoxious fashion. "Tonight, your two favorite sexy starlets are taking their well-endowed talents to the sleepy little town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Home of the infamous Crane house."
Struggling to contain her laughter, Carty took a few steps back, capturing a wider shot of the house.
God, Bonnie was really hamming it up tonight, Carty thought. Bonnie's silliness could turn any of these eerie locations into both a literal and figurative playhouse for us.
Bonnie looked right into the camera, being as serious as her "acting" would allow. "Thirty years ago, at this very house, sexy, carefree housewife Bette Crane flipped out on her stud farmer husband." With the dedication of a terrible actress gunning for an Oscar, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. What should've been porn-level lighting actually gave Bonnie an otherworldly quality in the country night. "Bette took a frying pan, the very thing she'd used to make Farmer Studbucket's scrambled eggs for him that morning and then turned it into a vicious weapon!"
"Oh God..." Carty muttered through a smirk.
"Bette Crane savagely beat her husband with that frying pan until his face was mushier and more splattered than the greasiest eggs she'd ever cooked," Bonnie continued. "But the housewife wasn't through. After beating her husband to death, Bette took the biggest butcher knife she could find."
Holding the camcorder with the steadiness of a veteran Hollywood filmmaker, Carty stopped right in front of Bonnie for a closer shot of the host.
"And she walked over to her husband's bludgeoned body," Bonnie went on. "And plunged the knife straight into her forehead!" Toning down the theatrics, Bonnie locked eyes with the camera. One on one with her audience. "Ever since the murder, people believe the Crane house is haunted by evil spirits."
Bonnie pointed toward the farmhouse, as if she were emulating a horror tour guide rather than a horror host. "Stanwyck residents have reported many ghost sightings and paranormal incidents over the years," Bonnie said. "Objects seen flying around, weird noises being heard, even what is believed to be the ghost of Bette Crane still walking around with her bloody frying pan." Bonnie paused for dramatic effect. "So now," she began. Still keeping her serious demeanor, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. "We've arrived not to investigate the Crane house." Bonnie's stray hand moved down toward her breasts. "But for the house to investigate us."
Faster than a Mardi Gras veteran, Bonnie stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera with those glorious breasts. "This is Paranormal Fornication, bitches!" she shouted with glee.
Carty burst out laughing as she lowered the camera.
Bonnie lowered her shirt. "You got it?" she asked.
Still laughing, Carty lowered the camera. "Yeah, for sure."
Bonnie stepped toward Carty. "How was I?" she asked, fully expecting Carty's enthusiastic response.
Carty wrapped her arms around Bonnie. "Magnificent, babe!"
Flattered, Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's back. "Mmm, thank you, boo," Bonnie said.
The couple locked lips once more. A gentle kiss that was much more tender than any of their on-screen ones.
"Alright," Bonnie started. She led them toward the stairs. In director mode, she motioned around the porch. "Try to get a few shots of us going in."
At her command, Carty aimed the camcorder at the house. "Roger that, Bon."
Looking through the lens, Carty thought their walk up to the front door was being filmed like the climactic scene to The Blair Witch Project. A slow trek to a foreboding entrance. It looked great on camera. Maybe we can shoot a real horror film someday.
Bonnie slapped Carty's juicy ass, snapping Carty out of her post-pornographic aspirations.
"Ooh, baby!" Carty exclaimed with a startled smile.
"Just keep filming, babe," Bonnie said.
"I know," Carty said as they made their way up the rickety steps. If it weren't for their model physiques, Carty questioned whether these creaking stairs could even hold them.
Breaking away from Carty, Bonnie strolled up onto the front porch, reveling in this conglomeration of country decay.
"Bonnie!" Carty said with unease. Even just a few feet away, Carty thought the distance between them may as well have been a hundred feet considering the eerie circumstances.
Unconcerned, Bonnie gazed around at the house's offerings. The rocking chairs. The busted windows. Even the harsh graffiti scribbled on the aged wood. This house had it all. "God, just look at it!" Bonnie said. The wooden floor kept creaking and giving in but she didn't care one bit. "What a fucking spot!"
"Yeah..." the nervous Carty said as she stopped next to Bonnie. While filming, Carty kept clinging to the camera. Both as a source of light and as a potential weapon. "Fucking weird..."
Reaching out, Bonnie touched a rocking chair and made contact with all the sticky cobwebs. Bonnie drew her hand back, but the icky texture seemed to give her a thrill rather than sicken her. She watched the chair rock back-and-forth in a slow rhythm. The chair's loud creaking formed a hypnotic tune.
Concerned, Carty snatched Bonnie's arm and pulled her away from it. "What are you doing!" Carty yelled.
Chuckling, Bonnie faced her. "What? I just wanted to see-"
Carty stepped back. "Oh my God, you touched it!"
Trying to calm Carty, Bonnie held her hands up in a facetious manner. "Hey, look, nothing got on me."
"Whatever!" Carty backed away and stumbled into a dangling cobweb. Crying out, she rushed back toward Bonnie. "Fuck!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's shoulder. "Babe, just chill-"
"No!" Carty yelled back at her.
Bonnie motioned toward the rocking chair, highlighting its continuous melody of creaks. "Look, we should be filming the shit!"
At its height of rocking, the chair went completely still. The spiders stopping with it.
"Holy shit!" Bonnie exclaimed.
Nervous, Carty focused her camera on the chairs. "Okay, that was creepy."
"Shit, let's get this party started!" Bonnie said. She stepped toward the front door.
Carty looked at her real quick. "Bonnie!"
Before Carty could stop her, Bonnie snagged the rusty doorknob. She flashed Carty a smile. "Be sure to get this."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked.
Carty gave her an apprehensive nod. "Yeah."
"Okay," Bonnie said. "Into the Crane house we go." She started to turn the loose doorknob when an incessant noise startled her and Carty.
"Shit!" Carty yelled as the couple whirled around.
They saw both rocking chairs now swinging in unison. Beneath the weight of age and the cobwebs, these rocking chairs were going harder and faster than seemed possible. Their consistent creaks a countrified chorus.
All the while, Carty kept filming the eerie event. "Oh my God..." she said in fear.
"Shit, this is amazing!" Bonnie exclaimed. She staggered up toward the chairs.
Carty snatched her shoulder, the tight grip ensuring Bonnie wasn't straying too far. "No, don't leave me!"
The rocking chairs came to a sudden stop. Either a slight breeze had gone away or the spiders had used their collective force once more... or the Crane house's spirits had moved on.
Somewhat disappointed, Bonnie pointed at the chairs. "See, it's nothing," she said to soothe Carty. She caressed Carty's shoulder. "We're gonna be fine."
"I don't know," Carty said. She lowered the camera. "I've got a weird feeling about this place."
Bonnie gave her a playful smile. "You get a weird feeling about everywhere."
"Yeah, but not like this..."
"Well, I'm here," Bonnie replied. She leaned in closer toward Carty's lips. "And I'll protect you."
Reassured as always by Bonnie, a grin cracked through Carty's nerves. "You better."
"You know I will." Bonnie gave Carty a soft kiss on the lips.
Carty liked it.
But right before Carty could expect more, Bonnie nodded at the camera. "You got all that shit, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Carty said.
Back to business, Bonnie looked back at the door. "Awesome."
"God, we're not still going in there, are we?" Carty said.
Bonnie faced her. "Why not?"
Upset, Carty motioned toward the chairs. "Not after all that shit!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's wrist in a gentle grip. "Carty, please. Can we just go inside?"
The silent Carty just looked at Bonnie. Bonnie's pretty face and persuasive brown eyes were such an irresistible combination when Bonnie really wanted to do something. Especially when it came to Bonnie's passion for the paranormal.
"This is what we do," Bonnie went on. "Our scary shit." With a sly and seductive touch, she pulled Carty in closer toward her. "Look, I'll make it up to you, baby. I promise. But let's do this first, okay."
How can I say no, Carty thought. Bonnie was rather tough anyway... certainly, braver than me. She was so cute this excited. She always was. "Okay," Carty gave in.
Bonnie leaned in toward Carty's face. "I promise I'll make it up in there, baby," she said in a seductive whisper. Sweetening the deal, Bonnie guided Carty's hand all against her breasts. "I promise."
Carty didn't have a chance. She felt on one of those double-Ds, immense pleasure coursing through Carty's veins. She cracked a smirk. "Goddammit, Bonnie..."
Chuckling, Bonnie pulled her toward the door. "Come on."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie as Bonnie grabbed the knob once more. "Take two," Carty joked.
Turning, Bonnie smiled for the camera. "Paranormal Fornication, motherfuckers."
With dramatic emphasis, Bonnie turned the old doorknob and let the door swing into the house with a grueling creak.
The open doorway now lied before Carty and Bonnie. The dark farmhouse was beckoning them to enter. Paranormal Fornication must go on! it seemed to scream.
The couple journeyed through the farmhouse's narrow downstairs hallway. The camcorder and Bonnie's small flashlight like torches in uncharted terrain. Behind them, the front door was still wide open, Carty refusing to let Bonnie close it. Carty didn't want that sinking feeling of hearing that door slam shut. It was too definitive… Locked in not just for the night but forever.
Holding her mic and the flashlight, Bonnie led the way, Carty right behind her. Carty did her best to keep up, but Bonnie seemed to glide on that torn carpet. "Slow down," Carty grumbled.
"I am," Bonnie retorted. Her eyes were drawn to a doorway on the left at the very end of the hall.
Through the unflinching camera lens, Carty captured the usual array of spooky clichés inside. There were the broken counters and bookshelves. The torn carpets. The literal holes in the walls that reoccurred in patterns on the faded paint. A wooden staircase in the very back that was a poor farmer's attempt to be regal. Even a small door under the staircase that looked to be designed to be a small child's hiding place. The small door aged yet functional.
But it wasn't these scary attributes that bothered Carty. It was how the house somehow appeared... clean. There weren't any spiderwebs or rodents. No dirt, cigarette butts, beer bottles, or any of the other types of debris the duo saw in all their other explorations. The inside of the Crane home was in decent condition. As if someone had been in there and tried to straighten the place up as much as they could. And to Carty's horror, she thought maybe someone had.
"Hello?" Bonnie asked aloud, her voice echoing down the hallway.
Carty glared at her. "Bonnie, shut up!"
Ignoring Carty, Bonnie went closer and closer to the doorway. "Is there anybody home?" she said, her voice seemingly louder.
Carty could only groan in dismay.
But there was no reply. No answers from the Crane house.
Still following Bonnie, Carty looked toward the stairway. Darkness awaited whoever dared walk up those steps. Or whoever could make it up those steps. Several of them were dilapidated, even moreso than the porch steps. The stairway's crooked railing wouldn't offer much support either.
Uneasy, Carty saw the small door under the staircase was open just a crack. No one appeared to be inside it nor were there any lights on inside. It had to be a closet and a small one at that, Carty figured. Not a bad spot for hide and seek...
Bonnie snatched Carty's arm, scaring the shit out of her.
"Jesus!" Carty yelled at Bonnie.
Shushing Carty, Bonnie stopped them just a foot away from the doorway. "Do you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"What?"
Bonnie clenched tighter to Carty's shoulder. "Just listen," Bonnie said. She waved her microphone toward the doorway. "It's coming from there."
Carty looked toward the doorway.
And there it was. A soft crackle and pop. It sounded soothing. It sounded like Christmas. And then Carty realized it felt like Christmas as well. The dank house felt a little toasty.
"Did you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah."
Another pop echoed toward the couple.
They looked on at the doorway and saw a faint orange glow radiating from inside the room.
Bonnie pointed at the light, excited. "Look at it!"
Carty stared at the doorway, her fear the exact opposite of Bonnie's enthusiasm. The crackling continued as a soundtrack to the faint glow. Stunned, Carty realized it was a burning fireplace. "Bonnie-" Carty began.
Bonnie grabbed Carty's hand. "Come on!"
Carty was no match for Bonnie's powerful pull. "But wait-" Carty tried to say.
"Just keep filming!"
Bonnie led Carty into the mysterious room.
Through Bonnie's small light and the weak flickers of the fireplace, Carty could make out they were in a spacious room.
Bonnie stopped in the middle of the room, fascinated. "Are you getting this?" asked Bonnie, her eyes gazing all around the living room.
Staying as close to Bonnie as possible, Carty scanned the room with her camera.
It was definitely the farmhouse's living room, but not one from the twenty-first century. There was no T.V. and seemingly no electricity. No family photos or portraits. No decorations at all. And not much furniture aside from a couple of wooden shelves.
"When'd that murder happen again?" Carty asked.
Still shining her flashlight around the room, Bonnie didn't even look at Carty. "I don't know, like maybe thirty years ago?"
Carty saw a tombstone radio standing near the fireplace. An open doorway was about ten feet away from the radio, this one leading into yet another dark room.
Leaning in closer for a better look, Carty could tell this room had a large wooden table. It must've been the kitchenOr what was left of it.
For all the lack of amenities in the living room, at least the antique radio was an impressive if outdated source of entertainment. The fireplace was similarly grandiose.
But thirty years ago, Carty wondered. Didn't the eighties at least have MTV? What were these bitches doing?
"It seems older," Carty said. She pointed the camera toward a raggedy couch that stood by the fireplace and radio. "Looks older."
"Yeah, well it was like 1982, 1983," Bonnie said. She thought she saw something on a corner wall across the room. Bonnie shined her light toward it and squinted her eyes, trying to see what was there.
"1983?" Carty asked. Her amusement shifted toward fear after she focused on the fireplace. So much wood was piled up in there... wood that had been consumed over a longer period of time. "Shit..."
Bonnie could tell the corner wall had large letters drawn on them. "What the Hell is that?" Bonnie wondered aloud.
"What?" Carty asked.
Intrigued, Bonnie stepped closer toward the letters.
Clinging to the camera for her security, Carty followed Bonnie to the spot. "Bonnie, wait!"
Bonnie stopped and stared at the wall, stunned yet awestruck by her new "discovery." "Oh fuck..."
"What is it!" Carty said as she stopped next to her.
Spraypainted letters splattered across the wall. Vile graffiti. The words had been rotting there a long time, practically implanted into the farmhouse's walls at this point. And the words all shared the same color: blood red paint.
Nasty phrases and slurs made up the collection: Bitch! The Crane Cunt! Bette The Psycho Bitch! Murderer! Cocksucker Crane!
Uneasy, Carty filmed the sight in all its vicious glory. She moved the camera around, even seeing how the graffiti carried over onto the other walls. The endless profanities and insults were all a big billboard brought to you by Stanwyck's resident assholes as a commemorative FUCK YOU to Bette Crane.
Carty stared at the entire scene in horror. This was further indication that this secluded farmhouse truly was home to something horrific. Something so traumatic and disturbing that to this day, the citizens of Stanwyck still felt the need to make this vengeance-fueled pilgrimage.
But to Bonnie, the graffiti was further proof that the couple had come to the right spot.
"Shit!" Carty said. She looked over at Bonnie. "We can't stay here."
With the excited eagerness of a kid about to catch a foul ball in the stands, Bonnie reached out toward "Bette The Psycho Bitch."
"Bonnie!" Carty yelled in outrage. She grabbed Bonnie's arm, stopping her.
Bonnie faced her, annoyed. "Carty, what the fuck!"
"What the fuck are you doing!"
Scoffing, Bonnie waved the mic toward the wall. "See for yourself!"
"No!" Carty said. "Someone's been here, Bonnie. And they might still be here."
"It's just a fire-"
"Just a fucking fire!" Ready to leave, a pissed-off Carty headed straight for the hallway.
"Carty!" Bonnie snagged Carty's arm, making Carty face her. "Look at me! This house is empty!" Using the mic, she motioned toward the fireplace. "Whoever did this shit's probably gone anyway."
"Probably!" Carty replied, incredulous.
Desperate to comfort Carty, Bonnie caressed her shoulders. "Hey, whoever it is is more scared of us than we are of them," Bonnie went on. She ran her finger against Carty's smooth cheek. "They're gone, Carty. And they ain't coming back."
"I don't know," Carty said. Still uneasy, Carty looked toward the fireplace.
"Look, Carty, this is what we do. Even when shit gets weird and scary." Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's arm. "We can't stop now."
Carty faced her. "But the fire. This isn't-"
Adamant, Bonnie stepped away from Carty. "They probably left when they heard us pull up! Just think about it, Carty."
"I don't know..."
Proving her point, Bonnie shined her flashlight all around the living room. "Hello!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, bitches!"
"Bonnie!"
"Come out, motherfucker!" Bonnie went on.
No answer was heard. Just the consistent crackle of the crisp fire.
The lack of a response was helping Carty ease up. Much to Bonnie's delight.
"We don't bite!" Bonnie said. She gave Carty a flirtatious smile. "Well. Maybe I do."
Carty chuckled and shook her head.
The whole house seemed silent except for the fire. And the couple's soft laughter.
"See," Bonnie said as she grabbed a hold of Carty's hand. "It's nothing."
"But why here?" Carty asked. "Why can't we just go somewhere else?"
"Look, just think about it, alright," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "This is gonna be so big, Carty." She waved the flashlight around the living room. "I mean just look at this place! A creepy fucking Texas Chainsaw house, and we discover the fireplace, the graffiti! The damn rocking chairs."
Carty didn't argue. She knew she couldn't due to a combination of Bonnie making sense and being too stubborn to turn back now.
Bonnie caressed Carty's face. "Think of the hits, baby," Bonnie went on. "All the ads we'll get on the site."
Debating the idea, Carty looked off toward the bright fireplace.
"We'll make so much money, boo," Bonnie said. “We'll have enough to do the Lady Macbeth piece."
Carty faced Bonnie, allured by the prospect of doing their dream project. Just the sheer mention of it got Carty's attention.
Displaying a warm smile, Bonnie rubbed Carty's shoulder. "Like we always planned. We'll do real movies from now on, no more creeper sex shit."
"You promise this is the last one?" Carty asked, her voice begging for a yes.
"Yes!" the excited Bonnie said.
"Okay..." Carty relented.
"Thank you!"
"Let's do this."
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss. "I love you, baby," Bonnie said.
"I love you too."
"This is gonna be so perfect," Bonnie said. She stepped away from Carty and focused her attention on the corner wall graffiti. "Fucking crazy."
Carty followed Bonnie's gaze toward the gratuitous graffiti. All those vile words were more than just your average juvenile's bullshit. The phrases looked embroidered with emotion. Sculpted from pure disgust and hate.
Thinking about the creepy stairway, Carty looked back toward the hallway. She couldn't help but wonder if their squatter was hiding upstairs rather than in the woods. "This still feels weird," Carty commented.
Bonnie faced her. "Why, babe?"
Nervous, Carty hesitated on how to answer. "I don't know. It's like someone's watching."
Bonnie stepped right in front of Carty, not even attempting to make her sexual tease more nuanced. "Someone's always watching."
Carty grinned.
Thirty minutes later, Bonnie and Carty's film shoot was going hot and heavy. Steamy, sexy, scintillating. Words you usually wouldn't associate with a "haunted house." But then again, this was Paranormal Fornication.
Sprawled out on the couch, the naked duo engaged in passionate and exuberant sex.
Bonnie and Carty's lovemaking was certainly chock-full of genuine pleasure. Their emotions, the moaning, and the undeniable chemistry between the two were well on display. But their exploitative positions and cloying mannerisms proved that they knew how to put on a show.
The warm fire bathed the couple in a glorious light. Their clothes stacked up in neat piles right by the sofa.
Sitting on top of the tombstone radio, the camcorder filmed the couple's erotica with the detachment of an asexual filmmaker.
Leaning back on the sofa, Carty moaned in pleasure.
All the while, Bonnie continued going down on her partner. The pace was frenetic but Bonnie was gentle. She knew all the right spots. And Carty wasn't complaining.
Carty wrapped her hands around Bonnie's head. "Ooh, baby," Carty said. She tilted her head back and shut her eyes. Just let Bonnie do her thing, she thought. Stopping her now would be like stopping LeBron from going in hard with a highlight-reel dunk. Sometimes, you just gotta let greatness do its thing.
"You like that?" Bonnie said with dirty talk glee.
"Yes, baby!" Carty moaned. She opened her eyes just to steal a look over at the camera. A quick glance for their audience.
With rough quickness, Bonnie started to flip Carty over.
"What are you doing?" Carty whispered.
"I gotta get that ass, mamacita," Bonnie replied.
Glaring, Carty stopped Bonnie. "Just hold on!"
"Carty, the camera-"
"I don't give a shit about them!" Carty grumbled as she turned on her stomach. "Just be more gentle next time."
"Okay," Bonnie sighed. Back in porn mode, she caressed Carty's round booty. "That ass, mamacita!" she exclaimed.
Carty cringed at Bonnie's forced delivery. These glorified butt scenes were a little much, she thought. Maybe I should let out a fart to really shake things up.
"That booty though..." Bonnie continued. She gave Carty a quick (and literal) kiss on the ass.
"God..." Carty mumbled. This wasn't the Bonnie she liked.
Bonnie felt along Carty's butt, cradling it for all the camera to see. It was an impressive booty for sure. Fake as Hell, but that certainly didn't bother Bonnie nor the Paranormal Fornication faithful.
"I gotta see that ass in reverse, girl," Bonnie said in a most oversexualized manner. If this was the extent of her acting abilities, her Lady Macbeth performances must've been a fucking disaster.
"Ooh, you want it, baby," Carty responded, disinterested. She wiggled her ass with the enthusiasm of a jaded stripper on her last day at work.
Bonnie smacked Carty on the ass, making that booty jiggle for the camera.
"Ooh, harder, baby," Carty said in a more seductive tone, making sure her voice was loud for the camera.
"That's my girl," Bonnie beamed.
Bonnie's next smack on Carty's butt was quick and gentle. A love tap Carty enjoyed.
Smiling, Carty looked back at Bonnie. "Mmm, keep going, sexy..."
Bonnie crouched down toward Carty's smooth bubble butt. "With pleasure..."
Bracing for more ass worship, Carty looked toward the hallway. She was surprised at how aroused she was getting in such a creepy place... Bonnie's kisses along her ass were actually feeling really nice. Hell, this was Bonnie's best "performance" since the Hiers farm in Alabama, Carty realized.
"God, you're perfect," Bonnie said.
Carty grinned. She knew that wasn't Bonnie the actress talking, but Bonnie the girlfriend. Not that it was hard to differentiate since Bonnie was a shitty actress.
Carty enjoyed the touch of Bonnie's soft hands running along her lower back and perky butt. The gentle kisses. Maybe we need to keep this episode for ourselves.
A soft, hushed singing drifted toward Carty's ears, piercing through her pleasure. The song's words were murky and unclear, the voice similarly vague. The singer could've been a boy or a girl. But whoever it was didn't seem to be want to be heard. Not yet at least...
Alarmed, Carty looked on at the hallway. The singing appeared to be coming from near the staircase. "What the Hell..." she muttered.
A set of teeth sunk into Carty's juicy ass, startling Carty. The bite was a vampire's wet dream, but Carty knew it wasn't no vampire. "Shit, Bonnie!" Carty fumed as she confronted her girlfriend.
Bonnie leaned back, confused. "What?"
"Did you hear that!"
The haunting singing continued, pulling Carty's attention back toward the hallway.
"I don't hear shit." Bonnie responded.
Carty pointed her toward the stairs. "It's coming from in there!"
Alert, both women listened out for the singing. Even as the words stayed jumbled, the voice had gotten louder. The singer would've never made it on American Idol, but it had a pretty meekness to it. An innocent child’s charm. The voice sounded too deep for a girl... but such vulnerability seemed more fitting for a melancholy teenage female singing herself to sleep.
Bonnie finally heard it. All the confidence drained from her face. For once, she looked rattled by the pair's paranormal excursions. "Shit..."
Carty glared at her. "I told you this was a bad idea!"
The singing kept on repeating the same tune. The same melody. The same scrambled words. The whole production a loop of insanity, albeit, a pretty loop.
"We shouldn't have ever come here!" Carty went on.
Lost in thought, Bonnie turned and looked over at the camcorder. The camera stared right back at her, taunting her with its mere presence. The show must go on...
"Let's fucking go!" Carty pleaded to Bonnie. With uneasy eyes, she looked over at the downstairs hallway.
The singing stayed on a steady path of instability. The words never clear, the mysterious voice wobbling between lovely and stilted.
"Shit..." Carty muttered. She turned and saw Bonnie get off the couch. "Bonnie!"
Bonnie threw on her clothes.
Ready to get the fuck outta there, Carty stood up and did the same. She saw Bonnie grab the camera.
"Are we going?" Carty asked with impatience. She pulled her tight shirt over her head. Both women were now dressed. Easily the fastest either of them had ever put their clothes back on.
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss for reassurance. "I'm just gonna go look."
Carty pushed Bonnie back. "Are you crazy!"
"Carty, it's just for the site," Bonnie said. "We're just gonna look real quick and see what it is."
"Oh God," Carty said. Terrified, she turned away. She could still hear the singing. That fucking voice.
Bonnie retrieved the flashlight from her pocket. "Just follow me, alright," she told Carty.
Carty took an angry step toward her. "No-"
"Then what do you want us to do!" Bonnie interrupted. "The door's that way, Carty."
The repetitious singing went on in its hypnotic loop. Now the voice was even louder, begging for an audience.
Groaning, the scared Carty looked off toward the fireplace.
Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's shoulder. "Think of the show, babe," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "Think of us."
Carty confronted her. "I am!" Carty yelled. "But this is crazy, Bonnie." Her trembling hand pointed toward the fireplace. "Whoever's here made the Goddamn fire!"
Forcing a smile, Bonnie turned on the flashlight and put it up under her face in a playful manner. "Then let's just hope it's a ghost."
Bonnie showed equal parts bravery and stupidity as she took off for the downstairs hallway. Toward the singer's lair..
"Shit, Bonnie!" Carty yelled after her. Left alone in frustration, Carty looked down and saw the mic lying on the ground. Desperate, she snatched it up.
Link To Part 2
Link To eBook
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2020.06.08 18:53 unknownhorrorwriter2 Neighbor next voyeur door

The Crane house was just ordinary, abandoned trash. Boring even. The house was a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Miles of woods surrounded it. Needless to say, there weren't any neighbors for miles either. The house's mailbox stood tall, wearing its abundance of rust for a paint job. Rather than a paved driveway, a long stretch of faded dirt ran through the house's tall grass and weeds, all the way up to the decrepit front porch.
The clear country sky illuminated the home in a vivid light. The house a beacon that only drew local paranormal enthusiasts and juvenile delinquents looking for cheap thrills in the small town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Even if you didn't believe in ghosts, the Crane house certainly did look the part.
The once-pretty country home looked to have gone uninhabited for decades. Crooked shutters guarded the large cracked windows. Busted wooden steps led up to the house's creaky front porch. The home's bricks all faded with age.
An archaic lantern hung on the porch, its glass case long shattered. The rocking chairs were at least functional if you could look past the layers of thick cobwebs wrapped all around them.
Given the house's many deficiencies and its hopeless place in the open market, the hot Georgia night brought a huge surprise when a pristine and shiny new convertible zoomed down the long dirt driveway.
Appearing with the sudden quickness of a mirage, the car's tires scattered dust everywhere. The convertible's top was down, the occupants inside blasting loud and obnoxious pop music.
The car came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from the porch. As the rag top started coming back down, the music and lights were shut off. After the doors swung open, jovial laughter echoed through the night.
Out stepped two beautiful young women. Bonnie Campbell and Carty Elizabeth, both of them in their late-20s and both of them ultra-attractive. A gay couple just as clever as they were sensual. These weren't the nerdy ghost enthusiasts, the Stanwyck High dropouts, or any of the other typical yokel explorers. This was a couple straight out of a Beverly Hills photo shoot.
Bonnie was a tall and streetwise Latina. Fit enough to be a supermodel, but too anti-establishment for that kinda shit. Everything about her was rebellious. From her hairstyle all the way to her attire. But instead of being scary or intimidating, the aggressive swagger was hot thanks in part to her pretty face.... a fact Bonnie was well aware of.
On the other hand, Carty was less confrontational in both her personality and style. While Bonnie gladly wore the "Butch" persona, Carty was the feminine "girly-girl" of the pair. But like Bonnie, Carty didn't take much shit either. After all, these ladies were entrepreneurs. Bonnie was holding a wireless mic and Carty a camcorder for a reason. They knew how to exploit what God gave them.
The couple stopped and looked on at the derelict house, both of them awestruck for different reasons. Bonnie with excitement, Carty with more than a little unease.
"Fuck, it's gorgeous," Bonnie said. "Absolutely perfect..."
Carty gave her a weird look. "Gorgeous?"
"You know what I mean." Bonnie grabbed a hold of Carty's hand and led her up to the front porch. "Come on. Let's explore."
With big frightened eyes, Carty looked on at the imposing farmhouse as they got closer and closer to the porch's battered wooden steps. It was a country home from Hell, she thought. A cross between a Cracker Barrel and Amityville.
Like a playful older sibling, Bonnie leaned in toward Carty. "Creepy..." she teased Carty in her best horror-host voice.
Carty pushed Bonnie away from her, annoyed. "Fuck you!"
"Aww, you scared, hon?" Bonnie replied.
"Who wouldn't be?" Carty said. She stole a glance back at their car.
"I've seen worse." Bonnie noticed Carty hadn't even turned on the camcorder yet. Outraged, Bonnie stopped and snatched Carty's arm. "Carty, what the Hell are you doing!"
Carty yanked her arm away from Bonnie's grasp. "What!"
Bonnie waved at the camcorder. "The camera, girl!"
Groaning, Carty turned it on.
"Establishing shots, hello," Bonnie reiterated.
"Here's your damn establishing shot," Carty responded. Agitated, she pointed the camera at Bonnie. "Scene one, enter the bitch Bonnie."
Bonnie cracked up.
Still pissy, Carty lowered the camera. "It's your idea to come here in the first place."
"Man, this ain't even that scary!" Bonnie protested. "That old motel in Decatur was way freakier."
Carty went silent and looked on at the house. Technically, Bonnie was right. This place was no different than your average abandoned shack... but something about it felt different. Maybe they’d gone too far off the beaten path of local haunts. After all, there wasn't a whole lot about the Crane house on-line.
"Shit, the graveyard in Bainbridge," Bonnie went on. "I still have those ant bites on my ass."
Carty chuckled. "Well," she began as she stole a glance at Bonnie's shapely booty. "It still looks pretty nice."
Bonnie admired her own ass. "I think they made it bigger."
"Still not as big as mine," Carty quipped.
"Mmm, but I'm getting there," Bonnie replied. She slapped Carty's bubble butt.
Giggling, Carty pointed the camera at the house. "How'd you find this place anyway?" She looked on at the rocking chairs, both of them mummified in cobwebs.
"You know, just the interwebs," Bonnie said.
"Reddit?"
"Pretty much," Bonnie replied with a smile. She faced Carty and ran her hand along Carty's arm. "Let's go."
Still uneasy, Carty looked at her.
Sensing Carty's unease, Bonnie leaned in closer. For once, Bonnie pushed the camcorder away, giving them a sense of privacy.
The couple shared a sweet kiss. One not for the cameras but for themselves. Its potency certainly did the trick for Carty. She felt all of Bonnie's love for her in that one pleasant embrace.
They smiled at one another. Playing teenage lovers in this magic moment.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked mischievously.
Grinning, Carty looked over at the farmhouse. Either the house wasn't that scary to begin with or the drug that was Bonnie's kiss really had calmed my nerves, Carty thought. "Sure," Carty said.
Bonnie pulled Carty in closer to her as they approached the porch's first step. "I got what I could for the legend."
Carty aimed the camera at the house, getting the "establishing shots." "Any of it true?" she asked Bonnie.
Stopping them in front of the porch stairs, Bonnie turned and grinned at Carty. "True enough."
"Okay," Carty said. Using the camera, she motioned Bonnie toward the porch. "You want the honors?"
In a confident stride, Bonnie stepped up in front of the camera. "Absolutely." She glanced back, making sure the house could be seen behind her for a foreboding backdrop.
Carty pointed the camera right at Bonnie. A steady grip. "Awesome," Carty congratulated herself.
Facing Carty, Bonnie fixed her shirt. Now it showed off her boobs even more than she realized was possible. She straightened her hair quickly for good measure. Her and Carty knew they had to look good on camera. Even when they were trespassing onto creepy private property.
"You ready?" Carty asked Bonnie.
For a final test, Bonnie raised the mic and gave it one firm hit. Ready to go. "Yeah, roll it," Bonnie said.
Eager, Carty flashed her a thumbs up.
Bonnie paused for a moment, letting the camera capture her in all her candid glory: pretty face, a stern yet commanding expression, and some really big breasts. In the staunch darkness and with the terrifying house lurking behind her, Bonnie had the aura of a Playboy-sponsored horror show host. A more sexualized Elvira. Just what Carty knew Bonnie was going for.
"Welcome back, voyeurs," Bonnie said in a ghoulishly campy voice. She squeezed her big boobs together in sexy, obnoxious fashion. "Tonight, your two favorite sexy starlets are taking their well-endowed talents to the sleepy little town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Home of the infamous Crane house."
Struggling to contain her laughter, Carty took a few steps back, capturing a wider shot of the house.
God, Bonnie was really hamming it up tonight, Carty thought. Bonnie's silliness could turn any of these eerie locations into both a literal and figurative playhouse for us.
Bonnie looked right into the camera, being as serious as her "acting" would allow. "Thirty years ago, at this very house, sexy, carefree housewife Bette Crane flipped out on her stud farmer husband." With the dedication of a terrible actress gunning for an Oscar, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. What should've been porn-level lighting actually gave Bonnie an otherworldly quality in the country night. "Bette took a frying pan, the very thing she'd used to make Farmer Studbucket's scrambled eggs for him that morning and then turned it into a vicious weapon!"
"Oh God..." Carty muttered through a smirk.
"Bette Crane savagely beat her husband with that frying pan until his face was mushier and more splattered than the greasiest eggs she'd ever cooked," Bonnie continued. "But the housewife wasn't through. After beating her husband to death, Bette took the biggest butcher knife she could find."
Holding the camcorder with the steadiness of a veteran Hollywood filmmaker, Carty stopped right in front of Bonnie for a closer shot of the host.
"And she walked over to her husband's bludgeoned body," Bonnie went on. "And plunged the knife straight into her forehead!" Toning down the theatrics, Bonnie locked eyes with the camera. One on one with her audience. "Ever since the murder, people believe the Crane house is haunted by evil spirits."
Bonnie pointed toward the farmhouse, as if she were emulating a horror tour guide rather than a horror host. "Stanwyck residents have reported many ghost sightings and paranormal incidents over the years," Bonnie said. "Objects seen flying around, weird noises being heard, even what is believed to be the ghost of Bette Crane still walking around with her bloody frying pan." Bonnie paused for dramatic effect. "So now," she began. Still keeping her serious demeanor, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. "We've arrived not to investigate the Crane house." Bonnie's stray hand moved down toward her breasts. "But for the house to investigate us."
Faster than a Mardi Gras veteran, Bonnie stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera with those glorious breasts. "This is Paranormal Fornication, bitches!" she shouted with glee.
Carty burst out laughing as she lowered the camera.
Bonnie lowered her shirt. "You got it?" she asked.
Still laughing, Carty lowered the camera. "Yeah, for sure."
Bonnie stepped toward Carty. "How was I?" she asked, fully expecting Carty's enthusiastic response.
Carty wrapped her arms around Bonnie. "Magnificent, babe!"
Flattered, Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's back. "Mmm, thank you, boo," Bonnie said.
The couple locked lips once more. A gentle kiss that was much more tender than any of their on-screen ones.
"Alright," Bonnie started. She led them toward the stairs. In director mode, she motioned around the porch. "Try to get a few shots of us going in."
At her command, Carty aimed the camcorder at the house. "Roger that, Bon."
Looking through the lens, Carty thought their walk up to the front door was being filmed like the climactic scene to The Blair Witch Project. A slow trek to a foreboding entrance. It looked great on camera. Maybe we can shoot a real horror film someday.
Bonnie slapped Carty's juicy ass, snapping Carty out of her post-pornographic aspirations.
"Ooh, baby!" Carty exclaimed with a startled smile.
"Just keep filming, babe," Bonnie said.
"I know," Carty said as they made their way up the rickety steps. If it weren't for their model physiques, Carty questioned whether these creaking stairs could even hold them.
Breaking away from Carty, Bonnie strolled up onto the front porch, reveling in this conglomeration of country decay.
"Bonnie!" Carty said with unease. Even just a few feet away, Carty thought the distance between them may as well have been a hundred feet considering the eerie circumstances.
Unconcerned, Bonnie gazed around at the house's offerings. The rocking chairs. The busted windows. Even the harsh graffiti scribbled on the aged wood. This house had it all. "God, just look at it!" Bonnie said. The wooden floor kept creaking and giving in but she didn't care one bit. "What a fucking spot!"
"Yeah..." the nervous Carty said as she stopped next to Bonnie. While filming, Carty kept clinging to the camera. Both as a source of light and as a potential weapon. "Fucking weird..."
Reaching out, Bonnie touched a rocking chair and made contact with all the sticky cobwebs. Bonnie drew her hand back, but the icky texture seemed to give her a thrill rather than sicken her. She watched the chair rock back-and-forth in a slow rhythm. The chair's loud creaking formed a hypnotic tune.
Concerned, Carty snatched Bonnie's arm and pulled her away from it. "What are you doing!" Carty yelled.
Chuckling, Bonnie faced her. "What? I just wanted to see-"
Carty stepped back. "Oh my God, you touched it!"
Trying to calm Carty, Bonnie held her hands up in a facetious manner. "Hey, look, nothing got on me."
"Whatever!" Carty backed away and stumbled into a dangling cobweb. Crying out, she rushed back toward Bonnie. "Fuck!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's shoulder. "Babe, just chill-"
"No!" Carty yelled back at her.
Bonnie motioned toward the rocking chair, highlighting its continuous melody of creaks. "Look, we should be filming the shit!"
At its height of rocking, the chair went completely still. The spiders stopping with it.
"Holy shit!" Bonnie exclaimed.
Nervous, Carty focused her camera on the chairs. "Okay, that was creepy."
"Shit, let's get this party started!" Bonnie said. She stepped toward the front door.
Carty looked at her real quick. "Bonnie!"
Before Carty could stop her, Bonnie snagged the rusty doorknob. She flashed Carty a smile. "Be sure to get this."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked.
Carty gave her an apprehensive nod. "Yeah."
"Okay," Bonnie said. "Into the Crane house we go." She started to turn the loose doorknob when an incessant noise startled her and Carty.
"Shit!" Carty yelled as the couple whirled around.
They saw both rocking chairs now swinging in unison. Beneath the weight of age and the cobwebs, these rocking chairs were going harder and faster than seemed possible. Their consistent creaks a countrified chorus.
All the while, Carty kept filming the eerie event. "Oh my God..." she said in fear.
"Shit, this is amazing!" Bonnie exclaimed. She staggered up toward the chairs.
Carty snatched her shoulder, the tight grip ensuring Bonnie wasn't straying too far. "No, don't leave me!"
The rocking chairs came to a sudden stop. Either a slight breeze had gone away or the spiders had used their collective force once more... or the Crane house's spirits had moved on.
Somewhat disappointed, Bonnie pointed at the chairs. "See, it's nothing," she said to soothe Carty. She caressed Carty's shoulder. "We're gonna be fine."
"I don't know," Carty said. She lowered the camera. "I've got a weird feeling about this place."
Bonnie gave her a playful smile. "You get a weird feeling about everywhere."
"Yeah, but not like this..."
"Well, I'm here," Bonnie replied. She leaned in closer toward Carty's lips. "And I'll protect you."
Reassured as always by Bonnie, a grin cracked through Carty's nerves. "You better."
"You know I will." Bonnie gave Carty a soft kiss on the lips.
Carty liked it.
But right before Carty could expect more, Bonnie nodded at the camera. "You got all that shit, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Carty said.
Back to business, Bonnie looked back at the door. "Awesome."
"God, we're not still going in there, are we?" Carty said.
Bonnie faced her. "Why not?"
Upset, Carty motioned toward the chairs. "Not after all that shit!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's wrist in a gentle grip. "Carty, please. Can we just go inside?"
The silent Carty just looked at Bonnie. Bonnie's pretty face and persuasive brown eyes were such an irresistible combination when Bonnie really wanted to do something. Especially when it came to Bonnie's passion for the paranormal.
"This is what we do," Bonnie went on. "Our scary shit." With a sly and seductive touch, she pulled Carty in closer toward her. "Look, I'll make it up to you, baby. I promise. But let's do this first, okay."
How can I say no, Carty thought. Bonnie was rather tough anyway... certainly, braver than me. She was so cute this excited. She always was. "Okay," Carty gave in.
Bonnie leaned in toward Carty's face. "I promise I'll make it up in there, baby," she said in a seductive whisper. Sweetening the deal, Bonnie guided Carty's hand all against her breasts. "I promise."
Carty didn't have a chance. She felt on one of those double-Ds, immense pleasure coursing through Carty's veins. She cracked a smirk. "Goddammit, Bonnie..."
Chuckling, Bonnie pulled her toward the door. "Come on."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie as Bonnie grabbed the knob once more. "Take two," Carty joked.
Turning, Bonnie smiled for the camera. "Paranormal Fornication, motherfuckers."
With dramatic emphasis, Bonnie turned the old doorknob and let the door swing into the house with a grueling creak.
The open doorway now lied before Carty and Bonnie. The dark farmhouse was beckoning them to enter. Paranormal Fornication must go on! it seemed to scream.
The couple journeyed through the farmhouse's narrow downstairs hallway. The camcorder and Bonnie's small flashlight like torches in uncharted terrain. Behind them, the front door was still wide open, Carty refusing to let Bonnie close it. Carty didn't want that sinking feeling of hearing that door slam shut. It was too definitive… Locked in not just for the night but forever.
Holding her mic and the flashlight, Bonnie led the way, Carty right behind her. Carty did her best to keep up, but Bonnie seemed to glide on that torn carpet. "Slow down," Carty grumbled.
"I am," Bonnie retorted. Her eyes were drawn to a doorway on the left at the very end of the hall.
Through the unflinching camera lens, Carty captured the usual array of spooky clichés inside. There were the broken counters and bookshelves. The torn carpets. The literal holes in the walls that reoccurred in patterns on the faded paint. A wooden staircase in the very back that was a poor farmer's attempt to be regal. Even a small door under the staircase that looked to be designed to be a small child's hiding place. The small door aged yet functional.
But it wasn't these scary attributes that bothered Carty. It was how the house somehow appeared... clean. There weren't any spiderwebs or rodents. No dirt, cigarette butts, beer bottles, or any of the other types of debris the duo saw in all their other explorations. The inside of the Crane home was in decent condition. As if someone had been in there and tried to straighten the place up as much as they could. And to Carty's horror, she thought maybe someone had.
"Hello?" Bonnie asked aloud, her voice echoing down the hallway.
Carty glared at her. "Bonnie, shut up!"
Ignoring Carty, Bonnie went closer and closer to the doorway. "Is there anybody home?" she said, her voice seemingly louder.
Carty could only groan in dismay.
But there was no reply. No answers from the Crane house.
Still following Bonnie, Carty looked toward the stairway. Darkness awaited whoever dared walk up those steps. Or whoever could make it up those steps. Several of them were dilapidated, even moreso than the porch steps. The stairway's crooked railing wouldn't offer much support either.
Uneasy, Carty saw the small door under the staircase was open just a crack. No one appeared to be inside it nor were there any lights on inside. It had to be a closet and a small one at that, Carty figured. Not a bad spot for hide and seek...
Bonnie snatched Carty's arm, scaring the shit out of her.
"Jesus!" Carty yelled at Bonnie.
Shushing Carty, Bonnie stopped them just a foot away from the doorway. "Do you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"What?"
Bonnie clenched tighter to Carty's shoulder. "Just listen," Bonnie said. She waved her microphone toward the doorway. "It's coming from there."
Carty looked toward the doorway.
And there it was. A soft crackle and pop. It sounded soothing. It sounded like Christmas. And then Carty realized it felt like Christmas as well. The dank house felt a little toasty.
"Did you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah."
Another pop echoed toward the couple.
They looked on at the doorway and saw a faint orange glow radiating from inside the room.
Bonnie pointed at the light, excited. "Look at it!"
Carty stared at the doorway, her fear the exact opposite of Bonnie's enthusiasm. The crackling continued as a soundtrack to the faint glow. Stunned, Carty realized it was a burning fireplace. "Bonnie-" Carty began.
Bonnie grabbed Carty's hand. "Come on!"
Carty was no match for Bonnie's powerful pull. "But wait-" Carty tried to say.
"Just keep filming!"
Bonnie led Carty into the mysterious room.
Through Bonnie's small light and the weak flickers of the fireplace, Carty could make out they were in a spacious room.
Bonnie stopped in the middle of the room, fascinated. "Are you getting this?" asked Bonnie, her eyes gazing all around the living room.
Staying as close to Bonnie as possible, Carty scanned the room with her camera.
It was definitely the farmhouse's living room, but not one from the twenty-first century. There was no T.V. and seemingly no electricity. No family photos or portraits. No decorations at all. And not much furniture aside from a couple of wooden shelves.
"When'd that murder happen again?" Carty asked.
Still shining her flashlight around the room, Bonnie didn't even look at Carty. "I don't know, like maybe thirty years ago?"
Carty saw a tombstone radio standing near the fireplace. An open doorway was about ten feet away from the radio, this one leading into yet another dark room.
Leaning in closer for a better look, Carty could tell this room had a large wooden table. It must've been the kitchenOr what was left of it.
For all the lack of amenities in the living room, at least the antique radio was an impressive if outdated source of entertainment. The fireplace was similarly grandiose.
But thirty years ago, Carty wondered. Didn't the eighties at least have MTV? What were these bitches doing?
"It seems older," Carty said. She pointed the camera toward a raggedy couch that stood by the fireplace and radio. "Looks older."
"Yeah, well it was like 1982, 1983," Bonnie said. She thought she saw something on a corner wall across the room. Bonnie shined her light toward it and squinted her eyes, trying to see what was there.
"1983?" Carty asked. Her amusement shifted toward fear after she focused on the fireplace. So much wood was piled up in there... wood that had been consumed over a longer period of time. "Shit..."
Bonnie could tell the corner wall had large letters drawn on them. "What the Hell is that?" Bonnie wondered aloud.
"What?" Carty asked.
Intrigued, Bonnie stepped closer toward the letters.
Clinging to the camera for her security, Carty followed Bonnie to the spot. "Bonnie, wait!"
Bonnie stopped and stared at the wall, stunned yet awestruck by her new "discovery." "Oh fuck..."
"What is it!" Carty said as she stopped next to her.
Spraypainted letters splattered across the wall. Vile graffiti. The words had been rotting there a long time, practically implanted into the farmhouse's walls at this point. And the words all shared the same color: blood red paint.
Nasty phrases and slurs made up the collection: Bitch! The Crane Cunt! Bette The Psycho Bitch! Murderer! Cocksucker Crane!
Uneasy, Carty filmed the sight in all its vicious glory. She moved the camera around, even seeing how the graffiti carried over onto the other walls. The endless profanities and insults were all a big billboard brought to you by Stanwyck's resident assholes as a commemorative FUCK YOU to Bette Crane.
Carty stared at the entire scene in horror. This was further indication that this secluded farmhouse truly was home to something horrific. Something so traumatic and disturbing that to this day, the citizens of Stanwyck still felt the need to make this vengeance-fueled pilgrimage.
But to Bonnie, the graffiti was further proof that the couple had come to the right spot.
"Shit!" Carty said. She looked over at Bonnie. "We can't stay here."
With the excited eagerness of a kid about to catch a foul ball in the stands, Bonnie reached out toward "Bette The Psycho Bitch."
"Bonnie!" Carty yelled in outrage. She grabbed Bonnie's arm, stopping her.
Bonnie faced her, annoyed. "Carty, what the fuck!"
"What the fuck are you doing!"
Scoffing, Bonnie waved the mic toward the wall. "See for yourself!"
"No!" Carty said. "Someone's been here, Bonnie. And they might still be here."
"It's just a fire-"
"Just a fucking fire!" Ready to leave, a pissed-off Carty headed straight for the hallway.
"Carty!" Bonnie snagged Carty's arm, making Carty face her. "Look at me! This house is empty!" Using the mic, she motioned toward the fireplace. "Whoever did this shit's probably gone anyway."
"Probably!" Carty replied, incredulous.
Desperate to comfort Carty, Bonnie caressed her shoulders. "Hey, whoever it is is more scared of us than we are of them," Bonnie went on. She ran her finger against Carty's smooth cheek. "They're gone, Carty. And they ain't coming back."
"I don't know," Carty said. Still uneasy, Carty looked toward the fireplace.
"Look, Carty, this is what we do. Even when shit gets weird and scary." Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's arm. "We can't stop now."
Carty faced her. "But the fire. This isn't-"
Adamant, Bonnie stepped away from Carty. "They probably left when they heard us pull up! Just think about it, Carty."
"I don't know..."
Proving her point, Bonnie shined her flashlight all around the living room. "Hello!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, bitches!"
"Bonnie!"
"Come out, motherfucker!" Bonnie went on.
No answer was heard. Just the consistent crackle of the crisp fire.
The lack of a response was helping Carty ease up. Much to Bonnie's delight.
"We don't bite!" Bonnie said. She gave Carty a flirtatious smile. "Well. Maybe I do."
Carty chuckled and shook her head.
The whole house seemed silent except for the fire. And the couple's soft laughter.
"See," Bonnie said as she grabbed a hold of Carty's hand. "It's nothing."
"But why here?" Carty asked. "Why can't we just go somewhere else?"
"Look, just think about it, alright," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "This is gonna be so big, Carty." She waved the flashlight around the living room. "I mean just look at this place! A creepy fucking Texas Chainsaw house, and we discover the fireplace, the graffiti! The damn rocking chairs."
Carty didn't argue. She knew she couldn't due to a combination of Bonnie making sense and being too stubborn to turn back now.
Bonnie caressed Carty's face. "Think of the hits, baby," Bonnie went on. "All the ads we'll get on the site."
Debating the idea, Carty looked off toward the bright fireplace.
"We'll make so much money, boo," Bonnie said. “We'll have enough to do the Lady Macbeth piece."
Carty faced Bonnie, allured by the prospect of doing their dream project. Just the sheer mention of it got Carty's attention.
Displaying a warm smile, Bonnie rubbed Carty's shoulder. "Like we always planned. We'll do real movies from now on, no more creeper sex shit."
"You promise this is the last one?" Carty asked, her voice begging for a yes.
"Yes!" the excited Bonnie said.
"Okay..." Carty relented.
"Thank you!"
"Let's do this."
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss. "I love you, baby," Bonnie said.
"I love you too."
"This is gonna be so perfect," Bonnie said. She stepped away from Carty and focused her attention on the corner wall graffiti. "Fucking crazy."
Carty followed Bonnie's gaze toward the gratuitous graffiti. All those vile words were more than just your average juvenile's bullshit. The phrases looked embroidered with emotion. Sculpted from pure disgust and hate.
Thinking about the creepy stairway, Carty looked back toward the hallway. She couldn't help but wonder if their squatter was hiding upstairs rather than in the woods. "This still feels weird," Carty commented.
Bonnie faced her. "Why, babe?"
Nervous, Carty hesitated on how to answer. "I don't know. It's like someone's watching."
Bonnie stepped right in front of Carty, not even attempting to make her sexual tease more nuanced. "Someone's always watching."
Carty grinned.
Thirty minutes later, Bonnie and Carty's film shoot was going hot and heavy. Steamy, sexy, scintillating. Words you usually wouldn't associate with a "haunted house." But then again, this was Paranormal Fornication.
Sprawled out on the couch, the naked duo engaged in passionate and exuberant sex.
Bonnie and Carty's lovemaking was certainly chock-full of genuine pleasure. Their emotions, the moaning, and the undeniable chemistry between the two were well on display. But their exploitative positions and cloying mannerisms proved that they knew how to put on a show.
The warm fire bathed the couple in a glorious light. Their clothes stacked up in neat piles right by the sofa.
Sitting on top of the tombstone radio, the camcorder filmed the couple's erotica with the detachment of an asexual filmmaker.
Leaning back on the sofa, Carty moaned in pleasure.
All the while, Bonnie continued going down on her partner. The pace was frenetic but Bonnie was gentle. She knew all the right spots. And Carty wasn't complaining.
Carty wrapped her hands around Bonnie's head. "Ooh, baby," Carty said. She tilted her head back and shut her eyes. Just let Bonnie do her thing, she thought. Stopping her now would be like stopping LeBron from going in hard with a highlight-reel dunk. Sometimes, you just gotta let greatness do its thing.
"You like that?" Bonnie said with dirty talk glee.
"Yes, baby!" Carty moaned. She opened her eyes just to steal a look over at the camera. A quick glance for their audience.
With rough quickness, Bonnie started to flip Carty over.
"What are you doing?" Carty whispered.
"I gotta get that ass, mamacita," Bonnie replied.
Glaring, Carty stopped Bonnie. "Just hold on!"
"Carty, the camera-"
"I don't give a shit about them!" Carty grumbled as she turned on her stomach. "Just be more gentle next time."
"Okay," Bonnie sighed. Back in porn mode, she caressed Carty's round booty. "That ass, mamacita!" she exclaimed.
Carty cringed at Bonnie's forced delivery. These glorified butt scenes were a little much, she thought. Maybe I should let out a fart to really shake things up.
"That booty though..." Bonnie continued. She gave Carty a quick (and literal) kiss on the ass.
"God..." Carty mumbled. This wasn't the Bonnie she liked.
Bonnie felt along Carty's butt, cradling it for all the camera to see. It was an impressive booty for sure. Fake as Hell, but that certainly didn't bother Bonnie nor the Paranormal Fornication faithful.
"I gotta see that ass in reverse, girl," Bonnie said in a most oversexualized manner. If this was the extent of her acting abilities, her Lady Macbeth performances must've been a fucking disaster.
"Ooh, you want it, baby," Carty responded, disinterested. She wiggled her ass with the enthusiasm of a jaded stripper on her last day at work.
Bonnie smacked Carty on the ass, making that booty jiggle for the camera.
"Ooh, harder, baby," Carty said in a more seductive tone, making sure her voice was loud for the camera.
"That's my girl," Bonnie beamed.
Bonnie's next smack on Carty's butt was quick and gentle. A love tap Carty enjoyed.
Smiling, Carty looked back at Bonnie. "Mmm, keep going, sexy..."
Bonnie crouched down toward Carty's smooth bubble butt. "With pleasure..."
Bracing for more ass worship, Carty looked toward the hallway. She was surprised at how aroused she was getting in such a creepy place... Bonnie's kisses along her ass were actually feeling really nice. Hell, this was Bonnie's best "performance" since the Hiers farm in Alabama, Carty realized.
"God, you're perfect," Bonnie said.
Carty grinned. She knew that wasn't Bonnie the actress talking, but Bonnie the girlfriend. Not that it was hard to differentiate since Bonnie was a shitty actress.
Carty enjoyed the touch of Bonnie's soft hands running along her lower back and perky butt. The gentle kisses. Maybe we need to keep this episode for ourselves.
A soft, hushed singing drifted toward Carty's ears, piercing through her pleasure. The song's words were murky and unclear, the voice similarly vague. The singer could've been a boy or a girl. But whoever it was didn't seem to be want to be heard. Not yet at least...
Alarmed, Carty looked on at the hallway. The singing appeared to be coming from near the staircase. "What the Hell..." she muttered.
A set of teeth sunk into Carty's juicy ass, startling Carty. The bite was a vampire's wet dream, but Carty knew it wasn't no vampire. "Shit, Bonnie!" Carty fumed as she confronted her girlfriend.
Bonnie leaned back, confused. "What?"
"Did you hear that!"
The haunting singing continued, pulling Carty's attention back toward the hallway.
"I don't hear shit." Bonnie responded.
Carty pointed her toward the stairs. "It's coming from in there!"
Alert, both women listened out for the singing. Even as the words stayed jumbled, the voice had gotten louder. The singer would've never made it on American Idol, but it had a pretty meekness to it. An innocent child’s charm. The voice sounded too deep for a girl... but such vulnerability seemed more fitting for a melancholy teenage female singing herself to sleep.
Bonnie finally heard it. All the confidence drained from her face. For once, she looked rattled by the pair's paranormal excursions. "Shit..."
Carty glared at her. "I told you this was a bad idea!"
The singing kept on repeating the same tune. The same melody. The same scrambled words. The whole production a loop of insanity, albeit, a pretty loop.
"We shouldn't have ever come here!" Carty went on.
Lost in thought, Bonnie turned and looked over at the camcorder. The camera stared right back at her, taunting her with its mere presence. The show must go on...
"Let's fucking go!" Carty pleaded to Bonnie. With uneasy eyes, she looked over at the downstairs hallway.
The singing stayed on a steady path of instability. The words never clear, the mysterious voice wobbling between lovely and stilted.
"Shit..." Carty muttered. She turned and saw Bonnie get off the couch. "Bonnie!"
Bonnie threw on her clothes.
Ready to get the fuck outta there, Carty stood up and did the same. She saw Bonnie grab the camera.
"Are we going?" Carty asked with impatience. She pulled her tight shirt over her head. Both women were now dressed. Easily the fastest either of them had ever put their clothes back on.
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss for reassurance. "I'm just gonna go look."
Carty pushed Bonnie back. "Are you crazy!"
"Carty, it's just for the site," Bonnie said. "We're just gonna look real quick and see what it is."
"Oh God," Carty said. Terrified, she turned away. She could still hear the singing. That fucking voice.
Bonnie retrieved the flashlight from her pocket. "Just follow me, alright," she told Carty.
Carty took an angry step toward her. "No-"
"Then what do you want us to do!" Bonnie interrupted. "The door's that way, Carty."
The repetitious singing went on in its hypnotic loop. Now the voice was even louder, begging for an audience.
Groaning, the scared Carty looked off toward the fireplace.
Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's shoulder. "Think of the show, babe," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "Think of us."
Carty confronted her. "I am!" Carty yelled. "But this is crazy, Bonnie." Her trembling hand pointed toward the fireplace. "Whoever's here made the Goddamn fire!"
Forcing a smile, Bonnie turned on the flashlight and put it up under her face in a playful manner. "Then let's just hope it's a ghost."
Bonnie showed equal parts bravery and stupidity as she took off for the downstairs hallway. Toward the singer's lair..
"Shit, Bonnie!" Carty yelled after her. Left alone in frustration, Carty looked down and saw the mic lying on the ground. Desperate, she snatched it up.
Link To Part 2
Link To eBook
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2020.06.08 18:15 unknownhorrorwriter2 Next door neighbor voyeur

The Crane house was just ordinary, abandoned trash. Boring even. The house was a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Miles of woods surrounded it. Needless to say, there weren't any neighbors for miles either. The house's mailbox stood tall, wearing its abundance of rust for a paint job. Rather than a paved driveway, a long stretch of faded dirt ran through the house's tall grass and weeds, all the way up to the decrepit front porch.
The clear country sky illuminated the home in a vivid light. The house a beacon that only drew local paranormal enthusiasts and juvenile delinquents looking for cheap thrills in the small town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Even if you didn't believe in ghosts, the Crane house certainly did look the part.
The once-pretty country home looked to have gone uninhabited for decades. Crooked shutters guarded the large cracked windows. Busted wooden steps led up to the house's creaky front porch. The home's bricks all faded with age.
An archaic lantern hung on the porch, its glass case long shattered. The rocking chairs were at least functional if you could look past the layers of thick cobwebs wrapped all around them.
Given the house's many deficiencies and its hopeless place in the open market, the hot Georgia night brought a huge surprise when a pristine and shiny new convertible zoomed down the long dirt driveway.
Appearing with the sudden quickness of a mirage, the car's tires scattered dust everywhere. The convertible's top was down, the occupants inside blasting loud and obnoxious pop music.
The car came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from the porch. As the rag top started coming back down, the music and lights were shut off. After the doors swung open, jovial laughter echoed through the night.
Out stepped two beautiful young women. Bonnie Campbell and Carty Elizabeth, both of them in their late-20s and both of them ultra-attractive. A gay couple just as clever as they were sensual. These weren't the nerdy ghost enthusiasts, the Stanwyck High dropouts, or any of the other typical yokel explorers. This was a couple straight out of a Beverly Hills photo shoot.
Bonnie was a tall and streetwise Latina. Fit enough to be a supermodel, but too anti-establishment for that kinda shit. Everything about her was rebellious. From her hairstyle all the way to her attire. But instead of being scary or intimidating, the aggressive swagger was hot thanks in part to her pretty face.... a fact Bonnie was well aware of.
On the other hand, Carty was less confrontational in both her personality and style. While Bonnie gladly wore the "Butch" persona, Carty was the feminine "girly-girl" of the pair. But like Bonnie, Carty didn't take much shit either. After all, these ladies were entrepreneurs. Bonnie was holding a wireless mic and Carty a camcorder for a reason. They knew how to exploit what God gave them.
The couple stopped and looked on at the derelict house, both of them awestruck for different reasons. Bonnie with excitement, Carty with more than a little unease.
"Fuck, it's gorgeous," Bonnie said. "Absolutely perfect..."
Carty gave her a weird look. "Gorgeous?"
"You know what I mean." Bonnie grabbed a hold of Carty's hand and led her up to the front porch. "Come on. Let's explore."
With big frightened eyes, Carty looked on at the imposing farmhouse as they got closer and closer to the porch's battered wooden steps. It was a country home from Hell, she thought. A cross between a Cracker Barrel and Amityville.
Like a playful older sibling, Bonnie leaned in toward Carty. "Creepy..." she teased Carty in her best horror-host voice.
Carty pushed Bonnie away from her, annoyed. "Fuck you!"
"Aww, you scared, hon?" Bonnie replied.
"Who wouldn't be?" Carty said. She stole a glance back at their car.
"I've seen worse." Bonnie noticed Carty hadn't even turned on the camcorder yet. Outraged, Bonnie stopped and snatched Carty's arm. "Carty, what the Hell are you doing!"
Carty yanked her arm away from Bonnie's grasp. "What!"
Bonnie waved at the camcorder. "The camera, girl!"
Groaning, Carty turned it on.
"Establishing shots, hello," Bonnie reiterated.
"Here's your damn establishing shot," Carty responded. Agitated, she pointed the camera at Bonnie. "Scene one, enter the bitch Bonnie."
Bonnie cracked up.
Still pissy, Carty lowered the camera. "It's your idea to come here in the first place."
"Man, this ain't even that scary!" Bonnie protested. "That old motel in Decatur was way freakier."
Carty went silent and looked on at the house. Technically, Bonnie was right. This place was no different than your average abandoned shack... but something about it felt different. Maybe they’d gone too far off the beaten path of local haunts. After all, there wasn't a whole lot about the Crane house on-line.
"Shit, the graveyard in Bainbridge," Bonnie went on. "I still have those ant bites on my ass."
Carty chuckled. "Well," she began as she stole a glance at Bonnie's shapely booty. "It still looks pretty nice."
Bonnie admired her own ass. "I think they made it bigger."
"Still not as big as mine," Carty quipped.
"Mmm, but I'm getting there," Bonnie replied. She slapped Carty's bubble butt.
Giggling, Carty pointed the camera at the house. "How'd you find this place anyway?" She looked on at the rocking chairs, both of them mummified in cobwebs.
"You know, just the interwebs," Bonnie said.
"Reddit?"
"Pretty much," Bonnie replied with a smile. She faced Carty and ran her hand along Carty's arm. "Let's go."
Still uneasy, Carty looked at her.
Sensing Carty's unease, Bonnie leaned in closer. For once, Bonnie pushed the camcorder away, giving them a sense of privacy.
The couple shared a sweet kiss. One not for the cameras but for themselves. Its potency certainly did the trick for Carty. She felt all of Bonnie's love for her in that one pleasant embrace.
They smiled at one another. Playing teenage lovers in this magic moment.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked mischievously.
Grinning, Carty looked over at the farmhouse. Either the house wasn't that scary to begin with or the drug that was Bonnie's kiss really had calmed my nerves, Carty thought. "Sure," Carty said.
Bonnie pulled Carty in closer to her as they approached the porch's first step. "I got what I could for the legend."
Carty aimed the camera at the house, getting the "establishing shots." "Any of it true?" she asked Bonnie.
Stopping them in front of the porch stairs, Bonnie turned and grinned at Carty. "True enough."
"Okay," Carty said. Using the camera, she motioned Bonnie toward the porch. "You want the honors?"
In a confident stride, Bonnie stepped up in front of the camera. "Absolutely." She glanced back, making sure the house could be seen behind her for a foreboding backdrop.
Carty pointed the camera right at Bonnie. A steady grip. "Awesome," Carty congratulated herself.
Facing Carty, Bonnie fixed her shirt. Now it showed off her boobs even more than she realized was possible. She straightened her hair quickly for good measure. Her and Carty knew they had to look good on camera. Even when they were trespassing onto creepy private property.
"You ready?" Carty asked Bonnie.
For a final test, Bonnie raised the mic and gave it one firm hit. Ready to go. "Yeah, roll it," Bonnie said.
Eager, Carty flashed her a thumbs up.
Bonnie paused for a moment, letting the camera capture her in all her candid glory: pretty face, a stern yet commanding expression, and some really big breasts. In the staunch darkness and with the terrifying house lurking behind her, Bonnie had the aura of a Playboy-sponsored horror show host. A more sexualized Elvira. Just what Carty knew Bonnie was going for.
"Welcome back, voyeurs," Bonnie said in a ghoulishly campy voice. She squeezed her big boobs together in sexy, obnoxious fashion. "Tonight, your two favorite sexy starlets are taking their well-endowed talents to the sleepy little town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Home of the infamous Crane house."
Struggling to contain her laughter, Carty took a few steps back, capturing a wider shot of the house.
God, Bonnie was really hamming it up tonight, Carty thought. Bonnie's silliness could turn any of these eerie locations into both a literal and figurative playhouse for us.
Bonnie looked right into the camera, being as serious as her "acting" would allow. "Thirty years ago, at this very house, sexy, carefree housewife Bette Crane flipped out on her stud farmer husband." With the dedication of a terrible actress gunning for an Oscar, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. What should've been porn-level lighting actually gave Bonnie an otherworldly quality in the country night. "Bette took a frying pan, the very thing she'd used to make Farmer Studbucket's scrambled eggs for him that morning and then turned it into a vicious weapon!"
"Oh God..." Carty muttered through a smirk.
"Bette Crane savagely beat her husband with that frying pan until his face was mushier and more splattered than the greasiest eggs she'd ever cooked," Bonnie continued. "But the housewife wasn't through. After beating her husband to death, Bette took the biggest butcher knife she could find."
Holding the camcorder with the steadiness of a veteran Hollywood filmmaker, Carty stopped right in front of Bonnie for a closer shot of the host.
"And she walked over to her husband's bludgeoned body," Bonnie went on. "And plunged the knife straight into her forehead!" Toning down the theatrics, Bonnie locked eyes with the camera. One on one with her audience. "Ever since the murder, people believe the Crane house is haunted by evil spirits."
Bonnie pointed toward the farmhouse, as if she were emulating a horror tour guide rather than a horror host. "Stanwyck residents have reported many ghost sightings and paranormal incidents over the years," Bonnie said. "Objects seen flying around, weird noises being heard, even what is believed to be the ghost of Bette Crane still walking around with her bloody frying pan." Bonnie paused for dramatic effect. "So now," she began. Still keeping her serious demeanor, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. "We've arrived not to investigate the Crane house." Bonnie's stray hand moved down toward her breasts. "But for the house to investigate us."
Faster than a Mardi Gras veteran, Bonnie stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera with those glorious breasts. "This is Paranormal Fornication, bitches!" she shouted with glee.
Carty burst out laughing as she lowered the camera.
Bonnie lowered her shirt. "You got it?" she asked.
Still laughing, Carty lowered the camera. "Yeah, for sure."
Bonnie stepped toward Carty. "How was I?" she asked, fully expecting Carty's enthusiastic response.
Carty wrapped her arms around Bonnie. "Magnificent, babe!"
Flattered, Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's back. "Mmm, thank you, boo," Bonnie said.
The couple locked lips once more. A gentle kiss that was much more tender than any of their on-screen ones.
"Alright," Bonnie started. She led them toward the stairs. In director mode, she motioned around the porch. "Try to get a few shots of us going in."
At her command, Carty aimed the camcorder at the house. "Roger that, Bon."
Looking through the lens, Carty thought their walk up to the front door was being filmed like the climactic scene to The Blair Witch Project. A slow trek to a foreboding entrance. It looked great on camera. Maybe we can shoot a real horror film someday.
Bonnie slapped Carty's juicy ass, snapping Carty out of her post-pornographic aspirations.
"Ooh, baby!" Carty exclaimed with a startled smile.
"Just keep filming, babe," Bonnie said.
"I know," Carty said as they made their way up the rickety steps. If it weren't for their model physiques, Carty questioned whether these creaking stairs could even hold them.
Breaking away from Carty, Bonnie strolled up onto the front porch, reveling in this conglomeration of country decay.
"Bonnie!" Carty said with unease. Even just a few feet away, Carty thought the distance between them may as well have been a hundred feet considering the eerie circumstances.
Unconcerned, Bonnie gazed around at the house's offerings. The rocking chairs. The busted windows. Even the harsh graffiti scribbled on the aged wood. This house had it all. "God, just look at it!" Bonnie said. The wooden floor kept creaking and giving in but she didn't care one bit. "What a fucking spot!"
"Yeah..." the nervous Carty said as she stopped next to Bonnie. While filming, Carty kept clinging to the camera. Both as a source of light and as a potential weapon. "Fucking weird..."
Reaching out, Bonnie touched a rocking chair and made contact with all the sticky cobwebs. Bonnie drew her hand back, but the icky texture seemed to give her a thrill rather than sicken her. She watched the chair rock back-and-forth in a slow rhythm. The chair's loud creaking formed a hypnotic tune.
Concerned, Carty snatched Bonnie's arm and pulled her away from it. "What are you doing!" Carty yelled.
Chuckling, Bonnie faced her. "What? I just wanted to see-"
Carty stepped back. "Oh my God, you touched it!"
Trying to calm Carty, Bonnie held her hands up in a facetious manner. "Hey, look, nothing got on me."
"Whatever!" Carty backed away and stumbled into a dangling cobweb. Crying out, she rushed back toward Bonnie. "Fuck!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's shoulder. "Babe, just chill-"
"No!" Carty yelled back at her.
Bonnie motioned toward the rocking chair, highlighting its continuous melody of creaks. "Look, we should be filming the shit!"
At its height of rocking, the chair went completely still. The spiders stopping with it.
"Holy shit!" Bonnie exclaimed.
Nervous, Carty focused her camera on the chairs. "Okay, that was creepy."
"Shit, let's get this party started!" Bonnie said. She stepped toward the front door.
Carty looked at her real quick. "Bonnie!"
Before Carty could stop her, Bonnie snagged the rusty doorknob. She flashed Carty a smile. "Be sure to get this."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked.
Carty gave her an apprehensive nod. "Yeah."
"Okay," Bonnie said. "Into the Crane house we go." She started to turn the loose doorknob when an incessant noise startled her and Carty.
"Shit!" Carty yelled as the couple whirled around.
They saw both rocking chairs now swinging in unison. Beneath the weight of age and the cobwebs, these rocking chairs were going harder and faster than seemed possible. Their consistent creaks a countrified chorus.
All the while, Carty kept filming the eerie event. "Oh my God..." she said in fear.
"Shit, this is amazing!" Bonnie exclaimed. She staggered up toward the chairs.
Carty snatched her shoulder, the tight grip ensuring Bonnie wasn't straying too far. "No, don't leave me!"
The rocking chairs came to a sudden stop. Either a slight breeze had gone away or the spiders had used their collective force once more... or the Crane house's spirits had moved on.
Somewhat disappointed, Bonnie pointed at the chairs. "See, it's nothing," she said to soothe Carty. She caressed Carty's shoulder. "We're gonna be fine."
"I don't know," Carty said. She lowered the camera. "I've got a weird feeling about this place."
Bonnie gave her a playful smile. "You get a weird feeling about everywhere."
"Yeah, but not like this..."
"Well, I'm here," Bonnie replied. She leaned in closer toward Carty's lips. "And I'll protect you."
Reassured as always by Bonnie, a grin cracked through Carty's nerves. "You better."
"You know I will." Bonnie gave Carty a soft kiss on the lips.
Carty liked it.
But right before Carty could expect more, Bonnie nodded at the camera. "You got all that shit, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Carty said.
Back to business, Bonnie looked back at the door. "Awesome."
"God, we're not still going in there, are we?" Carty said.
Bonnie faced her. "Why not?"
Upset, Carty motioned toward the chairs. "Not after all that shit!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's wrist in a gentle grip. "Carty, please. Can we just go inside?"
The silent Carty just looked at Bonnie. Bonnie's pretty face and persuasive brown eyes were such an irresistible combination when Bonnie really wanted to do something. Especially when it came to Bonnie's passion for the paranormal.
"This is what we do," Bonnie went on. "Our scary shit." With a sly and seductive touch, she pulled Carty in closer toward her. "Look, I'll make it up to you, baby. I promise. But let's do this first, okay."
How can I say no, Carty thought. Bonnie was rather tough anyway... certainly, braver than me. She was so cute this excited. She always was. "Okay," Carty gave in.
Bonnie leaned in toward Carty's face. "I promise I'll make it up in there, baby," she said in a seductive whisper. Sweetening the deal, Bonnie guided Carty's hand all against her breasts. "I promise."
Carty didn't have a chance. She felt on one of those double-Ds, immense pleasure coursing through Carty's veins. She cracked a smirk. "Goddammit, Bonnie..."
Chuckling, Bonnie pulled her toward the door. "Come on."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie as Bonnie grabbed the knob once more. "Take two," Carty joked.
Turning, Bonnie smiled for the camera. "Paranormal Fornication, motherfuckers."
With dramatic emphasis, Bonnie turned the old doorknob and let the door swing into the house with a grueling creak.
The open doorway now lied before Carty and Bonnie. The dark farmhouse was beckoning them to enter. Paranormal Fornication must go on! it seemed to scream.
The couple journeyed through the farmhouse's narrow downstairs hallway. The camcorder and Bonnie's small flashlight like torches in uncharted terrain. Behind them, the front door was still wide open, Carty refusing to let Bonnie close it. Carty didn't want that sinking feeling of hearing that door slam shut. It was too definitive… Locked in not just for the night but forever.
Holding her mic and the flashlight, Bonnie led the way, Carty right behind her. Carty did her best to keep up, but Bonnie seemed to glide on that torn carpet. "Slow down," Carty grumbled.
"I am," Bonnie retorted. Her eyes were drawn to a doorway on the left at the very end of the hall.
Through the unflinching camera lens, Carty captured the usual array of spooky clichés inside. There were the broken counters and bookshelves. The torn carpets. The literal holes in the walls that reoccurred in patterns on the faded paint. A wooden staircase in the very back that was a poor farmer's attempt to be regal. Even a small door under the staircase that looked to be designed to be a small child's hiding place. The small door aged yet functional.
But it wasn't these scary attributes that bothered Carty. It was how the house somehow appeared... clean. There weren't any spiderwebs or rodents. No dirt, cigarette butts, beer bottles, or any of the other types of debris the duo saw in all their other explorations. The inside of the Crane home was in decent condition. As if someone had been in there and tried to straighten the place up as much as they could. And to Carty's horror, she thought maybe someone had.
"Hello?" Bonnie asked aloud, her voice echoing down the hallway.
Carty glared at her. "Bonnie, shut up!"
Ignoring Carty, Bonnie went closer and closer to the doorway. "Is there anybody home?" she said, her voice seemingly louder.
Carty could only groan in dismay.
But there was no reply. No answers from the Crane house.
Still following Bonnie, Carty looked toward the stairway. Darkness awaited whoever dared walk up those steps. Or whoever could make it up those steps. Several of them were dilapidated, even moreso than the porch steps. The stairway's crooked railing wouldn't offer much support either.
Uneasy, Carty saw the small door under the staircase was open just a crack. No one appeared to be inside it nor were there any lights on inside. It had to be a closet and a small one at that, Carty figured. Not a bad spot for hide and seek...
Bonnie snatched Carty's arm, scaring the shit out of her.
"Jesus!" Carty yelled at Bonnie.
Shushing Carty, Bonnie stopped them just a foot away from the doorway. "Do you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"What?"
Bonnie clenched tighter to Carty's shoulder. "Just listen," Bonnie said. She waved her microphone toward the doorway. "It's coming from there."
Carty looked toward the doorway.
And there it was. A soft crackle and pop. It sounded soothing. It sounded like Christmas. And then Carty realized it felt like Christmas as well. The dank house felt a little toasty.
"Did you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah."
Another pop echoed toward the couple.
They looked on at the doorway and saw a faint orange glow radiating from inside the room.
Bonnie pointed at the light, excited. "Look at it!"
Carty stared at the doorway, her fear the exact opposite of Bonnie's enthusiasm. The crackling continued as a soundtrack to the faint glow. Stunned, Carty realized it was a burning fireplace. "Bonnie-" Carty began.
Bonnie grabbed Carty's hand. "Come on!"
Carty was no match for Bonnie's powerful pull. "But wait-" Carty tried to say.
"Just keep filming!"
Bonnie led Carty into the mysterious room.
Through Bonnie's small light and the weak flickers of the fireplace, Carty could make out they were in a spacious room.
Bonnie stopped in the middle of the room, fascinated. "Are you getting this?" asked Bonnie, her eyes gazing all around the living room.
Staying as close to Bonnie as possible, Carty scanned the room with her camera.
It was definitely the farmhouse's living room, but not one from the twenty-first century. There was no T.V. and seemingly no electricity. No family photos or portraits. No decorations at all. And not much furniture aside from a couple of wooden shelves.
"When'd that murder happen again?" Carty asked.
Still shining her flashlight around the room, Bonnie didn't even look at Carty. "I don't know, like maybe thirty years ago?"
Carty saw a tombstone radio standing near the fireplace. An open doorway was about ten feet away from the radio, this one leading into yet another dark room.
Leaning in closer for a better look, Carty could tell this room had a large wooden table. It must've been the kitchenOr what was left of it.
For all the lack of amenities in the living room, at least the antique radio was an impressive if outdated source of entertainment. The fireplace was similarly grandiose.
But thirty years ago, Carty wondered. Didn't the eighties at least have MTV? What were these bitches doing?
"It seems older," Carty said. She pointed the camera toward a raggedy couch that stood by the fireplace and radio. "Looks older."
"Yeah, well it was like 1982, 1983," Bonnie said. She thought she saw something on a corner wall across the room. Bonnie shined her light toward it and squinted her eyes, trying to see what was there.
"1983?" Carty asked. Her amusement shifted toward fear after she focused on the fireplace. So much wood was piled up in there... wood that had been consumed over a longer period of time. "Shit..."
Bonnie could tell the corner wall had large letters drawn on them. "What the Hell is that?" Bonnie wondered aloud.
"What?" Carty asked.
Intrigued, Bonnie stepped closer toward the letters.
Clinging to the camera for her security, Carty followed Bonnie to the spot. "Bonnie, wait!"
Bonnie stopped and stared at the wall, stunned yet awestruck by her new "discovery." "Oh fuck..."
"What is it!" Carty said as she stopped next to her.
Spraypainted letters splattered across the wall. Vile graffiti. The words had been rotting there a long time, practically implanted into the farmhouse's walls at this point. And the words all shared the same color: blood red paint.
Nasty phrases and slurs made up the collection: Bitch! The Crane Cunt! Bette The Psycho Bitch! Murderer! Cocksucker Crane!
Uneasy, Carty filmed the sight in all its vicious glory. She moved the camera around, even seeing how the graffiti carried over onto the other walls. The endless profanities and insults were all a big billboard brought to you by Stanwyck's resident assholes as a commemorative FUCK YOU to Bette Crane.
Carty stared at the entire scene in horror. This was further indication that this secluded farmhouse truly was home to something horrific. Something so traumatic and disturbing that to this day, the citizens of Stanwyck still felt the need to make this vengeance-fueled pilgrimage.
But to Bonnie, the graffiti was further proof that the couple had come to the right spot.
"Shit!" Carty said. She looked over at Bonnie. "We can't stay here."
With the excited eagerness of a kid about to catch a foul ball in the stands, Bonnie reached out toward "Bette The Psycho Bitch."
"Bonnie!" Carty yelled in outrage. She grabbed Bonnie's arm, stopping her.
Bonnie faced her, annoyed. "Carty, what the fuck!"
"What the fuck are you doing!"
Scoffing, Bonnie waved the mic toward the wall. "See for yourself!"
"No!" Carty said. "Someone's been here, Bonnie. And they might still be here."
"It's just a fire-"
"Just a fucking fire!" Ready to leave, a pissed-off Carty headed straight for the hallway.
"Carty!" Bonnie snagged Carty's arm, making Carty face her. "Look at me! This house is empty!" Using the mic, she motioned toward the fireplace. "Whoever did this shit's probably gone anyway."
"Probably!" Carty replied, incredulous.
Desperate to comfort Carty, Bonnie caressed her shoulders. "Hey, whoever it is is more scared of us than we are of them," Bonnie went on. She ran her finger against Carty's smooth cheek. "They're gone, Carty. And they ain't coming back."
"I don't know," Carty said. Still uneasy, Carty looked toward the fireplace.
"Look, Carty, this is what we do. Even when shit gets weird and scary." Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's arm. "We can't stop now."
Carty faced her. "But the fire. This isn't-"
Adamant, Bonnie stepped away from Carty. "They probably left when they heard us pull up! Just think about it, Carty."
"I don't know..."
Proving her point, Bonnie shined her flashlight all around the living room. "Hello!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, bitches!"
"Bonnie!"
"Come out, motherfucker!" Bonnie went on.
No answer was heard. Just the consistent crackle of the crisp fire.
The lack of a response was helping Carty ease up. Much to Bonnie's delight.
"We don't bite!" Bonnie said. She gave Carty a flirtatious smile. "Well. Maybe I do."
Carty chuckled and shook her head.
The whole house seemed silent except for the fire. And the couple's soft laughter.
"See," Bonnie said as she grabbed a hold of Carty's hand. "It's nothing."
"But why here?" Carty asked. "Why can't we just go somewhere else?"
"Look, just think about it, alright," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "This is gonna be so big, Carty." She waved the flashlight around the living room. "I mean just look at this place! A creepy fucking Texas Chainsaw house, and we discover the fireplace, the graffiti! The damn rocking chairs."
Carty didn't argue. She knew she couldn't due to a combination of Bonnie making sense and being too stubborn to turn back now.
Bonnie caressed Carty's face. "Think of the hits, baby," Bonnie went on. "All the ads we'll get on the site."
Debating the idea, Carty looked off toward the bright fireplace.
"We'll make so much money, boo," Bonnie said. “We'll have enough to do the Lady Macbeth piece."
Carty faced Bonnie, allured by the prospect of doing their dream project. Just the sheer mention of it got Carty's attention.
Displaying a warm smile, Bonnie rubbed Carty's shoulder. "Like we always planned. We'll do real movies from now on, no more creeper sex shit."
"You promise this is the last one?" Carty asked, her voice begging for a yes.
"Yes!" the excited Bonnie said.
"Okay..." Carty relented.
"Thank you!"
"Let's do this."
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss. "I love you, baby," Bonnie said.
"I love you too."
"This is gonna be so perfect," Bonnie said. She stepped away from Carty and focused her attention on the corner wall graffiti. "Fucking crazy."
Carty followed Bonnie's gaze toward the gratuitous graffiti. All those vile words were more than just your average juvenile's bullshit. The phrases looked embroidered with emotion. Sculpted from pure disgust and hate.
Thinking about the creepy stairway, Carty looked back toward the hallway. She couldn't help but wonder if their squatter was hiding upstairs rather than in the woods. "This still feels weird," Carty commented.
Bonnie faced her. "Why, babe?"
Nervous, Carty hesitated on how to answer. "I don't know. It's like someone's watching."
Bonnie stepped right in front of Carty, not even attempting to make her sexual tease more nuanced. "Someone's always watching."
Carty grinned.
Thirty minutes later, Bonnie and Carty's film shoot was going hot and heavy. Steamy, sexy, scintillating. Words you usually wouldn't associate with a "haunted house." But then again, this was Paranormal Fornication.
Sprawled out on the couch, the naked duo engaged in passionate and exuberant sex.
Bonnie and Carty's lovemaking was certainly chock-full of genuine pleasure. Their emotions, the moaning, and the undeniable chemistry between the two were well on display. But their exploitative positions and cloying mannerisms proved that they knew how to put on a show.
The warm fire bathed the couple in a glorious light. Their clothes stacked up in neat piles right by the sofa.
Sitting on top of the tombstone radio, the camcorder filmed the couple's erotica with the detachment of an asexual filmmaker.
Leaning back on the sofa, Carty moaned in pleasure.
All the while, Bonnie continued going down on her partner. The pace was frenetic but Bonnie was gentle. She knew all the right spots. And Carty wasn't complaining.
Carty wrapped her hands around Bonnie's head. "Ooh, baby," Carty said. She tilted her head back and shut her eyes. Just let Bonnie do her thing, she thought. Stopping her now would be like stopping LeBron from going in hard with a highlight-reel dunk. Sometimes, you just gotta let greatness do its thing.
"You like that?" Bonnie said with dirty talk glee.
"Yes, baby!" Carty moaned. She opened her eyes just to steal a look over at the camera. A quick glance for their audience.
With rough quickness, Bonnie started to flip Carty over.
"What are you doing?" Carty whispered.
"I gotta get that ass, mamacita," Bonnie replied.
Glaring, Carty stopped Bonnie. "Just hold on!"
"Carty, the camera-"
"I don't give a shit about them!" Carty grumbled as she turned on her stomach. "Just be more gentle next time."
"Okay," Bonnie sighed. Back in porn mode, she caressed Carty's round booty. "That ass, mamacita!" she exclaimed.
Carty cringed at Bonnie's forced delivery. These glorified butt scenes were a little much, she thought. Maybe I should let out a fart to really shake things up.
"That booty though..." Bonnie continued. She gave Carty a quick (and literal) kiss on the ass.
"God..." Carty mumbled. This wasn't the Bonnie she liked.
Bonnie felt along Carty's butt, cradling it for all the camera to see. It was an impressive booty for sure. Fake as Hell, but that certainly didn't bother Bonnie nor the Paranormal Fornication faithful.
"I gotta see that ass in reverse, girl," Bonnie said in a most oversexualized manner. If this was the extent of her acting abilities, her Lady Macbeth performances must've been a fucking disaster.
"Ooh, you want it, baby," Carty responded, disinterested. She wiggled her ass with the enthusiasm of a jaded stripper on her last day at work.
Bonnie smacked Carty on the ass, making that booty jiggle for the camera.
"Ooh, harder, baby," Carty said in a more seductive tone, making sure her voice was loud for the camera.
"That's my girl," Bonnie beamed.
Bonnie's next smack on Carty's butt was quick and gentle. A love tap Carty enjoyed.
Smiling, Carty looked back at Bonnie. "Mmm, keep going, sexy..."
Bonnie crouched down toward Carty's smooth bubble butt. "With pleasure..."
Bracing for more ass worship, Carty looked toward the hallway. She was surprised at how aroused she was getting in such a creepy place... Bonnie's kisses along her ass were actually feeling really nice. Hell, this was Bonnie's best "performance" since the Hiers farm in Alabama, Carty realized.
"God, you're perfect," Bonnie said.
Carty grinned. She knew that wasn't Bonnie the actress talking, but Bonnie the girlfriend. Not that it was hard to differentiate since Bonnie was a shitty actress.
Carty enjoyed the touch of Bonnie's soft hands running along her lower back and perky butt. The gentle kisses. Maybe we need to keep this episode for ourselves.
A soft, hushed singing drifted toward Carty's ears, piercing through her pleasure. The song's words were murky and unclear, the voice similarly vague. The singer could've been a boy or a girl. But whoever it was didn't seem to be want to be heard. Not yet at least...
Alarmed, Carty looked on at the hallway. The singing appeared to be coming from near the staircase. "What the Hell..." she muttered.
A set of teeth sunk into Carty's juicy ass, startling Carty. The bite was a vampire's wet dream, but Carty knew it wasn't no vampire. "Shit, Bonnie!" Carty fumed as she confronted her girlfriend.
Bonnie leaned back, confused. "What?"
"Did you hear that!"
The haunting singing continued, pulling Carty's attention back toward the hallway.
"I don't hear shit." Bonnie responded.
Carty pointed her toward the stairs. "It's coming from in there!"
Alert, both women listened out for the singing. Even as the words stayed jumbled, the voice had gotten louder. The singer would've never made it on American Idol, but it had a pretty meekness to it. An innocent child’s charm. The voice sounded too deep for a girl... but such vulnerability seemed more fitting for a melancholy teenage female singing herself to sleep.
Bonnie finally heard it. All the confidence drained from her face. For once, she looked rattled by the pair's paranormal excursions. "Shit..."
Carty glared at her. "I told you this was a bad idea!"
The singing kept on repeating the same tune. The same melody. The same scrambled words. The whole production a loop of insanity, albeit, a pretty loop.
"We shouldn't have ever come here!" Carty went on.
Lost in thought, Bonnie turned and looked over at the camcorder. The camera stared right back at her, taunting her with its mere presence. The show must go on...
"Let's fucking go!" Carty pleaded to Bonnie. With uneasy eyes, she looked over at the downstairs hallway.
The singing stayed on a steady path of instability. The words never clear, the mysterious voice wobbling between lovely and stilted.
"Shit..." Carty muttered. She turned and saw Bonnie get off the couch. "Bonnie!"
Bonnie threw on her clothes.
Ready to get the fuck outta there, Carty stood up and did the same. She saw Bonnie grab the camera.
"Are we going?" Carty asked with impatience. She pulled her tight shirt over her head. Both women were now dressed. Easily the fastest either of them had ever put their clothes back on.
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss for reassurance. "I'm just gonna go look."
Carty pushed Bonnie back. "Are you crazy!"
"Carty, it's just for the site," Bonnie said. "We're just gonna look real quick and see what it is."
"Oh God," Carty said. Terrified, she turned away. She could still hear the singing. That fucking voice.
Bonnie retrieved the flashlight from her pocket. "Just follow me, alright," she told Carty.
Carty took an angry step toward her. "No-"
"Then what do you want us to do!" Bonnie interrupted. "The door's that way, Carty."
The repetitious singing went on in its hypnotic loop. Now the voice was even louder, begging for an audience.
Groaning, the scared Carty looked off toward the fireplace.
Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's shoulder. "Think of the show, babe," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "Think of us."
Carty confronted her. "I am!" Carty yelled. "But this is crazy, Bonnie." Her trembling hand pointed toward the fireplace. "Whoever's here made the Goddamn fire!"
Forcing a smile, Bonnie turned on the flashlight and put it up under her face in a playful manner. "Then let's just hope it's a ghost."
Bonnie showed equal parts bravery and stupidity as she took off for the downstairs hallway. Toward the singer's lair..
"Shit, Bonnie!" Carty yelled after her. Left alone in frustration, Carty looked down and saw the mic lying on the ground. Desperate, she snatched it up.
Link To Part 2
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2020.06.08 17:38 unknownhorrorwriter2 Next door neighbor voyeur

The Crane house was just ordinary, abandoned trash. Boring even. The house was a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Miles of woods surrounded it. Needless to say, there weren't any neighbors for miles either. The house's mailbox stood tall, wearing its abundance of rust for a paint job. Rather than a paved driveway, a long stretch of faded dirt ran through the house's tall grass and weeds, all the way up to the decrepit front porch.
The clear country sky illuminated the home in a vivid light. The house a beacon that only drew local paranormal enthusiasts and juvenile delinquents looking for cheap thrills in the small town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Even if you didn't believe in ghosts, the Crane house certainly did look the part.
The once-pretty country home looked to have gone uninhabited for decades. Crooked shutters guarded the large cracked windows. Busted wooden steps led up to the house's creaky front porch. The home's bricks all faded with age.
An archaic lantern hung on the porch, its glass case long shattered. The rocking chairs were at least functional if you could look past the layers of thick cobwebs wrapped all around them.
Given the house's many deficiencies and its hopeless place in the open market, the hot Georgia night brought a huge surprise when a pristine and shiny new convertible zoomed down the long dirt driveway.
Appearing with the sudden quickness of a mirage, the car's tires scattered dust everywhere. The convertible's top was down, the occupants inside blasting loud and obnoxious pop music.
The car came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from the porch. As the rag top started coming back down, the music and lights were shut off. After the doors swung open, jovial laughter echoed through the night.
Out stepped two beautiful young women. Bonnie Campbell and Carty Elizabeth, both of them in their late-20s and both of them ultra-attractive. A gay couple just as clever as they were sensual. These weren't the nerdy ghost enthusiasts, the Stanwyck High dropouts, or any of the other typical yokel explorers. This was a couple straight out of a Beverly Hills photo shoot.
Bonnie was a tall and streetwise Latina. Fit enough to be a supermodel, but too anti-establishment for that kinda shit. Everything about her was rebellious. From her hairstyle all the way to her attire. But instead of being scary or intimidating, the aggressive swagger was hot thanks in part to her pretty face.... a fact Bonnie was well aware of.
On the other hand, Carty was less confrontational in both her personality and style. While Bonnie gladly wore the "Butch" persona, Carty was the feminine "girly-girl" of the pair. But like Bonnie, Carty didn't take much shit either. After all, these ladies were entrepreneurs. Bonnie was holding a wireless mic and Carty a camcorder for a reason. They knew how to exploit what God gave them.
The couple stopped and looked on at the derelict house, both of them awestruck for different reasons. Bonnie with excitement, Carty with more than a little unease.
"Fuck, it's gorgeous," Bonnie said. "Absolutely perfect..."
Carty gave her a weird look. "Gorgeous?"
"You know what I mean." Bonnie grabbed a hold of Carty's hand and led her up to the front porch. "Come on. Let's explore."
With big frightened eyes, Carty looked on at the imposing farmhouse as they got closer and closer to the porch's battered wooden steps. It was a country home from Hell, she thought. A cross between a Cracker Barrel and Amityville.
Like a playful older sibling, Bonnie leaned in toward Carty. "Creepy..." she teased Carty in her best horror-host voice.
Carty pushed Bonnie away from her, annoyed. "Fuck you!"
"Aww, you scared, hon?" Bonnie replied.
"Who wouldn't be?" Carty said. She stole a glance back at their car.
"I've seen worse." Bonnie noticed Carty hadn't even turned on the camcorder yet. Outraged, Bonnie stopped and snatched Carty's arm. "Carty, what the Hell are you doing!"
Carty yanked her arm away from Bonnie's grasp. "What!"
Bonnie waved at the camcorder. "The camera, girl!"
Groaning, Carty turned it on.
"Establishing shots, hello," Bonnie reiterated.
"Here's your damn establishing shot," Carty responded. Agitated, she pointed the camera at Bonnie. "Scene one, enter the bitch Bonnie."
Bonnie cracked up.
Still pissy, Carty lowered the camera. "It's your idea to come here in the first place."
"Man, this ain't even that scary!" Bonnie protested. "That old motel in Decatur was way freakier."
Carty went silent and looked on at the house. Technically, Bonnie was right. This place was no different than your average abandoned shack... but something about it felt different. Maybe they’d gone too far off the beaten path of local haunts. After all, there wasn't a whole lot about the Crane house on-line.
"Shit, the graveyard in Bainbridge," Bonnie went on. "I still have those ant bites on my ass."
Carty chuckled. "Well," she began as she stole a glance at Bonnie's shapely booty. "It still looks pretty nice."
Bonnie admired her own ass. "I think they made it bigger."
"Still not as big as mine," Carty quipped.
"Mmm, but I'm getting there," Bonnie replied. She slapped Carty's bubble butt.
Giggling, Carty pointed the camera at the house. "How'd you find this place anyway?" She looked on at the rocking chairs, both of them mummified in cobwebs.
"You know, just the interwebs," Bonnie said.
"Reddit?"
"Pretty much," Bonnie replied with a smile. She faced Carty and ran her hand along Carty's arm. "Let's go."
Still uneasy, Carty looked at her.
Sensing Carty's unease, Bonnie leaned in closer. For once, Bonnie pushed the camcorder away, giving them a sense of privacy.
The couple shared a sweet kiss. One not for the cameras but for themselves. Its potency certainly did the trick for Carty. She felt all of Bonnie's love for her in that one pleasant embrace.
They smiled at one another. Playing teenage lovers in this magic moment.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked mischievously.
Grinning, Carty looked over at the farmhouse. Either the house wasn't that scary to begin with or the drug that was Bonnie's kiss really had calmed my nerves, Carty thought. "Sure," Carty said.
Bonnie pulled Carty in closer to her as they approached the porch's first step. "I got what I could for the legend."
Carty aimed the camera at the house, getting the "establishing shots." "Any of it true?" she asked Bonnie.
Stopping them in front of the porch stairs, Bonnie turned and grinned at Carty. "True enough."
"Okay," Carty said. Using the camera, she motioned Bonnie toward the porch. "You want the honors?"
In a confident stride, Bonnie stepped up in front of the camera. "Absolutely." She glanced back, making sure the house could be seen behind her for a foreboding backdrop.
Carty pointed the camera right at Bonnie. A steady grip. "Awesome," Carty congratulated herself.
Facing Carty, Bonnie fixed her shirt. Now it showed off her boobs even more than she realized was possible. She straightened her hair quickly for good measure. Her and Carty knew they had to look good on camera. Even when they were trespassing onto creepy private property.
"You ready?" Carty asked Bonnie.
For a final test, Bonnie raised the mic and gave it one firm hit. Ready to go. "Yeah, roll it," Bonnie said.
Eager, Carty flashed her a thumbs up.
Bonnie paused for a moment, letting the camera capture her in all her candid glory: pretty face, a stern yet commanding expression, and some really big breasts. In the staunch darkness and with the terrifying house lurking behind her, Bonnie had the aura of a Playboy-sponsored horror show host. A more sexualized Elvira. Just what Carty knew Bonnie was going for.
"Welcome back, voyeurs," Bonnie said in a ghoulishly campy voice. She squeezed her big boobs together in sexy, obnoxious fashion. "Tonight, your two favorite sexy starlets are taking their well-endowed talents to the sleepy little town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Home of the infamous Crane house."
Struggling to contain her laughter, Carty took a few steps back, capturing a wider shot of the house.
God, Bonnie was really hamming it up tonight, Carty thought. Bonnie's silliness could turn any of these eerie locations into both a literal and figurative playhouse for us.
Bonnie looked right into the camera, being as serious as her "acting" would allow. "Thirty years ago, at this very house, sexy, carefree housewife Bette Crane flipped out on her stud farmer husband." With the dedication of a terrible actress gunning for an Oscar, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. What should've been porn-level lighting actually gave Bonnie an otherworldly quality in the country night. "Bette took a frying pan, the very thing she'd used to make Farmer Studbucket's scrambled eggs for him that morning and then turned it into a vicious weapon!"
"Oh God..." Carty muttered through a smirk.
"Bette Crane savagely beat her husband with that frying pan until his face was mushier and more splattered than the greasiest eggs she'd ever cooked," Bonnie continued. "But the housewife wasn't through. After beating her husband to death, Bette took the biggest butcher knife she could find."
Holding the camcorder with the steadiness of a veteran Hollywood filmmaker, Carty stopped right in front of Bonnie for a closer shot of the host.
"And she walked over to her husband's bludgeoned body," Bonnie went on. "And plunged the knife straight into her forehead!" Toning down the theatrics, Bonnie locked eyes with the camera. One on one with her audience. "Ever since the murder, people believe the Crane house is haunted by evil spirits."
Bonnie pointed toward the farmhouse, as if she were emulating a horror tour guide rather than a horror host. "Stanwyck residents have reported many ghost sightings and paranormal incidents over the years," Bonnie said. "Objects seen flying around, weird noises being heard, even what is believed to be the ghost of Bette Crane still walking around with her bloody frying pan." Bonnie paused for dramatic effect. "So now," she began. Still keeping her serious demeanor, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. "We've arrived not to investigate the Crane house." Bonnie's stray hand moved down toward her breasts. "But for the house to investigate us."
Faster than a Mardi Gras veteran, Bonnie stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera with those glorious breasts. "This is Paranormal Fornication, bitches!" she shouted with glee.
Carty burst out laughing as she lowered the camera.
Bonnie lowered her shirt. "You got it?" she asked.
Still laughing, Carty lowered the camera. "Yeah, for sure."
Bonnie stepped toward Carty. "How was I?" she asked, fully expecting Carty's enthusiastic response.
Carty wrapped her arms around Bonnie. "Magnificent, babe!"
Flattered, Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's back. "Mmm, thank you, boo," Bonnie said.
The couple locked lips once more. A gentle kiss that was much more tender than any of their on-screen ones.
"Alright," Bonnie started. She led them toward the stairs. In director mode, she motioned around the porch. "Try to get a few shots of us going in."
At her command, Carty aimed the camcorder at the house. "Roger that, Bon."
Looking through the lens, Carty thought their walk up to the front door was being filmed like the climactic scene to The Blair Witch Project. A slow trek to a foreboding entrance. It looked great on camera. Maybe we can shoot a real horror film someday.
Bonnie slapped Carty's juicy ass, snapping Carty out of her post-pornographic aspirations.
"Ooh, baby!" Carty exclaimed with a startled smile.
"Just keep filming, babe," Bonnie said.
"I know," Carty said as they made their way up the rickety steps. If it weren't for their model physiques, Carty questioned whether these creaking stairs could even hold them.
Breaking away from Carty, Bonnie strolled up onto the front porch, reveling in this conglomeration of country decay.
"Bonnie!" Carty said with unease. Even just a few feet away, Carty thought the distance between them may as well have been a hundred feet considering the eerie circumstances.
Unconcerned, Bonnie gazed around at the house's offerings. The rocking chairs. The busted windows. Even the harsh graffiti scribbled on the aged wood. This house had it all. "God, just look at it!" Bonnie said. The wooden floor kept creaking and giving in but she didn't care one bit. "What a fucking spot!"
"Yeah..." the nervous Carty said as she stopped next to Bonnie. While filming, Carty kept clinging to the camera. Both as a source of light and as a potential weapon. "Fucking weird..."
Reaching out, Bonnie touched a rocking chair and made contact with all the sticky cobwebs. Bonnie drew her hand back, but the icky texture seemed to give her a thrill rather than sicken her. She watched the chair rock back-and-forth in a slow rhythm. The chair's loud creaking formed a hypnotic tune.
Concerned, Carty snatched Bonnie's arm and pulled her away from it. "What are you doing!" Carty yelled.
Chuckling, Bonnie faced her. "What? I just wanted to see-"
Carty stepped back. "Oh my God, you touched it!"
Trying to calm Carty, Bonnie held her hands up in a facetious manner. "Hey, look, nothing got on me."
"Whatever!" Carty backed away and stumbled into a dangling cobweb. Crying out, she rushed back toward Bonnie. "Fuck!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's shoulder. "Babe, just chill-"
"No!" Carty yelled back at her.
Bonnie motioned toward the rocking chair, highlighting its continuous melody of creaks. "Look, we should be filming the shit!"
At its height of rocking, the chair went completely still. The spiders stopping with it.
"Holy shit!" Bonnie exclaimed.
Nervous, Carty focused her camera on the chairs. "Okay, that was creepy."
"Shit, let's get this party started!" Bonnie said. She stepped toward the front door.
Carty looked at her real quick. "Bonnie!"
Before Carty could stop her, Bonnie snagged the rusty doorknob. She flashed Carty a smile. "Be sure to get this."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked.
Carty gave her an apprehensive nod. "Yeah."
"Okay," Bonnie said. "Into the Crane house we go." She started to turn the loose doorknob when an incessant noise startled her and Carty.
"Shit!" Carty yelled as the couple whirled around.
They saw both rocking chairs now swinging in unison. Beneath the weight of age and the cobwebs, these rocking chairs were going harder and faster than seemed possible. Their consistent creaks a countrified chorus.
All the while, Carty kept filming the eerie event. "Oh my God..." she said in fear.
"Shit, this is amazing!" Bonnie exclaimed. She staggered up toward the chairs.
Carty snatched her shoulder, the tight grip ensuring Bonnie wasn't straying too far. "No, don't leave me!"
The rocking chairs came to a sudden stop. Either a slight breeze had gone away or the spiders had used their collective force once more... or the Crane house's spirits had moved on.
Somewhat disappointed, Bonnie pointed at the chairs. "See, it's nothing," she said to soothe Carty. She caressed Carty's shoulder. "We're gonna be fine."
"I don't know," Carty said. She lowered the camera. "I've got a weird feeling about this place."
Bonnie gave her a playful smile. "You get a weird feeling about everywhere."
"Yeah, but not like this..."
"Well, I'm here," Bonnie replied. She leaned in closer toward Carty's lips. "And I'll protect you."
Reassured as always by Bonnie, a grin cracked through Carty's nerves. "You better."
"You know I will." Bonnie gave Carty a soft kiss on the lips.
Carty liked it.
But right before Carty could expect more, Bonnie nodded at the camera. "You got all that shit, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Carty said.
Back to business, Bonnie looked back at the door. "Awesome."
"God, we're not still going in there, are we?" Carty said.
Bonnie faced her. "Why not?"
Upset, Carty motioned toward the chairs. "Not after all that shit!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's wrist in a gentle grip. "Carty, please. Can we just go inside?"
The silent Carty just looked at Bonnie. Bonnie's pretty face and persuasive brown eyes were such an irresistible combination when Bonnie really wanted to do something. Especially when it came to Bonnie's passion for the paranormal.
"This is what we do," Bonnie went on. "Our scary shit." With a sly and seductive touch, she pulled Carty in closer toward her. "Look, I'll make it up to you, baby. I promise. But let's do this first, okay."
How can I say no, Carty thought. Bonnie was rather tough anyway... certainly, braver than me. She was so cute this excited. She always was. "Okay," Carty gave in.
Bonnie leaned in toward Carty's face. "I promise I'll make it up in there, baby," she said in a seductive whisper. Sweetening the deal, Bonnie guided Carty's hand all against her breasts. "I promise."
Carty didn't have a chance. She felt on one of those double-Ds, immense pleasure coursing through Carty's veins. She cracked a smirk. "Goddammit, Bonnie..."
Chuckling, Bonnie pulled her toward the door. "Come on."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie as Bonnie grabbed the knob once more. "Take two," Carty joked.
Turning, Bonnie smiled for the camera. "Paranormal Fornication, motherfuckers."
With dramatic emphasis, Bonnie turned the old doorknob and let the door swing into the house with a grueling creak.
The open doorway now lied before Carty and Bonnie. The dark farmhouse was beckoning them to enter. Paranormal Fornication must go on! it seemed to scream.
The couple journeyed through the farmhouse's narrow downstairs hallway. The camcorder and Bonnie's small flashlight like torches in uncharted terrain. Behind them, the front door was still wide open, Carty refusing to let Bonnie close it. Carty didn't want that sinking feeling of hearing that door slam shut. It was too definitive… Locked in not just for the night but forever.
Holding her mic and the flashlight, Bonnie led the way, Carty right behind her. Carty did her best to keep up, but Bonnie seemed to glide on that torn carpet. "Slow down," Carty grumbled.
"I am," Bonnie retorted. Her eyes were drawn to a doorway on the left at the very end of the hall.
Through the unflinching camera lens, Carty captured the usual array of spooky clichés inside. There were the broken counters and bookshelves. The torn carpets. The literal holes in the walls that reoccurred in patterns on the faded paint. A wooden staircase in the very back that was a poor farmer's attempt to be regal. Even a small door under the staircase that looked to be designed to be a small child's hiding place. The small door aged yet functional.
But it wasn't these scary attributes that bothered Carty. It was how the house somehow appeared... clean. There weren't any spiderwebs or rodents. No dirt, cigarette butts, beer bottles, or any of the other types of debris the duo saw in all their other explorations. The inside of the Crane home was in decent condition. As if someone had been in there and tried to straighten the place up as much as they could. And to Carty's horror, she thought maybe someone had.
"Hello?" Bonnie asked aloud, her voice echoing down the hallway.
Carty glared at her. "Bonnie, shut up!"
Ignoring Carty, Bonnie went closer and closer to the doorway. "Is there anybody home?" she said, her voice seemingly louder.
Carty could only groan in dismay.
But there was no reply. No answers from the Crane house.
Still following Bonnie, Carty looked toward the stairway. Darkness awaited whoever dared walk up those steps. Or whoever could make it up those steps. Several of them were dilapidated, even moreso than the porch steps. The stairway's crooked railing wouldn't offer much support either.
Uneasy, Carty saw the small door under the staircase was open just a crack. No one appeared to be inside it nor were there any lights on inside. It had to be a closet and a small one at that, Carty figured. Not a bad spot for hide and seek...
Bonnie snatched Carty's arm, scaring the shit out of her.
"Jesus!" Carty yelled at Bonnie.
Shushing Carty, Bonnie stopped them just a foot away from the doorway. "Do you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"What?"
Bonnie clenched tighter to Carty's shoulder. "Just listen," Bonnie said. She waved her microphone toward the doorway. "It's coming from there."
Carty looked toward the doorway.
And there it was. A soft crackle and pop. It sounded soothing. It sounded like Christmas. And then Carty realized it felt like Christmas as well. The dank house felt a little toasty.
"Did you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah."
Another pop echoed toward the couple.
They looked on at the doorway and saw a faint orange glow radiating from inside the room.
Bonnie pointed at the light, excited. "Look at it!"
Carty stared at the doorway, her fear the exact opposite of Bonnie's enthusiasm. The crackling continued as a soundtrack to the faint glow. Stunned, Carty realized it was a burning fireplace. "Bonnie-" Carty began.
Bonnie grabbed Carty's hand. "Come on!"
Carty was no match for Bonnie's powerful pull. "But wait-" Carty tried to say.
"Just keep filming!"
Bonnie led Carty into the mysterious room.
Through Bonnie's small light and the weak flickers of the fireplace, Carty could make out they were in a spacious room.
Bonnie stopped in the middle of the room, fascinated. "Are you getting this?" asked Bonnie, her eyes gazing all around the living room.
Staying as close to Bonnie as possible, Carty scanned the room with her camera.
It was definitely the farmhouse's living room, but not one from the twenty-first century. There was no T.V. and seemingly no electricity. No family photos or portraits. No decorations at all. And not much furniture aside from a couple of wooden shelves.
"When'd that murder happen again?" Carty asked.
Still shining her flashlight around the room, Bonnie didn't even look at Carty. "I don't know, like maybe thirty years ago?"
Carty saw a tombstone radio standing near the fireplace. An open doorway was about ten feet away from the radio, this one leading into yet another dark room.
Leaning in closer for a better look, Carty could tell this room had a large wooden table. It must've been the kitchenOr what was left of it.
For all the lack of amenities in the living room, at least the antique radio was an impressive if outdated source of entertainment. The fireplace was similarly grandiose.
But thirty years ago, Carty wondered. Didn't the eighties at least have MTV? What were these bitches doing?
"It seems older," Carty said. She pointed the camera toward a raggedy couch that stood by the fireplace and radio. "Looks older."
"Yeah, well it was like 1982, 1983," Bonnie said. She thought she saw something on a corner wall across the room. Bonnie shined her light toward it and squinted her eyes, trying to see what was there.
"1983?" Carty asked. Her amusement shifted toward fear after she focused on the fireplace. So much wood was piled up in there... wood that had been consumed over a longer period of time. "Shit..."
Bonnie could tell the corner wall had large letters drawn on them. "What the Hell is that?" Bonnie wondered aloud.
"What?" Carty asked.
Intrigued, Bonnie stepped closer toward the letters.
Clinging to the camera for her security, Carty followed Bonnie to the spot. "Bonnie, wait!"
Bonnie stopped and stared at the wall, stunned yet awestruck by her new "discovery." "Oh fuck..."
"What is it!" Carty said as she stopped next to her.
Spraypainted letters splattered across the wall. Vile graffiti. The words had been rotting there a long time, practically implanted into the farmhouse's walls at this point. And the words all shared the same color: blood red paint.
Nasty phrases and slurs made up the collection: Bitch! The Crane Cunt! Bette The Psycho Bitch! Murderer! Cocksucker Crane!
Uneasy, Carty filmed the sight in all its vicious glory. She moved the camera around, even seeing how the graffiti carried over onto the other walls. The endless profanities and insults were all a big billboard brought to you by Stanwyck's resident assholes as a commemorative FUCK YOU to Bette Crane.
Carty stared at the entire scene in horror. This was further indication that this secluded farmhouse truly was home to something horrific. Something so traumatic and disturbing that to this day, the citizens of Stanwyck still felt the need to make this vengeance-fueled pilgrimage.
But to Bonnie, the graffiti was further proof that the couple had come to the right spot.
"Shit!" Carty said. She looked over at Bonnie. "We can't stay here."
With the excited eagerness of a kid about to catch a foul ball in the stands, Bonnie reached out toward "Bette The Psycho Bitch."
"Bonnie!" Carty yelled in outrage. She grabbed Bonnie's arm, stopping her.
Bonnie faced her, annoyed. "Carty, what the fuck!"
"What the fuck are you doing!"
Scoffing, Bonnie waved the mic toward the wall. "See for yourself!"
"No!" Carty said. "Someone's been here, Bonnie. And they might still be here."
"It's just a fire-"
"Just a fucking fire!" Ready to leave, a pissed-off Carty headed straight for the hallway.
"Carty!" Bonnie snagged Carty's arm, making Carty face her. "Look at me! This house is empty!" Using the mic, she motioned toward the fireplace. "Whoever did this shit's probably gone anyway."
"Probably!" Carty replied, incredulous.
Desperate to comfort Carty, Bonnie caressed her shoulders. "Hey, whoever it is is more scared of us than we are of them," Bonnie went on. She ran her finger against Carty's smooth cheek. "They're gone, Carty. And they ain't coming back."
"I don't know," Carty said. Still uneasy, Carty looked toward the fireplace.
"Look, Carty, this is what we do. Even when shit gets weird and scary." Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's arm. "We can't stop now."
Carty faced her. "But the fire. This isn't-"
Adamant, Bonnie stepped away from Carty. "They probably left when they heard us pull up! Just think about it, Carty."
"I don't know..."
Proving her point, Bonnie shined her flashlight all around the living room. "Hello!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, bitches!"
"Bonnie!"
"Come out, motherfucker!" Bonnie went on.
No answer was heard. Just the consistent crackle of the crisp fire.
The lack of a response was helping Carty ease up. Much to Bonnie's delight.
"We don't bite!" Bonnie said. She gave Carty a flirtatious smile. "Well. Maybe I do."
Carty chuckled and shook her head.
The whole house seemed silent except for the fire. And the couple's soft laughter.
"See," Bonnie said as she grabbed a hold of Carty's hand. "It's nothing."
"But why here?" Carty asked. "Why can't we just go somewhere else?"
"Look, just think about it, alright," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "This is gonna be so big, Carty." She waved the flashlight around the living room. "I mean just look at this place! A creepy fucking Texas Chainsaw house, and we discover the fireplace, the graffiti! The damn rocking chairs."
Carty didn't argue. She knew she couldn't due to a combination of Bonnie making sense and being too stubborn to turn back now.
Bonnie caressed Carty's face. "Think of the hits, baby," Bonnie went on. "All the ads we'll get on the site."
Debating the idea, Carty looked off toward the bright fireplace.
"We'll make so much money, boo," Bonnie said. “We'll have enough to do the Lady Macbeth piece."
Carty faced Bonnie, allured by the prospect of doing their dream project. Just the sheer mention of it got Carty's attention.
Displaying a warm smile, Bonnie rubbed Carty's shoulder. "Like we always planned. We'll do real movies from now on, no more creeper sex shit."
"You promise this is the last one?" Carty asked, her voice begging for a yes.
"Yes!" the excited Bonnie said.
"Okay..." Carty relented.
"Thank you!"
"Let's do this."
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss. "I love you, baby," Bonnie said.
"I love you too."
"This is gonna be so perfect," Bonnie said. She stepped away from Carty and focused her attention on the corner wall graffiti. "Fucking crazy."
Carty followed Bonnie's gaze toward the gratuitous graffiti. All those vile words were more than just your average juvenile's bullshit. The phrases looked embroidered with emotion. Sculpted from pure disgust and hate.
Thinking about the creepy stairway, Carty looked back toward the hallway. She couldn't help but wonder if their squatter was hiding upstairs rather than in the woods. "This still feels weird," Carty commented.
Bonnie faced her. "Why, babe?"
Nervous, Carty hesitated on how to answer. "I don't know. It's like someone's watching."
Bonnie stepped right in front of Carty, not even attempting to make her sexual tease more nuanced. "Someone's always watching."
Carty grinned.
Thirty minutes later, Bonnie and Carty's film shoot was going hot and heavy. Steamy, sexy, scintillating. Words you usually wouldn't associate with a "haunted house." But then again, this was Paranormal Fornication.
Sprawled out on the couch, the naked duo engaged in passionate and exuberant sex.
Bonnie and Carty's lovemaking was certainly chock-full of genuine pleasure. Their emotions, the moaning, and the undeniable chemistry between the two were well on display. But their exploitative positions and cloying mannerisms proved that they knew how to put on a show.
The warm fire bathed the couple in a glorious light. Their clothes stacked up in neat piles right by the sofa.
Sitting on top of the tombstone radio, the camcorder filmed the couple's erotica with the detachment of an asexual filmmaker.
Leaning back on the sofa, Carty moaned in pleasure.
All the while, Bonnie continued going down on her partner. The pace was frenetic but Bonnie was gentle. She knew all the right spots. And Carty wasn't complaining.
Carty wrapped her hands around Bonnie's head. "Ooh, baby," Carty said. She tilted her head back and shut her eyes. Just let Bonnie do her thing, she thought. Stopping her now would be like stopping LeBron from going in hard with a highlight-reel dunk. Sometimes, you just gotta let greatness do its thing.
"You like that?" Bonnie said with dirty talk glee.
"Yes, baby!" Carty moaned. She opened her eyes just to steal a look over at the camera. A quick glance for their audience.
With rough quickness, Bonnie started to flip Carty over.
"What are you doing?" Carty whispered.
"I gotta get that ass, mamacita," Bonnie replied.
Glaring, Carty stopped Bonnie. "Just hold on!"
"Carty, the camera-"
"I don't give a shit about them!" Carty grumbled as she turned on her stomach. "Just be more gentle next time."
"Okay," Bonnie sighed. Back in porn mode, she caressed Carty's round booty. "That ass, mamacita!" she exclaimed.
Carty cringed at Bonnie's forced delivery. These glorified butt scenes were a little much, she thought. Maybe I should let out a fart to really shake things up.
"That booty though..." Bonnie continued. She gave Carty a quick (and literal) kiss on the ass.
"God..." Carty mumbled. This wasn't the Bonnie she liked.
Bonnie felt along Carty's butt, cradling it for all the camera to see. It was an impressive booty for sure. Fake as Hell, but that certainly didn't bother Bonnie nor the Paranormal Fornication faithful.
"I gotta see that ass in reverse, girl," Bonnie said in a most oversexualized manner. If this was the extent of her acting abilities, her Lady Macbeth performances must've been a fucking disaster.
"Ooh, you want it, baby," Carty responded, disinterested. She wiggled her ass with the enthusiasm of a jaded stripper on her last day at work.
Bonnie smacked Carty on the ass, making that booty jiggle for the camera.
"Ooh, harder, baby," Carty said in a more seductive tone, making sure her voice was loud for the camera.
"That's my girl," Bonnie beamed.
Bonnie's next smack on Carty's butt was quick and gentle. A love tap Carty enjoyed.
Smiling, Carty looked back at Bonnie. "Mmm, keep going, sexy..."
Bonnie crouched down toward Carty's smooth bubble butt. "With pleasure..."
Bracing for more ass worship, Carty looked toward the hallway. She was surprised at how aroused she was getting in such a creepy place... Bonnie's kisses along her ass were actually feeling really nice. Hell, this was Bonnie's best "performance" since the Hiers farm in Alabama, Carty realized.
"God, you're perfect," Bonnie said.
Carty grinned. She knew that wasn't Bonnie the actress talking, but Bonnie the girlfriend. Not that it was hard to differentiate since Bonnie was a shitty actress.
Carty enjoyed the touch of Bonnie's soft hands running along her lower back and perky butt. The gentle kisses. Maybe we need to keep this episode for ourselves.
A soft, hushed singing drifted toward Carty's ears, piercing through her pleasure. The song's words were murky and unclear, the voice similarly vague. The singer could've been a boy or a girl. But whoever it was didn't seem to be want to be heard. Not yet at least...
Alarmed, Carty looked on at the hallway. The singing appeared to be coming from near the staircase. "What the Hell..." she muttered.
A set of teeth sunk into Carty's juicy ass, startling Carty. The bite was a vampire's wet dream, but Carty knew it wasn't no vampire. "Shit, Bonnie!" Carty fumed as she confronted her girlfriend.
Bonnie leaned back, confused. "What?"
"Did you hear that!"
The haunting singing continued, pulling Carty's attention back toward the hallway.
"I don't hear shit." Bonnie responded.
Carty pointed her toward the stairs. "It's coming from in there!"
Alert, both women listened out for the singing. Even as the words stayed jumbled, the voice had gotten louder. The singer would've never made it on American Idol, but it had a pretty meekness to it. An innocent child’s charm. The voice sounded too deep for a girl... but such vulnerability seemed more fitting for a melancholy teenage female singing herself to sleep.
Bonnie finally heard it. All the confidence drained from her face. For once, she looked rattled by the pair's paranormal excursions. "Shit..."
Carty glared at her. "I told you this was a bad idea!"
The singing kept on repeating the same tune. The same melody. The same scrambled words. The whole production a loop of insanity, albeit, a pretty loop.
"We shouldn't have ever come here!" Carty went on.
Lost in thought, Bonnie turned and looked over at the camcorder. The camera stared right back at her, taunting her with its mere presence. The show must go on...
"Let's fucking go!" Carty pleaded to Bonnie. With uneasy eyes, she looked over at the downstairs hallway.
The singing stayed on a steady path of instability. The words never clear, the mysterious voice wobbling between lovely and stilted.
"Shit..." Carty muttered. She turned and saw Bonnie get off the couch. "Bonnie!"
Bonnie threw on her clothes.
Ready to get the fuck outta there, Carty stood up and did the same. She saw Bonnie grab the camera.
"Are we going?" Carty asked with impatience. She pulled her tight shirt over her head. Both women were now dressed. Easily the fastest either of them had ever put their clothes back on.
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss for reassurance. "I'm just gonna go look."
Carty pushed Bonnie back. "Are you crazy!"
"Carty, it's just for the site," Bonnie said. "We're just gonna look real quick and see what it is."
"Oh God," Carty said. Terrified, she turned away. She could still hear the singing. That fucking voice.
Bonnie retrieved the flashlight from her pocket. "Just follow me, alright," she told Carty.
Carty took an angry step toward her. "No-"
"Then what do you want us to do!" Bonnie interrupted. "The door's that way, Carty."
The repetitious singing went on in its hypnotic loop. Now the voice was even louder, begging for an audience.
Groaning, the scared Carty looked off toward the fireplace.
Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's shoulder. "Think of the show, babe," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "Think of us."
Carty confronted her. "I am!" Carty yelled. "But this is crazy, Bonnie." Her trembling hand pointed toward the fireplace. "Whoever's here made the Goddamn fire!"
Forcing a smile, Bonnie turned on the flashlight and put it up under her face in a playful manner. "Then let's just hope it's a ghost."
Bonnie showed equal parts bravery and stupidity as she took off for the downstairs hallway. Toward the singer's lair..
"Shit, Bonnie!" Carty yelled after her. Left alone in frustration, Carty looked down and saw the mic lying on the ground. Desperate, she snatched it up.
Link To Part 2
Link To eBook
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2020.06.08 15:50 unknownhorrorwriter2 Next door neighbor voyeur

The Crane house was just ordinary, abandoned trash. Boring even. The house was a two-story farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Miles of woods surrounded it. Needless to say, there weren't any neighbors for miles either. The house's mailbox stood tall, wearing its abundance of rust for a paint job. Rather than a paved driveway, a long stretch of faded dirt ran through the house's tall grass and weeds, all the way up to the decrepit front porch.
The clear country sky illuminated the home in a vivid light. The house a beacon that only drew local paranormal enthusiasts and juvenile delinquents looking for cheap thrills in the small town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Even if you didn't believe in ghosts, the Crane house certainly did look the part.
The once-pretty country home looked to have gone uninhabited for decades. Crooked shutters guarded the large cracked windows. Busted wooden steps led up to the house's creaky front porch. The home's bricks all faded with age.
An archaic lantern hung on the porch, its glass case long shattered. The rocking chairs were at least functional if you could look past the layers of thick cobwebs wrapped all around them.
Given the house's many deficiencies and its hopeless place in the open market, the hot Georgia night brought a huge surprise when a pristine and shiny new convertible zoomed down the long dirt driveway.
Appearing with the sudden quickness of a mirage, the car's tires scattered dust everywhere. The convertible's top was down, the occupants inside blasting loud and obnoxious pop music.
The car came to an abrupt stop just a few feet away from the porch. As the rag top started coming back down, the music and lights were shut off. After the doors swung open, jovial laughter echoed through the night.
Out stepped two beautiful young women. Bonnie Campbell and Carty Elizabeth, both of them in their late-20s and both of them ultra-attractive. A gay couple just as clever as they were sensual. These weren't the nerdy ghost enthusiasts, the Stanwyck High dropouts, or any of the other typical yokel explorers. This was a couple straight out of a Beverly Hills photo shoot.
Bonnie was a tall and streetwise Latina. Fit enough to be a supermodel, but too anti-establishment for that kinda shit. Everything about her was rebellious. From her hairstyle all the way to her attire. But instead of being scary or intimidating, the aggressive swagger was hot thanks in part to her pretty face.... a fact Bonnie was well aware of.
On the other hand, Carty was less confrontational in both her personality and style. While Bonnie gladly wore the "Butch" persona, Carty was the feminine "girly-girl" of the pair. But like Bonnie, Carty didn't take much shit either. After all, these ladies were entrepreneurs. Bonnie was holding a wireless mic and Carty a camcorder for a reason. They knew how to exploit what God gave them.
The couple stopped and looked on at the derelict house, both of them awestruck for different reasons. Bonnie with excitement, Carty with more than a little unease.
"Fuck, it's gorgeous," Bonnie said. "Absolutely perfect..."
Carty gave her a weird look. "Gorgeous?"
"You know what I mean." Bonnie grabbed a hold of Carty's hand and led her up to the front porch. "Come on. Let's explore."
With big frightened eyes, Carty looked on at the imposing farmhouse as they got closer and closer to the porch's battered wooden steps. It was a country home from Hell, she thought. A cross between a Cracker Barrel and Amityville.
Like a playful older sibling, Bonnie leaned in toward Carty. "Creepy..." she teased Carty in her best horror-host voice.
Carty pushed Bonnie away from her, annoyed. "Fuck you!"
"Aww, you scared, hon?" Bonnie replied.
"Who wouldn't be?" Carty said. She stole a glance back at their car.
"I've seen worse." Bonnie noticed Carty hadn't even turned on the camcorder yet. Outraged, Bonnie stopped and snatched Carty's arm. "Carty, what the Hell are you doing!"
Carty yanked her arm away from Bonnie's grasp. "What!"
Bonnie waved at the camcorder. "The camera, girl!"
Groaning, Carty turned it on.
"Establishing shots, hello," Bonnie reiterated.
"Here's your damn establishing shot," Carty responded. Agitated, she pointed the camera at Bonnie. "Scene one, enter the bitch Bonnie."
Bonnie cracked up.
Still pissy, Carty lowered the camera. "It's your idea to come here in the first place."
"Man, this ain't even that scary!" Bonnie protested. "That old motel in Decatur was way freakier."
Carty went silent and looked on at the house. Technically, Bonnie was right. This place was no different than your average abandoned shack... but something about it felt different. Maybe they’d gone too far off the beaten path of local haunts. After all, there wasn't a whole lot about the Crane house on-line.
"Shit, the graveyard in Bainbridge," Bonnie went on. "I still have those ant bites on my ass."
Carty chuckled. "Well," she began as she stole a glance at Bonnie's shapely booty. "It still looks pretty nice."
Bonnie admired her own ass. "I think they made it bigger."
"Still not as big as mine," Carty quipped.
"Mmm, but I'm getting there," Bonnie replied. She slapped Carty's bubble butt.
Giggling, Carty pointed the camera at the house. "How'd you find this place anyway?" She looked on at the rocking chairs, both of them mummified in cobwebs.
"You know, just the interwebs," Bonnie said.
"Reddit?"
"Pretty much," Bonnie replied with a smile. She faced Carty and ran her hand along Carty's arm. "Let's go."
Still uneasy, Carty looked at her.
Sensing Carty's unease, Bonnie leaned in closer. For once, Bonnie pushed the camcorder away, giving them a sense of privacy.
The couple shared a sweet kiss. One not for the cameras but for themselves. Its potency certainly did the trick for Carty. She felt all of Bonnie's love for her in that one pleasant embrace.
They smiled at one another. Playing teenage lovers in this magic moment.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked mischievously.
Grinning, Carty looked over at the farmhouse. Either the house wasn't that scary to begin with or the drug that was Bonnie's kiss really had calmed my nerves, Carty thought. "Sure," Carty said.
Bonnie pulled Carty in closer to her as they approached the porch's first step. "I got what I could for the legend."
Carty aimed the camera at the house, getting the "establishing shots." "Any of it true?" she asked Bonnie.
Stopping them in front of the porch stairs, Bonnie turned and grinned at Carty. "True enough."
"Okay," Carty said. Using the camera, she motioned Bonnie toward the porch. "You want the honors?"
In a confident stride, Bonnie stepped up in front of the camera. "Absolutely." She glanced back, making sure the house could be seen behind her for a foreboding backdrop.
Carty pointed the camera right at Bonnie. A steady grip. "Awesome," Carty congratulated herself.
Facing Carty, Bonnie fixed her shirt. Now it showed off her boobs even more than she realized was possible. She straightened her hair quickly for good measure. Her and Carty knew they had to look good on camera. Even when they were trespassing onto creepy private property.
"You ready?" Carty asked Bonnie.
For a final test, Bonnie raised the mic and gave it one firm hit. Ready to go. "Yeah, roll it," Bonnie said.
Eager, Carty flashed her a thumbs up.
Bonnie paused for a moment, letting the camera capture her in all her candid glory: pretty face, a stern yet commanding expression, and some really big breasts. In the staunch darkness and with the terrifying house lurking behind her, Bonnie had the aura of a Playboy-sponsored horror show host. A more sexualized Elvira. Just what Carty knew Bonnie was going for.
"Welcome back, voyeurs," Bonnie said in a ghoulishly campy voice. She squeezed her big boobs together in sexy, obnoxious fashion. "Tonight, your two favorite sexy starlets are taking their well-endowed talents to the sleepy little town of Stanwyck, Georgia. Home of the infamous Crane house."
Struggling to contain her laughter, Carty took a few steps back, capturing a wider shot of the house.
God, Bonnie was really hamming it up tonight, Carty thought. Bonnie's silliness could turn any of these eerie locations into both a literal and figurative playhouse for us.
Bonnie looked right into the camera, being as serious as her "acting" would allow. "Thirty years ago, at this very house, sexy, carefree housewife Bette Crane flipped out on her stud farmer husband." With the dedication of a terrible actress gunning for an Oscar, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. What should've been porn-level lighting actually gave Bonnie an otherworldly quality in the country night. "Bette took a frying pan, the very thing she'd used to make Farmer Studbucket's scrambled eggs for him that morning and then turned it into a vicious weapon!"
"Oh God..." Carty muttered through a smirk.
"Bette Crane savagely beat her husband with that frying pan until his face was mushier and more splattered than the greasiest eggs she'd ever cooked," Bonnie continued. "But the housewife wasn't through. After beating her husband to death, Bette took the biggest butcher knife she could find."
Holding the camcorder with the steadiness of a veteran Hollywood filmmaker, Carty stopped right in front of Bonnie for a closer shot of the host.
"And she walked over to her husband's bludgeoned body," Bonnie went on. "And plunged the knife straight into her forehead!" Toning down the theatrics, Bonnie locked eyes with the camera. One on one with her audience. "Ever since the murder, people believe the Crane house is haunted by evil spirits."
Bonnie pointed toward the farmhouse, as if she were emulating a horror tour guide rather than a horror host. "Stanwyck residents have reported many ghost sightings and paranormal incidents over the years," Bonnie said. "Objects seen flying around, weird noises being heard, even what is believed to be the ghost of Bette Crane still walking around with her bloody frying pan." Bonnie paused for dramatic effect. "So now," she began. Still keeping her serious demeanor, Bonnie took a step closer toward the camera. "We've arrived not to investigate the Crane house." Bonnie's stray hand moved down toward her breasts. "But for the house to investigate us."
Faster than a Mardi Gras veteran, Bonnie stuck out her tongue and flashed the camera with those glorious breasts. "This is Paranormal Fornication, bitches!" she shouted with glee.
Carty burst out laughing as she lowered the camera.
Bonnie lowered her shirt. "You got it?" she asked.
Still laughing, Carty lowered the camera. "Yeah, for sure."
Bonnie stepped toward Carty. "How was I?" she asked, fully expecting Carty's enthusiastic response.
Carty wrapped her arms around Bonnie. "Magnificent, babe!"
Flattered, Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's back. "Mmm, thank you, boo," Bonnie said.
The couple locked lips once more. A gentle kiss that was much more tender than any of their on-screen ones.
"Alright," Bonnie started. She led them toward the stairs. In director mode, she motioned around the porch. "Try to get a few shots of us going in."
At her command, Carty aimed the camcorder at the house. "Roger that, Bon."
Looking through the lens, Carty thought their walk up to the front door was being filmed like the climactic scene to The Blair Witch Project. A slow trek to a foreboding entrance. It looked great on camera. Maybe we can shoot a real horror film someday.
Bonnie slapped Carty's juicy ass, snapping Carty out of her post-pornographic aspirations.
"Ooh, baby!" Carty exclaimed with a startled smile.
"Just keep filming, babe," Bonnie said.
"I know," Carty said as they made their way up the rickety steps. If it weren't for their model physiques, Carty questioned whether these creaking stairs could even hold them.
Breaking away from Carty, Bonnie strolled up onto the front porch, reveling in this conglomeration of country decay.
"Bonnie!" Carty said with unease. Even just a few feet away, Carty thought the distance between them may as well have been a hundred feet considering the eerie circumstances.
Unconcerned, Bonnie gazed around at the house's offerings. The rocking chairs. The busted windows. Even the harsh graffiti scribbled on the aged wood. This house had it all. "God, just look at it!" Bonnie said. The wooden floor kept creaking and giving in but she didn't care one bit. "What a fucking spot!"
"Yeah..." the nervous Carty said as she stopped next to Bonnie. While filming, Carty kept clinging to the camera. Both as a source of light and as a potential weapon. "Fucking weird..."
Reaching out, Bonnie touched a rocking chair and made contact with all the sticky cobwebs. Bonnie drew her hand back, but the icky texture seemed to give her a thrill rather than sicken her. She watched the chair rock back-and-forth in a slow rhythm. The chair's loud creaking formed a hypnotic tune.
Concerned, Carty snatched Bonnie's arm and pulled her away from it. "What are you doing!" Carty yelled.
Chuckling, Bonnie faced her. "What? I just wanted to see-"
Carty stepped back. "Oh my God, you touched it!"
Trying to calm Carty, Bonnie held her hands up in a facetious manner. "Hey, look, nothing got on me."
"Whatever!" Carty backed away and stumbled into a dangling cobweb. Crying out, she rushed back toward Bonnie. "Fuck!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's shoulder. "Babe, just chill-"
"No!" Carty yelled back at her.
Bonnie motioned toward the rocking chair, highlighting its continuous melody of creaks. "Look, we should be filming the shit!"
At its height of rocking, the chair went completely still. The spiders stopping with it.
"Holy shit!" Bonnie exclaimed.
Nervous, Carty focused her camera on the chairs. "Okay, that was creepy."
"Shit, let's get this party started!" Bonnie said. She stepped toward the front door.
Carty looked at her real quick. "Bonnie!"
Before Carty could stop her, Bonnie snagged the rusty doorknob. She flashed Carty a smile. "Be sure to get this."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie.
"You ready?" Bonnie asked.
Carty gave her an apprehensive nod. "Yeah."
"Okay," Bonnie said. "Into the Crane house we go." She started to turn the loose doorknob when an incessant noise startled her and Carty.
"Shit!" Carty yelled as the couple whirled around.
They saw both rocking chairs now swinging in unison. Beneath the weight of age and the cobwebs, these rocking chairs were going harder and faster than seemed possible. Their consistent creaks a countrified chorus.
All the while, Carty kept filming the eerie event. "Oh my God..." she said in fear.
"Shit, this is amazing!" Bonnie exclaimed. She staggered up toward the chairs.
Carty snatched her shoulder, the tight grip ensuring Bonnie wasn't straying too far. "No, don't leave me!"
The rocking chairs came to a sudden stop. Either a slight breeze had gone away or the spiders had used their collective force once more... or the Crane house's spirits had moved on.
Somewhat disappointed, Bonnie pointed at the chairs. "See, it's nothing," she said to soothe Carty. She caressed Carty's shoulder. "We're gonna be fine."
"I don't know," Carty said. She lowered the camera. "I've got a weird feeling about this place."
Bonnie gave her a playful smile. "You get a weird feeling about everywhere."
"Yeah, but not like this..."
"Well, I'm here," Bonnie replied. She leaned in closer toward Carty's lips. "And I'll protect you."
Reassured as always by Bonnie, a grin cracked through Carty's nerves. "You better."
"You know I will." Bonnie gave Carty a soft kiss on the lips.
Carty liked it.
But right before Carty could expect more, Bonnie nodded at the camera. "You got all that shit, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Carty said.
Back to business, Bonnie looked back at the door. "Awesome."
"God, we're not still going in there, are we?" Carty said.
Bonnie faced her. "Why not?"
Upset, Carty motioned toward the chairs. "Not after all that shit!"
Bonnie grabbed Carty's wrist in a gentle grip. "Carty, please. Can we just go inside?"
The silent Carty just looked at Bonnie. Bonnie's pretty face and persuasive brown eyes were such an irresistible combination when Bonnie really wanted to do something. Especially when it came to Bonnie's passion for the paranormal.
"This is what we do," Bonnie went on. "Our scary shit." With a sly and seductive touch, she pulled Carty in closer toward her. "Look, I'll make it up to you, baby. I promise. But let's do this first, okay."
How can I say no, Carty thought. Bonnie was rather tough anyway... certainly, braver than me. She was so cute this excited. She always was. "Okay," Carty gave in.
Bonnie leaned in toward Carty's face. "I promise I'll make it up in there, baby," she said in a seductive whisper. Sweetening the deal, Bonnie guided Carty's hand all against her breasts. "I promise."
Carty didn't have a chance. She felt on one of those double-Ds, immense pleasure coursing through Carty's veins. She cracked a smirk. "Goddammit, Bonnie..."
Chuckling, Bonnie pulled her toward the door. "Come on."
Carty pointed the camera at Bonnie as Bonnie grabbed the knob once more. "Take two," Carty joked.
Turning, Bonnie smiled for the camera. "Paranormal Fornication, motherfuckers."
With dramatic emphasis, Bonnie turned the old doorknob and let the door swing into the house with a grueling creak.
The open doorway now lied before Carty and Bonnie. The dark farmhouse was beckoning them to enter. Paranormal Fornication must go on! it seemed to scream.
The couple journeyed through the farmhouse's narrow downstairs hallway. The camcorder and Bonnie's small flashlight like torches in uncharted terrain. Behind them, the front door was still wide open, Carty refusing to let Bonnie close it. Carty didn't want that sinking feeling of hearing that door slam shut. It was too definitive… Locked in not just for the night but forever.
Holding her mic and the flashlight, Bonnie led the way, Carty right behind her. Carty did her best to keep up, but Bonnie seemed to glide on that torn carpet. "Slow down," Carty grumbled.
"I am," Bonnie retorted. Her eyes were drawn to a doorway on the left at the very end of the hall.
Through the unflinching camera lens, Carty captured the usual array of spooky clichés inside. There were the broken counters and bookshelves. The torn carpets. The literal holes in the walls that reoccurred in patterns on the faded paint. A wooden staircase in the very back that was a poor farmer's attempt to be regal. Even a small door under the staircase that looked to be designed to be a small child's hiding place. The small door aged yet functional.
But it wasn't these scary attributes that bothered Carty. It was how the house somehow appeared... clean. There weren't any spiderwebs or rodents. No dirt, cigarette butts, beer bottles, or any of the other types of debris the duo saw in all their other explorations. The inside of the Crane home was in decent condition. As if someone had been in there and tried to straighten the place up as much as they could. And to Carty's horror, she thought maybe someone had.
"Hello?" Bonnie asked aloud, her voice echoing down the hallway.
Carty glared at her. "Bonnie, shut up!"
Ignoring Carty, Bonnie went closer and closer to the doorway. "Is there anybody home?" she said, her voice seemingly louder.
Carty could only groan in dismay.
But there was no reply. No answers from the Crane house.
Still following Bonnie, Carty looked toward the stairway. Darkness awaited whoever dared walk up those steps. Or whoever could make it up those steps. Several of them were dilapidated, even moreso than the porch steps. The stairway's crooked railing wouldn't offer much support either.
Uneasy, Carty saw the small door under the staircase was open just a crack. No one appeared to be inside it nor were there any lights on inside. It had to be a closet and a small one at that, Carty figured. Not a bad spot for hide and seek...
Bonnie snatched Carty's arm, scaring the shit out of her.
"Jesus!" Carty yelled at Bonnie.
Shushing Carty, Bonnie stopped them just a foot away from the doorway. "Do you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"What?"
Bonnie clenched tighter to Carty's shoulder. "Just listen," Bonnie said. She waved her microphone toward the doorway. "It's coming from there."
Carty looked toward the doorway.
And there it was. A soft crackle and pop. It sounded soothing. It sounded like Christmas. And then Carty realized it felt like Christmas as well. The dank house felt a little toasty.
"Did you hear that?" Bonnie asked.
"Yeah."
Another pop echoed toward the couple.
They looked on at the doorway and saw a faint orange glow radiating from inside the room.
Bonnie pointed at the light, excited. "Look at it!"
Carty stared at the doorway, her fear the exact opposite of Bonnie's enthusiasm. The crackling continued as a soundtrack to the faint glow. Stunned, Carty realized it was a burning fireplace. "Bonnie-" Carty began.
Bonnie grabbed Carty's hand. "Come on!"
Carty was no match for Bonnie's powerful pull. "But wait-" Carty tried to say.
"Just keep filming!"
Bonnie led Carty into the mysterious room.
Through Bonnie's small light and the weak flickers of the fireplace, Carty could make out they were in a spacious room.
Bonnie stopped in the middle of the room, fascinated. "Are you getting this?" asked Bonnie, her eyes gazing all around the living room.
Staying as close to Bonnie as possible, Carty scanned the room with her camera.
It was definitely the farmhouse's living room, but not one from the twenty-first century. There was no T.V. and seemingly no electricity. No family photos or portraits. No decorations at all. And not much furniture aside from a couple of wooden shelves.
"When'd that murder happen again?" Carty asked.
Still shining her flashlight around the room, Bonnie didn't even look at Carty. "I don't know, like maybe thirty years ago?"
Carty saw a tombstone radio standing near the fireplace. An open doorway was about ten feet away from the radio, this one leading into yet another dark room.
Leaning in closer for a better look, Carty could tell this room had a large wooden table. It must've been the kitchenOr what was left of it.
For all the lack of amenities in the living room, at least the antique radio was an impressive if outdated source of entertainment. The fireplace was similarly grandiose.
But thirty years ago, Carty wondered. Didn't the eighties at least have MTV? What were these bitches doing?
"It seems older," Carty said. She pointed the camera toward a raggedy couch that stood by the fireplace and radio. "Looks older."
"Yeah, well it was like 1982, 1983," Bonnie said. She thought she saw something on a corner wall across the room. Bonnie shined her light toward it and squinted her eyes, trying to see what was there.
"1983?" Carty asked. Her amusement shifted toward fear after she focused on the fireplace. So much wood was piled up in there... wood that had been consumed over a longer period of time. "Shit..."
Bonnie could tell the corner wall had large letters drawn on them. "What the Hell is that?" Bonnie wondered aloud.
"What?" Carty asked.
Intrigued, Bonnie stepped closer toward the letters.
Clinging to the camera for her security, Carty followed Bonnie to the spot. "Bonnie, wait!"
Bonnie stopped and stared at the wall, stunned yet awestruck by her new "discovery." "Oh fuck..."
"What is it!" Carty said as she stopped next to her.
Spraypainted letters splattered across the wall. Vile graffiti. The words had been rotting there a long time, practically implanted into the farmhouse's walls at this point. And the words all shared the same color: blood red paint.
Nasty phrases and slurs made up the collection: Bitch! The Crane Cunt! Bette The Psycho Bitch! Murderer! Cocksucker Crane!
Uneasy, Carty filmed the sight in all its vicious glory. She moved the camera around, even seeing how the graffiti carried over onto the other walls. The endless profanities and insults were all a big billboard brought to you by Stanwyck's resident assholes as a commemorative FUCK YOU to Bette Crane.
Carty stared at the entire scene in horror. This was further indication that this secluded farmhouse truly was home to something horrific. Something so traumatic and disturbing that to this day, the citizens of Stanwyck still felt the need to make this vengeance-fueled pilgrimage.
But to Bonnie, the graffiti was further proof that the couple had come to the right spot.
"Shit!" Carty said. She looked over at Bonnie. "We can't stay here."
With the excited eagerness of a kid about to catch a foul ball in the stands, Bonnie reached out toward "Bette The Psycho Bitch."
"Bonnie!" Carty yelled in outrage. She grabbed Bonnie's arm, stopping her.
Bonnie faced her, annoyed. "Carty, what the fuck!"
"What the fuck are you doing!"
Scoffing, Bonnie waved the mic toward the wall. "See for yourself!"
"No!" Carty said. "Someone's been here, Bonnie. And they might still be here."
"It's just a fire-"
"Just a fucking fire!" Ready to leave, a pissed-off Carty headed straight for the hallway.
"Carty!" Bonnie snagged Carty's arm, making Carty face her. "Look at me! This house is empty!" Using the mic, she motioned toward the fireplace. "Whoever did this shit's probably gone anyway."
"Probably!" Carty replied, incredulous.
Desperate to comfort Carty, Bonnie caressed her shoulders. "Hey, whoever it is is more scared of us than we are of them," Bonnie went on. She ran her finger against Carty's smooth cheek. "They're gone, Carty. And they ain't coming back."
"I don't know," Carty said. Still uneasy, Carty looked toward the fireplace.
"Look, Carty, this is what we do. Even when shit gets weird and scary." Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's arm. "We can't stop now."
Carty faced her. "But the fire. This isn't-"
Adamant, Bonnie stepped away from Carty. "They probably left when they heard us pull up! Just think about it, Carty."
"I don't know..."
Proving her point, Bonnie shined her flashlight all around the living room. "Hello!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Come out, come out, wherever you are, bitches!"
"Bonnie!"
"Come out, motherfucker!" Bonnie went on.
No answer was heard. Just the consistent crackle of the crisp fire.
The lack of a response was helping Carty ease up. Much to Bonnie's delight.
"We don't bite!" Bonnie said. She gave Carty a flirtatious smile. "Well. Maybe I do."
Carty chuckled and shook her head.
The whole house seemed silent except for the fire. And the couple's soft laughter.
"See," Bonnie said as she grabbed a hold of Carty's hand. "It's nothing."
"But why here?" Carty asked. "Why can't we just go somewhere else?"
"Look, just think about it, alright," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "This is gonna be so big, Carty." She waved the flashlight around the living room. "I mean just look at this place! A creepy fucking Texas Chainsaw house, and we discover the fireplace, the graffiti! The damn rocking chairs."
Carty didn't argue. She knew she couldn't due to a combination of Bonnie making sense and being too stubborn to turn back now.
Bonnie caressed Carty's face. "Think of the hits, baby," Bonnie went on. "All the ads we'll get on the site."
Debating the idea, Carty looked off toward the bright fireplace.
"We'll make so much money, boo," Bonnie said. “We'll have enough to do the Lady Macbeth piece."
Carty faced Bonnie, allured by the prospect of doing their dream project. Just the sheer mention of it got Carty's attention.
Displaying a warm smile, Bonnie rubbed Carty's shoulder. "Like we always planned. We'll do real movies from now on, no more creeper sex shit."
"You promise this is the last one?" Carty asked, her voice begging for a yes.
"Yes!" the excited Bonnie said.
"Okay..." Carty relented.
"Thank you!"
"Let's do this."
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss. "I love you, baby," Bonnie said.
"I love you too."
"This is gonna be so perfect," Bonnie said. She stepped away from Carty and focused her attention on the corner wall graffiti. "Fucking crazy."
Carty followed Bonnie's gaze toward the gratuitous graffiti. All those vile words were more than just your average juvenile's bullshit. The phrases looked embroidered with emotion. Sculpted from pure disgust and hate.
Thinking about the creepy stairway, Carty looked back toward the hallway. She couldn't help but wonder if their squatter was hiding upstairs rather than in the woods. "This still feels weird," Carty commented.
Bonnie faced her. "Why, babe?"
Nervous, Carty hesitated on how to answer. "I don't know. It's like someone's watching."
Bonnie stepped right in front of Carty, not even attempting to make her sexual tease more nuanced. "Someone's always watching."
Carty grinned.
Thirty minutes later, Bonnie and Carty's film shoot was going hot and heavy. Steamy, sexy, scintillating. Words you usually wouldn't associate with a "haunted house." But then again, this was Paranormal Fornication.
Sprawled out on the couch, the naked duo engaged in passionate and exuberant sex.
Bonnie and Carty's lovemaking was certainly chock-full of genuine pleasure. Their emotions, the moaning, and the undeniable chemistry between the two were well on display. But their exploitative positions and cloying mannerisms proved that they knew how to put on a show.
The warm fire bathed the couple in a glorious light. Their clothes stacked up in neat piles right by the sofa.
Sitting on top of the tombstone radio, the camcorder filmed the couple's erotica with the detachment of an asexual filmmaker.
Leaning back on the sofa, Carty moaned in pleasure.
All the while, Bonnie continued going down on her partner. The pace was frenetic but Bonnie was gentle. She knew all the right spots. And Carty wasn't complaining.
Carty wrapped her hands around Bonnie's head. "Ooh, baby," Carty said. She tilted her head back and shut her eyes. Just let Bonnie do her thing, she thought. Stopping her now would be like stopping LeBron from going in hard with a highlight-reel dunk. Sometimes, you just gotta let greatness do its thing.
"You like that?" Bonnie said with dirty talk glee.
"Yes, baby!" Carty moaned. She opened her eyes just to steal a look over at the camera. A quick glance for their audience.
With rough quickness, Bonnie started to flip Carty over.
"What are you doing?" Carty whispered.
"I gotta get that ass, mamacita," Bonnie replied.
Glaring, Carty stopped Bonnie. "Just hold on!"
"Carty, the camera-"
"I don't give a shit about them!" Carty grumbled as she turned on her stomach. "Just be more gentle next time."
"Okay," Bonnie sighed. Back in porn mode, she caressed Carty's round booty. "That ass, mamacita!" she exclaimed.
Carty cringed at Bonnie's forced delivery. These glorified butt scenes were a little much, she thought. Maybe I should let out a fart to really shake things up.
"That booty though..." Bonnie continued. She gave Carty a quick (and literal) kiss on the ass.
"God..." Carty mumbled. This wasn't the Bonnie she liked.
Bonnie felt along Carty's butt, cradling it for all the camera to see. It was an impressive booty for sure. Fake as Hell, but that certainly didn't bother Bonnie nor the Paranormal Fornication faithful.
"I gotta see that ass in reverse, girl," Bonnie said in a most oversexualized manner. If this was the extent of her acting abilities, her Lady Macbeth performances must've been a fucking disaster.
"Ooh, you want it, baby," Carty responded, disinterested. She wiggled her ass with the enthusiasm of a jaded stripper on her last day at work.
Bonnie smacked Carty on the ass, making that booty jiggle for the camera.
"Ooh, harder, baby," Carty said in a more seductive tone, making sure her voice was loud for the camera.
"That's my girl," Bonnie beamed.
Bonnie's next smack on Carty's butt was quick and gentle. A love tap Carty enjoyed.
Smiling, Carty looked back at Bonnie. "Mmm, keep going, sexy..."
Bonnie crouched down toward Carty's smooth bubble butt. "With pleasure..."
Bracing for more ass worship, Carty looked toward the hallway. She was surprised at how aroused she was getting in such a creepy place... Bonnie's kisses along her ass were actually feeling really nice. Hell, this was Bonnie's best "performance" since the Hiers farm in Alabama, Carty realized.
"God, you're perfect," Bonnie said.
Carty grinned. She knew that wasn't Bonnie the actress talking, but Bonnie the girlfriend. Not that it was hard to differentiate since Bonnie was a shitty actress.
Carty enjoyed the touch of Bonnie's soft hands running along her lower back and perky butt. The gentle kisses. Maybe we need to keep this episode for ourselves.
A soft, hushed singing drifted toward Carty's ears, piercing through her pleasure. The song's words were murky and unclear, the voice similarly vague. The singer could've been a boy or a girl. But whoever it was didn't seem to be want to be heard. Not yet at least...
Alarmed, Carty looked on at the hallway. The singing appeared to be coming from near the staircase. "What the Hell..." she muttered.
A set of teeth sunk into Carty's juicy ass, startling Carty. The bite was a vampire's wet dream, but Carty knew it wasn't no vampire. "Shit, Bonnie!" Carty fumed as she confronted her girlfriend.
Bonnie leaned back, confused. "What?"
"Did you hear that!"
The haunting singing continued, pulling Carty's attention back toward the hallway.
"I don't hear shit." Bonnie responded.
Carty pointed her toward the stairs. "It's coming from in there!"
Alert, both women listened out for the singing. Even as the words stayed jumbled, the voice had gotten louder. The singer would've never made it on American Idol, but it had a pretty meekness to it. An innocent child’s charm. The voice sounded too deep for a girl... but such vulnerability seemed more fitting for a melancholy teenage female singing herself to sleep.
Bonnie finally heard it. All the confidence drained from her face. For once, she looked rattled by the pair's paranormal excursions. "Shit..."
Carty glared at her. "I told you this was a bad idea!"
The singing kept on repeating the same tune. The same melody. The same scrambled words. The whole production a loop of insanity, albeit, a pretty loop.
"We shouldn't have ever come here!" Carty went on.
Lost in thought, Bonnie turned and looked over at the camcorder. The camera stared right back at her, taunting her with its mere presence. The show must go on...
"Let's fucking go!" Carty pleaded to Bonnie. With uneasy eyes, she looked over at the downstairs hallway.
The singing stayed on a steady path of instability. The words never clear, the mysterious voice wobbling between lovely and stilted.
"Shit..." Carty muttered. She turned and saw Bonnie get off the couch. "Bonnie!"
Bonnie threw on her clothes.
Ready to get the fuck outta there, Carty stood up and did the same. She saw Bonnie grab the camera.
"Are we going?" Carty asked with impatience. She pulled her tight shirt over her head. Both women were now dressed. Easily the fastest either of them had ever put their clothes back on.
Bonnie gave Carty a quick kiss for reassurance. "I'm just gonna go look."
Carty pushed Bonnie back. "Are you crazy!"
"Carty, it's just for the site," Bonnie said. "We're just gonna look real quick and see what it is."
"Oh God," Carty said. Terrified, she turned away. She could still hear the singing. That fucking voice.
Bonnie retrieved the flashlight from her pocket. "Just follow me, alright," she told Carty.
Carty took an angry step toward her. "No-"
"Then what do you want us to do!" Bonnie interrupted. "The door's that way, Carty."
The repetitious singing went on in its hypnotic loop. Now the voice was even louder, begging for an audience.
Groaning, the scared Carty looked off toward the fireplace.
Bonnie ran her hand along Carty's shoulder. "Think of the show, babe," Bonnie said in a gentle tone. "Think of us."
Carty confronted her. "I am!" Carty yelled. "But this is crazy, Bonnie." Her trembling hand pointed toward the fireplace. "Whoever's here made the Goddamn fire!"
Forcing a smile, Bonnie turned on the flashlight and put it up under her face in a playful manner. "Then let's just hope it's a ghost."
Bonnie showed equal parts bravery and stupidity as she took off for the downstairs hallway. Toward the singer's lair..
"Shit, Bonnie!" Carty yelled after her. Left alone in frustration, Carty looked down and saw the mic lying on the ground. Desperate, she snatched it up.

Link To eBook
submitted by unknownhorrorwriter2 to rhonnie14FanPage [link] [comments]


2020.05.29 04:13 Max_Evry Next voyeur neighbor door

The illusion of choice. With the advent of high-speed internet and the streaming revolution, TV viewers nowadays can often feel overwhelmed with the sheer number of choices they have at their disposal. Not just thousands of shows, but thousands of CHANNELS. A channel for everything. A channel streaming footage of blind rescued cats from North Carolina. A channel about chopping firewood. A channel showing you how to assemble an AR-15 rifle. The illusion of all this choice is 98% of those reading this will simply put all these options to the back of their minds and binge watch Stranger Things and Narcos like everyone else… Everyone else except me, that is.
Yes, I'm that creep in the 2% that actually seeks out the weird, obscure and just plain coo-coo-bananas streaming channels that most people don't give two shits about.
My obsession kicked into overdrive when –in a series of unfortunate events I'd rather not get into here- I lost my steady gig four months ago and, bolstered by a cocktail of anti-depressants, have been riding the New York State unemployment train. At least, until I have to make a quick transfer to the Welfare train. Between odd Craigslist gigs to make extra cash and an ever-diminishing number of job interviews, I found myself sleeping in later and later, to the point where I'm often just getting up at 3 or 4pm and not drifting off to the land of nod until dawn (with aid of my Etsy-bought sleeping mask shaped like Grumpy Cat).
As you might have guessed, during those aimless late nights I'm burning through my precious God-given gift of life watching TV. A lot of TV. My TV had built-in streaming, but after cancelling my holy trinity Netflix/Hulu/Amazon subscriptions to trim expenses, I began to rely on the numerous free channels at my disposal. Once you settled into the steady rhythm of poor picture quality and commercial interruptions from auto dealerships in Wisconsin, there were hours of entertainment to be had: Grainy kung-fu flicks from the 70's, Christian yoga and 24-hours-a-day of Gumby.
Occasionally I would try to educate myself with a 10-minute news summary from Bloomberg, or teach myself how to cook bharwan bhindi while eating the leftover second half of my Subway $5 Dollar Foot-Long from the day before. To make life more interesting I started challenging myself to watch a new channel every day, working my way through everything from a cartoon panda teaching me Spanish, to NASA satellite footage, to a channel designed to help dogs relax.
Believe it or not, boredom started to set in, so I decided to dig deeper: Private Channels. Although not without a certain bootleg mystique, Private Channels weren't as illicit as they sounded, usually just unofficial third-party channels for a streaming service without an official app, and not publically listed. Oh, and porn. So much porn.
I even tried to get my roommate Greg into Private Channels, but he said they were "so boring" they made him want to shoot himself in the head.
"I'll stick with Netflix, thank you," he kept telling me.
Granted, there was some truly bizarre stuff I discovered and maybe will get into some other time, but I want to focus on one channel specifically: RSO: RUSSIAN SOAP OPERA.
Now before you start rushing to look up the channel code for the Russian Soap Opera, let me say straight up that it's no longer available, and even the Reddit thread where I saw the code posted has been deleted. All trace of its existence seems to have been purged… And even if it wasn't I wouldn't tell you.
Do I wish I had recorded at least a snippet of footage on my phone? Sure, but to be honest I got too caught up in the madness of it to even think to do that.
One night about a week ago, with my roommate Greg staying at his girlfriend's and me alone in the apartment, RSO: Russian Soap Opera showed up on my TV's home page. It appeared about 24 hours after I had entered the code into the accounts page on my device, along with a few other codes… including a channel with a guy who does magic tricks in his garage.
Everything about RSO screamed "no budget, no frills." Even the box you clicked on to stream the channel was unusually spartan, with no logo or anything, just a basic font with the name.
Once I got to the episode listings there were only two, sans titles. Just little black boxes that said "1" and "2." I clicked on "1" and the action began right away with no credits, already a bad sign…
No matter how little you may think you know about Russia as a country, I know less. You might think of vodka, Borscht, computer hackers or Vlad Putin. With a show called "Russian Soap Opera" I was maybe expecting tales of forbidden romance set amid a bleak Siberian landscape with a bunch of folks wearing furry ushanka-hats, or even a crime saga about the corrupt world of the Russian mob. Nope. The first episode of "RSO" didn't shoot a frame in the former Soviet Union. It was all filmed right here in New York City, USA.
And when I say "filmed," I mean it was shot VERY poorly in 4:3 square format, probably on a 20-year-old DV camera. It had that washed-out "shot-on-tape" look that even the crappiest phone cameras these days could best. I mean, I need you to know it looked AWFUL. To quote MST3K, every frame looked like someone's last known photograph.
So what was it, exactly? The show followed two mustachioed Russian men, both in their late-30s/early-40's who worked as movers in and around Brooklyn. They drove a beat up looking Chevy panel van from the 90's, something the kids these days might refer to as a "rape van." Personally, I think "rape van" might have been too charitable for this scary hunk of junk.
With their identical mustaches, slight frames, dead eyes and rough faces indicating plenty of mileage, the only way to really differentiate the two men was one constantly wore sunglasses while the other was balding. The latter wispy-haired guy seemed to be the subordinate of the sunglasses guy. Since I never caught their names I started to refer to them as "Rusky & Hutch." To myself, I mean.
The chain of long, clumsy handheld shots with poor audio that made up the first episode followed the pair as they drove their moving van to an apartment in Bed-Stuy and helped a couple move their furniture out. The men would occasionally make asides to each other in Russian, but there were no English subtitles so I couldn't really judge their acting chops per-se.
As for the thesps hired to play the American couple, they were INCREDIBLY stiff, with simple lines like "You'll have to wrap the couch cushions separately" or "That vase is my grandmother's, be very careful" spit out so awkwardly I started to wonder if they had even been in front of a camera before, even a security camera. Their acting was so bizarrely bad it actually troubled me.
These weren't really scenes, per se. They were more like watching someone's mundane home movies. I even saw the longhaired CAMERAMAN reflected in the apartment mirror for a second! Terrible filmmaking. You couldn't hear them talking sometimes because said Cameraman was so far away from the action, and they clearly didn't have the budget for a sound guy. The lack of music also made the proceedings extra unsettling.
Once the Balding Man and Sunglasses Man had loaded the van with a couch, a flatscreen TV and several other boxes of valuables, the show skipped over them delivering said items to the couple's new apartment and simply faded to the Balding Man's arrival at his own home in the middle of the night.
His neighborhood was mostly composed of old row houses, maybe East New York? Wherever it was, the Balding Man had to go through a back alley and down a set of steps to a basement-level apartment. The handheld camera followed him like a stalker, and he occasionally looked back at the Cameraman.
Once he made it into the basement it cut to the interior, the style switching up to a static camera now clearly mounted on a tripod all the way in the back of the one-room apartment. With the wide shot you could take in the whole dimly-lit space:
A small, dirty twin mattress with no sheet lay on the carpeted floor. A catatonic-looking Woman in her early 30's was lying on top of it. She was only wearing blue panties and a gray t-shirt with a few holes in it. Through the strands of dark hair draped over her face you could make out her dead eyes staring straight into the camera.
Next to her were several half-eaten sandwiches still in their plastic store wrappers. A Poland Spring water cooler stood a few feet away from the bed. Above the water cooler was one tiny window letting in streetlight from above ground. On the other side of the room was one small clothes dresser, an electric light with no lampshade on top of it. The bare orange bulb was basically the only light source in the room, casting eerie shadows. Two white pipes ran across the stained ceiling. That was it.
The Balding Man walked inside, shutting and chain-locking the door. He took off his coat, tossing it on the floor. He walked right past the Woman on the mattress without addressing her, straight to the back of the room near where the camera was. He stared blankly at something in anticipation. The hissing audio of the silent room made it all the more creepy. God I wished they had put some music over this part.
This part… Here's where things got weird. Yes, as if they weren't weird before, right? The static camera did a 180-degree cut to the man's point of view, and we see what's in the back of the room: A child's crib.
Through the white slats of the crib -covered in splotches of red paint- a shadow of something moved inside. A Baby? The thing inside pulled itself up so its head peaked over the top wooden beam of the crib to reveal… how do I even describe this thing?
It appeared to be a poorly made foam latex puppet of a 1-year-old Baby, with glowing red LED lights in its eyes. I don't mean that its eyes were glowing red LIKE a pair of LEDs, I mean they were visibly LED lights. It was very shoddy, as was the puppeteering work. All it could do was tilt its head slowly from side to side and open its mouth slightly.
The camera switched back to the POV from the crib to show both the Man and the Woman now standing next to each other. You could see the glow of the Baby puppet's two LEDs on the Woman's shirt.
Without any prompting, the Man and the Woman began to… well, dance. Not a joyful dance, a kind of slow Bataan Death March of bobbing and sidestepping. The couple's arms flailed like zombies. It's the kind of dance you would expect someone to do if they were being held at gunpoint.
I know what you might be thinking: Baby puppets with glowing eyes? Two poor assholes dancing against their will? It might sound funny, but I'm telling you right now it was NOT in any way amusing.
And it went on and on for at least 10 or 15 minutes, just these two moving monotonously to no music or sound, clearly exhausted. As for my own reaction, I went from morbid curiosity to a kind of silent distress for these people. This didn't seem like a show, it seemed like something no decent person should be witnessing. I felt like a voyeur, watching a video some sick pervert had paid to have made for their private collection or something.
Just as inexplicably as it started the slow dancing ended, the couple standing there taking deep breaths for a minute before trudging towards the twin mattress where they both laid down, exhausted. The camera remained in place for several minutes just watching the Man and Woman fall asleep. You could actually hear the Balding Man's snores faintly through the silence of this underground bunker of an apartment, still lit by that one bare bulb.
Suddenly the camera jiggled, then began to move. It was like whoever was operating it had taken it off the tripod and walked to the middle of the room across from the sleeping couple. The hand of the Cameraman appeared in front of the lens holding an object –A ROCK- in his hand. The mid-sized rock was held up to the camera for several seconds, anticipating what the sadistic person intended to do… which was to throw the rock at the sleeping Man.
The sound of the rock hitting the Man's side, and the startled cry of pain he let out, was agonizing. The Balding Man did not get out of the bed, he just covered his head with his arms and began to sob.
The Cameraman's hand appeared again, holding up another rock. He threw it even harder, hitting the Man's back. You could hear the impact louder this time, but the Man just continued to sob.
Then the footage ended, fading to black. On the TV it went back to the menu screen with the two black boxes labeled "1" and "2".
JESUS. What the fuck did I just watch?
If this was real it was like watching some snuff torture porn bullshit you'd see on 4chan. If it was fake, whoever was making it clearly fancied himself some kind of a 99-cent store David Lynch.
Now if you were me, would you have watched the second video on the spot, right then and there? Well I didn't. That first RSO video made me feel gross. Mind you, I've seen some sick stuff in my time, but I hadn't felt such a garbage feeling on the inside as I had with this.
Went to bed unusually early for me, 1am. I ran the episode I'd just watched back over in my head. The scene where the Man had rocks thrown at him had been jarring, but in retrospect the most disturbing part was when the Man and Woman were dancing. It was as if they were in a trance. They moved like they had no choice.
That night I had bad dreams I can't remember, and woke up the next day at 11am. After getting dressed up all spiffy I headed into Midtown Manhattan and fake-smiled my way through another interview for a thankless job in a nondescript building I knew I wasn't going to get. A waste of cologne and subway fare. For some reason I remember wanting to tell this hapless assistant who was interviewing me about the strange video I had seen the night before, but thought better of it. There was an irrational need to talk about this Russian Soap Opera… and to see what came next.
___________________________________
Grabbing my usual $5 Dollar Cold Cut Combo, I raced home on the J train, got back to the apartment, powered up the Roku TV, unwrapped my sandwich and braced myself as –against my better judgment- I hit play on RSO Episode "2".
Like the first episode, Episode 2 began straight away with no opening credits. The Balding Man was getting dropped off in his neighborhood by the Sunglasses Man at dusk, a static shot from the alley. Thick fog gave everything a frightening aura. You could barely see the outlines of the trees, row houses or even that white panel van as it drove off.
The Balding Man walked through the same alley he had used to get to his basement apartment in the first episode, but he stopped halfway through. The POV reversed to show what the Man was looking at: In the middle of the fog-drenched alley stood a DOG, a Siberian Husky with piercing bright blue eyes. The animal stood rooted to a spot and stared at the Man. He approached it slowly, but the Husky did not waver.
Kneeling down in front of the stoic animal, he put his hand in front of the Dog's nose to show he was friendly. No sniffing. No movement at all. Just that icy stare directly at the Man.
The next shot was taken from a rare close-up angle: The guy reached down to the Dog's tag dangling from a collar around its neck. The silver tag read "IVAN". Cutting back to the Man, he had a strange unsettled reaction to reading the Dog's name.
It went back to a jerky handheld shot hovering over the Man. He actually turned and looked into the camera, as if he was seeking approval from it for whatever he does next. Here's what he did…
(Remember my description of the Baby from Episode 1? How I said it was obviously a terrible cheap puppet with LEDs for eyes? Well this next part couldn't have been real, but I swear on my life it looked 100% legit. Based on what had come before I know these guys did not have access to cutting edge CGI or make-up effects or anything like that.)
So with a good amount of hesitation, the guy rolls up his right sleeve and puts his hand to the Dog's maw. It opened its jaws as wide as it could, without growling, and then the Man put his hand inside the Dog's mouth. He pushed his probing hand further in, until it passed into the canine's throat. As he probed deeper his ENTIRE FOREARM was INSIDE the Dog. While he was doing this, the Dog didn't so much as flinch. I kept thinking it had to be a prosthetic or animatronic or something. Looking at the Dog's belly you could see it rising and falling as it breathed, and then a slight distention as the Balding Man's hand probed the animal's insides.
The Man looked terrified, understandably. This was not a normal thing he was doing by any means. There was a sudden change in his expression, as if he found what his hands were searching for in the animal's stomach. He began to pull his arm back out through the Dog's wide-open mouth. The arm emerged covered in a kind of black viscera that dripped off onto the sidewalk. The Man's breathing got more intense, like he was hyperventilating. As he pulled the latter half of his forearm out the Dog must have clamped down a little bit because its teeth carved a few small tears in the Man's flesh. The guy winced at the pain.
When his whole arm and hand emerged from out of the Dog he was holding a large, black hammer. The man looked at it perplexed, then looked back at the camera and said something in Russian that I did not understand. Then he said it again, tears in his eyes, almost yelling. The Dog just walks away, out of the alley, disappearing into the fog.
There's a cut as we're now in the apartment again, all the way at the back of the room. Even further back than in the last episode, we actually see the top slats of the crib at the bottom of the shot.
Where the dirty mattress once was now sat a couch, the SAME COUCH that the two men got from the apartment in Bed-Stuy in Episode 1. The exact same one. The Woman was lying on the couch in a torn shirt and panties similar to those she wore in the last video. She lay there on her side in a catatonic stupor.
The Balding Man approached the crib with the hammer in his blackened hand. He walked slowly, purposefully. Staring directly into the camera, he gradually lifted the hammer above his head, as if ready to strike the camera itself.
He couldn't, though.
Something, some force beyond his control was keeping him from bringing the hammer down. His face strained. The single lightbulb on the lamp flickered, causing a strobe effect on the image. He had chosen to strike the camera or whoever was holding it, but it was the illusion of choice. In reality, he had no control.
Keeping the hammer held in the air, the Man's body swiveled and turned around towards the couch. As if propelled by a sudden force of will, his feet rushed over to the couch and the Man began raining down heavy and fast blows onto the Woman's head.
He pummeled her with the hammer so fast and with such bloody force that she never made so much as a whimper. All that could be heard were the wet smacks as her skull caved in, her legs and arms reflexively spasming for a few moments until they lay dormant. Even after she was clearly dead the Man continued to smash her and smash her and smash her. Eventually her head had been pulverized into an unrecognizable mound of mashed brain matter, blood, hair and cracked pieces of skull.
I vomited onto the rug.
This was not fake. This Woman had just been killed right in front of me on television. I had no idea who she was, but this swift and senseless act of murder had ended her life in an unconscionable way.
I paused the episode to clear my head for a second and just catch my breath. This strange show had taken a turn that made it difficult to process just what it is I was seeing. Was this all some kind of sick staged performance, or something genuinely supernatural? Mind control… unnatural creatures… dark magic… I just didn't know what to make of it, only that it was evil and to watch it was clouding my very soul, like black ink spilled into a glass of water.
I hit play.
After several more ferocious, pointless hammer blows the Balding Man suddenly stopped, his frenzy cut off as if a switch had been thrown. He stood over the Woman's bloodied corpse breathing heavily from the exertion. He stared down at her as if he was waking up, just as shocked as I had been a moment earlier.
The man began to cry. The hammer dropped out of his hands and onto the floor with a thud, leaving a splash of blood around where it fell. He fell to his knees weeping. He touched her shoulders, shaking her as if she could possibly wake up. He then reached his hand into the pile of viscera where her head had been, sinking his fingers into it gently.
He pulled his hand from out of the gore and picked up the hammer once again. He began yelling something incomprehensible and smashed the side of his own head with the tool several times, splitting his ear open in several places.
The Man then turned back to the crib where the Cameraman had been filming the whole time. The camera tilted up slightly as the Man got nearer, a frighteningly smooth movement done with a coolness that belied everything that had just happened in the last few minutes.
Reaching into the crib, the Man pulled the fake Baby puppet with the glowing red LED eyes out. He held it in his blood-caked hands with pure hatred and contempt, but as moments passed his expression changed from rage to fear. Absolute terror. The Man's breathing got heavier the longer he stared into this lifeless thing's eyes. He began to scream.
The screaming continued horrifically even as the Baby puppet inexplicably and spontaneously burst into flames. The fire instantly covered the Man's hands and spread quickly to his blood-stained shirt until it engulfed his entire body in a matter of seconds.
The Man's scream became audibly contorted as the flames no doubt savaged his vocal cords, the sound eventually fading even as he stood impossibly upright and still while his entire body burned.
The flames spread across the room, licking the couch and furniture until the whole room was an inferno. Even the slats of the crib visible at the bottom of the frame lit up.
At this point the Cameraman lifted the camera slowly and continued to capture the room as smoke and fire began to obscure the lens. While I can't be sure of what I saw given the distortion of the image, I believe the last thing visible in frame before the whole scene went dark was the camera going straight into the flaming Man, at last tipping him over onto the floor before the screen went black.
___________________________________
Needless to say, it took me awhile to recover from seeing all that play out in front of my disbelieving eyes.
Then I watched it again, both episodes.
Remember when I said I saw the couch from Episode 1 in the Man's apartment in Episode 2? Well in rewatching Episode 1 I paid extra attention to the brief point in the couple's apartment when I could see the longhaired Cameraman in the mirror. I paused that moment, and even with the lousy resolution of the fuzzy DV footage I now noticed that in his right hand was the small handheld camera, and down by his side his left hand held a GUN, a silver revolver. That was why the couple acted so bizarre in Episode 1… they were being forced to "act" at gunpoint by the psychopath who put this "show" together.
I was now also convinced of two things:
1) The Baby was absolutely fake, a puppet.
2) The Dog with the tag that read "IVAN" was absolutely real, as was the surreal act of pulling the hammer out of its body.
Now it was the moment of truth. Given that the Russian Soap Opera recognizably took place in New York, I had to find out if there really was a huge fire in a basement apartment sometime recently.
Digging through the internet I saw articles about several big blazes in large scale apartment complexes, but nothing in a smaller, row house-type situation. Finally I came across a Brooklyn community bulletin site that listed "lesser" fires and there had been one less than two weeks prior.
"A two-alarm fire at an apartment in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn was contained after 9:30pm Thursday by 20 firefighters who quickly put out the blaze. While the fire did not spread to neighboring apartments connected to the building at ____________ Street, two individuals who lived in the basement unit were reported as casualties, the badly burned corpses identified as Anna Krovopuskov (age 29) and Ivan Sobakin (age 42). The family living in the aboveground unit was safely evacuated, while three fire fighters suffered non-life threatening injuries. The cause of the fire is still under investigation, and police have yet to rule out foul play."
Ivan. So that was why the Man gave such a startled look when he examined the Dog's nametag. It was his own name. A sign. An omen.
Before I knew it I saw the sun peaking through my bedroom window and realized I hadn't slept all night. A temp agency I was already on thin ice with had booked me for two days of work scanning files at a brokerage in Midtown. To be honest I desperately needed the money from that gig to pay my next month's rent, but in my bloodshot, half-crazed state I decided to blow it off. I didn't even call in to cancel, and when the agency phoned me several times I let it go straight to voicemail. You already know where I went instead…
Upon taking the Q-train to Sheepshead Bay I walked through the mostly residential area, passing a few Russian/Jewish pharmacies and bakeries along the way. Using GPS I made my way to the row house building reported in the article, and saw the charred, soot-stained alleyway still behind police tape.
While using the zoom during an attempt to take a photo with my phone something caught my eye on the screen. It was a shadow at the end of the alley, near the burned-out husk of the basement apartment. It was the Dog.
I stood there frozen for a minute, staring at the animal. Then it started to move towards me. Panicking, I turned and started walking back in the direction I came, now convinced that this had been a bad idea.
My feet propelled me down the sidewalk, but when I turned back after several blocks I was unnerved to see the Dog following me, slowly but steadily. As it was only a block or so away I quickened my pace, trying not to look behind me. I must have gone ten blocks before my ankles started to burn, and when I glanced back the Dog was even closer, half a block.
Finally the green globes of the subway entrance were in sight, and I went into a full-on sprint, but accidentally bumped into a passing female jogger, knocking us both to the ground.
Far from annoyed, the jogger started to laugh. God help me, I've never seen a mean-spirited person on a runner's high. As I was offering to help her up the Dog appeared directly behind me, sitting down.
"Aww, is he yours?" she asked.
I didn't reply verbally, still unnerved by the very presence of the animal. I just shook my head negative.
"Huh, I saw him right behind you, assumed you were both out for a jog," she said, petting the unmoving Dog. She felt for its collar, then said the name on the tag aloud. It was my own name.
I backed away and headed down the subway stairwell. I could hear the jogger woman yelling back at me, asking if I was sure the Dog wasn't mine.
Waiting for the train to come, I sat on a wooden bench, catching my breath.
My own name. Not "IVAN." My name.
I looked up from the grimy station floor, staring at the denizens of the track across the way going the opposite direction. Amid the crowd my eyes caught a glimpse of someone pushing a black baby stroller. A man. A long-haired man. I immediately averted my eyes back to the floor, then closed them until I heard the train coming.
Something –call it intuition- was telling me that as deep into this as I was already, I didn't want to see that man's face. This Cameraman, whoever he was, must be some force of evil. That much was clear. To see his face would be to lose it all. My life, my sanity, or any sense of peace I would ever have would all disappear if I saw his face.
But I didn't. I stared at the floor as I boarded the Q-train and headed away from that neighborhood, that apartment, that Dog and that Cameraman forever, lord willing.
___________________________________
Back at my apartment things were quiet. I had been so wrapped up in all this Russian Soap Opera stuff that I didn't even realize that my roommate Greg hadn't been back here in three days. I wanted to confide in somebody about the RSO, just to have someone acknowledge that it was all "crazy" and I needed to "forget about it"… but he wasn't there. I knew this was his day off from work too.
I tried reaching him on the phone. No answer. I tried reaching his girlfriend on the phone. No answer. I checked their Facebook pages. Neither had posted anything in three days. None of this was usual for them, but maybe I was just being anxious due to what I had just been through.
With no one around I started to spiral into my own head, as I am want to do. I started to think that maybe I needed to leave town, that my time in New York had run its course. No job prospects. Temp work bridges burnt. No girlfriend. No friends. Not even a roommate at the moment. I thought I could hack it in this city, that I had a choice not to go crawling back to my parents' basement with my tail tucked between my legs. Turns out that was the illusion of choice.
Life had become too lonely and too frightening here, and I didn't want to wait to find out what would happen if I stayed. I began to feel like I had to leave right then.
I bought a bus ticket back to Delaware. I called up my parents to tell them I was coming in the next day, that I had run out of options. After I got off the phone I started to cry a little, thinking about the life I could have had in this city: A job, a wife, a kid, a dog, my own place. All the things people wanted, and all I had was a ghastly supernatural television mockery.
I tried getting ahold of Greg again by phone and text. No answer, despite the urgency of the messages I was leaving. If I skipped out on my final rent check maybe then he would call me back. Or maybe not.
After packing all my meager possessions into three small suitcases I switched on the TV. The last thing in the world I wanted to think about now was the goddamn Russian Soap Opera, but there it was, still set to that show page… except now there was a third little black box on the screen with the label "3." A new episode, and all I had to do was click on it.
I'll stick with Netflix, thank you.
submitted by Max_Evry to nosleep [link] [comments]


2020.05.10 00:14 Blue_Wake Next door neighbor voyeur

After the new neighbors moved into the house next door, I was curious enough to introduce myself.
Knowing what I know now, I should have minded my own business.
One night they weren’t there. The next morning they were, having arrived in a beat-up white van in the dead of night.
The house had been vacant as long as I lived next door, a foreclosure sign perched in the front yard. I wrote freelance from my own home and could see it from my office window. In all my staring out that window while battling writers’ block, I hadn’t noticed anyone paying it a visit. The new owners must have closed the sale quickly at auction and moved right in.
The night after the van showed up in the driveway, I stayed up late working. That was when I got my first glimpses of the neighbors through a window at the side of the house.
Peering through someone’s window makes me sound like a voyeur, but I couldn’t see much at all. Oddly, they hadn’t turned any lights on. All I could see were silhouettes passing through the darkened interior of the home. The only thing I could make out from their shadowy profiles was that they were a man and woman.
At one point, I looked up from my computer and saw that the female silhouette had paused, its back to the window. It remained unmoving for a long minute before I realized I was wrong about which way it was facing.
It was looking back at me.
Something about the anonymous silhouette’s gaze sent a chill down my spine. I closed my blinds and called it a day.
When I woke up the next morning, a thick black curtain hung in the window in the house next door.
I didn’t see either of the neighbors again until that night.
I was returning home from a run when I noticed a man bent over behind the open doors of the white van. One of the new neighbors.
I paused. I felt a little self-conscious that I’d been caught peeking through his window, presumably by his wife. More importantly, I still wanted to know about the people who’d bought the long-empty house next door.
I decided to introduce myself.
“Hey, neighbor,” I began cheerfully, walking towards him, “I saw you moved in next door. I’m Colin—”
He stood up from the position he’d assumed halfway inside the van, and what I saw left me for a moment without words.
He had no facial expressions.
What that looks like is hard to describe. It was something I’d never seen before, something I can almost guarantee you’ve never seen either.
There was nothing wrong with his face, at least in the conventional sense. He wasn’t deformed. Nor was it that his expression was just serious. No, this was different.
In a normal person, 43 different facial muscles work in tandem at all times to let you know what they’re feeling. A tiny upturn of one’s mouth indicates amusement, a scowl reads as anger, and even when someone tries their hardest to mask their emotions, those muscles create subconsciously perceptible changes that let a keen observer see right through it.
On the new neighbor’s face, there simply was nothing to read. It was like his face was completely normal on the exterior, eyes blinking and lips moving, but below the skin there was nothing at all. A mask made of flesh and blood.
“…Will Davies. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Colin.”
I snapped out of my trance when I realized he was talking to me.
“We? Oh, uh, your family. Where’d you move from?” I stuttered.
“Yes, my wife, Amelia, and my son, Samuel. We were in Chicago before. We’re happy to be in such a quiet neighborhood, with such fine neighbors,” Mr. Davies said.
Looking him in the eye, I was unable to contextualize his words. Was he being friendly, or only polite? I couldn’t tell. Meanwhile, he pierced me with his intent stare, discerning my own bare emotions, even those I didn’t want to show.
Did he know much this was freaking me out?
“And you, Colin? Are you married?” Mr. Davies continued.
Paying attention for the first time to anything but his face, I noticed he was cradling a bundle of cloth in his arms. In a few places the folds and wrinkles in the fabric parted to reveal something rigid, metallic. Reddish, perhaps bronze.
Mr. Davies crossed his arms, hugging the object tighter, protecting it from my vision. I remembered he’d asked me a question.
“No, uh, it’s just me here,” I replied.
Mr. Davies nodded, his hollow eyes glazed over. “I’m happy we were able to meet,” he said, “I hope I can introduce you to my family soon.”
“Yeah, sure thing,” I said. At that point I just wanted the conversation to end.
Once I got home, I texted my friend Alex detailing my conversation with Mr. Davies. Perhaps like you, Alex is the type who enjoys stories of strange occurrences.
After a while, Alex replied: When you tell me this guy has “no facial expressions” do you mean he never smiles? Sounds like he’s just got a stick up his ass lol
No, dude, I wrote. It’s hard to explain if you haven’t seen it.
Is he still outside? Alex wrote. Take a picture of him.
I went over to my window and brought my eye up to a gap in the blinds. Scanning the driveway, there was no sign of Mr. Davies.
I was a second from texting Alex back - sorry, no picture - when Mr. Davies stepped off his home’s front steps. It looked like he was getting something else from the rear of the van.
I held my phone’s tiny camera lens up to the gap and snapped a picture.
I sent Alex the photo, averting my eyes. I didn’t want to see his face, its sphinx-like absence of expression.
For some reason, it felt wrong. Like I’d done something I shouldn’t have.
The next morning, I had several unopened text messages from Alex:
Is your phone messed up or something?
Ok, you got me, you used one of those photo editor apps right?
Ummm you gonna explain that or what?
I scrolled upwards through our conversation anxiously, no choice but to take a look at the picture I’d tried to avoid.
I shuddered in anticipation as I opened the photo, preparing to see Mr. Davies’s uncanny face. But it wasn’t there at all.
The rest of the picture appeared exactly as it would have to the naked eye. The driveway, the white van, a man hunched over it. Where the part of his face visible from the camera’s perspective should have been, though, was no clear image at all. Only a distortion, like he was behind frosted glass. Not cheaply superimposed over the image like when the TV news blurs someone out, but seamlessly integrated into his face.
There was no quick photo editor app that could do that.
I told Alex I hadn’t doctored the photo. I waved it away as a glitch, but I didn’t know if I believed my own excuse.
I’d put it out of my mind until mid-afternoon when I noticed the item still trapped in my front door’s mail slot. Curious, I stooped to take it.
A plain white envelope, lacking postage or a return address. The sender must have brought it to my door themselves.
Inside was a small, plain card. It contained a message composed in black ink and sloping, unbroken cursive.
Colin,
We cordially invite you to join us for an intimate meal at 9:00 tonight. We are eager to become better acquainted with you.
Warmest regards,
The Davies Family
I didn’t know what to make of the letter. Who has dinner at 9 o’clock? I had no intention of going until, of course, I told Alex about it. As I should have expected, he insisted I attend and tell him all the details. After some guilt-tripping about social decorum and not being a shitty neighbor, I relented.
Albeit reluctantly, I was going to dinner with the new neighbors.
*
I arrived at the Davies’ house with a cheap bottle of wine. It was all had to bring them, and besides, I wasn’t spending money on these strangers.
Standing on the front porch, a knot formed in the pit of my stomach as I thought once more of Mr. Davies’s strange countenance. The door opened only a few seconds after I knocked. The knot tightened.
“Colin,” Mr. Davies said, “my family will be pleased that you joined us. Come in.” He spoke flatly, and my inability to interpret his tone threw me off balance again.
I followed Mr. Davies through an entrance hallway, turning right into the dining room. I glanced around the house as we walked through, trying not to make a show of it. The tile floors needed a power wash and there were almost no furnishings save for the black curtains obscuring all the windows.
Entering the dining room, I glanced into the adjacent kitchen for a second. It didn’t look like anyone had been preparing dinner. I didn’t even see a fridge.
A wooden table in the dining room was draped in a silky tablecloth, sporting an intricate geometric pattern. This well-crafted item was a stark contrast to what I’d seen in the rest of the house.
There were no dishes on the table. Instead, in the center stood a tall bronze candleholder with several arms. I immediately recognized it as the item I’d watch Mr. Davies remove from the van. Engraved at its base was some kind of rune symbol. Each arm held a lit black candle.
A woman sat at one end of the table. Her face, framed by mid-length brown hair, would have been pretty were it not for that same inexplicable trait Mr. Davies had, the one that made my skin crawl. That complete dearth of expression. She was a blank slate.
She stood. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Colin. I’m Amelia Davies. Please, don’t mind the decor. It’s a…ceremonial formality before we break bread. Our faith is a foreign one. Adherents aren’t common in this part of the country.”
I forced a smile. Studying the table again, I realized that there were four seats around it.
“Samuel will be joining us later,” Mrs. Davies said as if reading my mind. “He’s been resting.”
Somewhere in the house, I thought I heard a quiet rattle.
I’d only been there for a short time, but everything about it was strange. I needed to get my bearings. “Do you mind if I use your restroom?” I asked.
Mr. Davies, who had stepped out while I talked to his wife, reentered the dining room. Mr. and Mrs. Davies exchanged a sidelong glance.
“Across the house, near Samuel’s bedroom,” Mr. Davies said. “Just make sure not to rouse him.”
I headed in the direction he pointed me. I was still holding the wine bottle I brought. I must have been so tense I forgot to put it down.
I passed the hallway through which I’d entered the home. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something which chilled me to my core.
A length of rusted chain stretched taut across the front door. Padlocks secured it to brackets affixed to both ends of the doorframe.
This wasn’t a dinner. It was a trap.
I hurried towards the bathroom, finding it across from what was presumably Samuel’s bedroom.
The bathroom was bare, like the kitchen. No toiletries or cosmetics in sight. I didn’t know what was going on, but I needed a way out. The back door wasn’t an option. When Mr. Davies chained the front door while I was talking to his wife, he wouldn’t have overlooked it.
My best bet was to lock myself in the bathroom and contact the police, but I didn’t want to draw attention by making a call.
Instead, I texted Alex.
Listen to me. There’s something very wrong at the Davies’ house. I need you to call the police and tell them to get here now.
Mrs. Davies called for me from outside the bathroom.
“Colin, are you alright in there? We’re waiting.”
Alex replied, chill out man lol tell me what’s going on.
I began to panic. Alex was more concerned with indulging his nosiness than helping me out.
“Colin,” Mrs. Davies called impatiently, “come on out, dear. We’d like you to meet Samuel.”
My gut told me I did not want to meet Samuel.
“One second!” I shouted.
I texted Alex again. NOT JOKING! CALL POLICE NOW!
The doorknob began to jiggle. Mrs. Davies was trying to open it. It stopped after a while, but she hadn’t given up.
“You’ll have to come out one way or another,” said Mrs. Davies.
The sound of metal connecting with metal began to emanate from between the door and the frame. Mrs. Davies was using something to pry open the latch.
The door would be open any second.
I gripped the bottle of wine I was still holding so tight my knuckles went white and faced the door. I heard the pop of the latch and raised the bottle above my head. The door swung open, revealing Mrs. Davies, kitchen knife in hand, on the other side.
I brought the bottle down with as much force I could.
It shattered over Mrs. Davies’s head, sending splinters of glass careening through the air. She slumped to the floor, rivers of red wine flowing down her head and shoulders like blood. I noticed, though, that despite the open cuts on her skin caused by the glass, she wasn’t actually bleeding.
I ran out of the bathroom, stepping over Mrs. Davies. Mr. Davies stood blocking the end of the hallway I’d come down. He carried something he hadn’t before - an old, but razor-sharp, bronze dagger. Its hilt was adorned with the same rune I’d seen earlier. Mr. Davies began to advance down the hall.
Running towards the far end of the house, I noticed a door I hadn’t tried, narrower than the rest I’d seen. Whatever room was inside, I hoped there was something I could barricade the door with.
I opened the door to find a steep set of wooden stairs leading to a darkened basement below. Down the hall, Mr. Davies was closer. He paused beside Samuel’s room and opened the door.
A tall figure lumbered out of the bedroom. It was humanoid but not human, composed of thick, black lines, scribbles, not fixed but constantly fluctuating, threatening to escape the boundaries of the figure’s personlike shape and degenerate it into something else entirely.
I bolted into the basement without a second thought.
The basement was dingy, filled with junk left behind by the previous homeowners. In one of the darkest corners opposite the stairs, I found a hiding place beside a futon covered by dusty old sheets. As footsteps marched towards the basement door upstairs, I scooted behind the futon but collided with something. I turned around.
I was face to face with a dead body.
Backing up as far as I could without exposing my position, I saw that there was not one dead body, but two. They appeared to have been mummified somehow, preventing full decomposition. Carved into their foreheads was a symbol - that familiar rune.
The door creaked open upstairs and, peeking out, I saw two figures begin to slowly descend the steps. Mr. Davies, still carrying the blade with which he would cut that wretched rune into my forehead, and that shape they called Samuel.
“Come out, Colin,” Mr. Davies yelled, “Samuel wants to meet you. Samuel wants to be you.”
The footsteps got closer as they creaked down the steps. That mass of unstable blackness loomed over Mr. Davies’s shoulder as he came into full view. Perched on one of the bottom steps, he surveyed the basement for me, his expressionless stare sweeping from one side to next and -
Sirens.
They began faintly, becoming louder as they rapidly moved closer to the home.
Alex had saved me.
Sensing that the sources of the sirens were closing in on the house, Mr. Davies turned to the figure and motioned for it to turn back. Despite being thwarted, his face belied no disappointment, anger, or fear. Just that same cursed stare.
The shape, however, released an ear-splitting screech before they both fled upstairs.
By the time the police managed to breach the house and found me huddled in the basement, they were already gone.
*
As far as I know, those people I called the Davies family still haven’t been found. I say it that way because it wasn’t their real name.
Later at the police station, Detective Sims, the lead on what was now a double homicide case, told me what she knew.
“That house was never purchased,” Sims explained. “It’s still on the market. The people who called themselves Will and Amelia Davies gave you false names. We know where they got them from. Those bodies in the basement? Medical examiner just ID’d them as Will and Amelia Davies, a couple who went missing along with their six-year old, Samuel, in Chicago a few months back. M.E. thinks they’ve been dead about that long.”
Sims paused, remembering something. “Can you describe those folks for me again?”
I obliged.
“Stay put,” Sims said, “I want to show you something.”
She left the room, returning with a printout of a photograph. “The real Davies family.”
It was a family portrait of a couple and their small child. The couple were identical to the people I’d called Mr. and Mrs. Davies.
Well, almost identical. There was one difference.
The people in the photograph were smiling.
submitted by Blue_Wake to nosleep [link] [comments]


2020.05.07 19:37 zachariusfrost Voyeur next door neighbor

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

“Ow shit.” I groaned as the stinging from the hydrogen peroxide stung my butt cheek.
“Oh hold still… it’s gonna hurt worse if you keep squirming.” Janine scolded, before jabbing the needle into the wound. I bit down on the belt between my teeth, as the pain worsened. Janine sighed as she worked and I did my best to keep still.
“I can’t believe I agreed to this.” She said, more to herself than me. I honestly couldn’t believe it either. After our little interrogation turned multiple homicide from earlier, I knew going to an actual hospital was out of the question, and luckily Janine was available. She wasn’t happy that I called her at midnight, but then again, would anyone be? She was the only person with medical experience that I knew, so I really had no other option.
Janine kept working, while Erica looked on in concern. Meanwhile Hal was hard at work with the blue-haired girl who still remained unconscious in her frozen knelt position.
“Remind me again what happened to cause this injury?” Janine asked.
“Uh… ninja star.” I replied. Janine just scoffed.
“It’s called a ‘shuriken’.” Hal corrected.
“Yeah… thrown by your new girlfriend might I add?” I replied. Janine turned to Hal who was messing with the blue-haired girl’s remote and a bundle of wires.
“Yeah which is another thing we need to talk about… again.” I had already tried to explain the situation to Janine over the phone, but by this point, we all know how impossible a conversation that is.
“Can you at least cover up her ass?” Janine asked; eluding to the blue-haired girl who was locked in the same position she had powered down in. She was bent over, with her pleaded green skirt flipped up, exposing her blue-striped underwear. Hal grabbed a blanket from the couch and tossed it over her butt, and Janine returned to her work.
“Jesus Christ Carl…” I felt her needle dig into my ass a little harder after that, as Janine’s frustration had clearly set in.
“Good doctor, will he survive his wounds?” Erica asked, concerned. Janine shot her a confused look.
“Uh yeah… it’s just his ass. He’ll be fine so long as he doesn’t call me at midnight anymore. Otherwise I’ll have to tear him a new one.” She pinched the wound and I squirmed but stifled my sass. Erica seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Oh, praised be to God.” Janine continued stitching, and after a few more minutes she had finally completed her work.
“Alright you’re good to go, it may be hard to sit down for a while though. And try not to get the stitches wet.” I rolled on my side and shot her a grimace.
“How am I supposed to shower?” Janine shrugged.
“That one you’ll have to figure out on your own.” She sauntered away into the other room and Erica clutched my hand softly.
“Erica…” She looked to me, eyes seeming to brim with sorrow.
“I’m just so glad you’re okay my lord. I don’t know what I would do without you.” She looked as though she were about to cry, despite her not possessing the ability to. Once again, her genuine demeanor struck hard. I can never tell how much of her is machine, and how much is still human. I wrapped both my hands around hers.
“We’re going to find him. I promise.” I had no way to guarantee it, but I had to say it. Erica smiled and leaned her head into my chest in a snug embrace. It felt so good to hold her close, and I was prepared to do anything to help her. Machine or not, she deserved to see justice, and Chuck still needed to pay.
Janine allowed us to stay the night, and for that I was incredibly grateful. If it weren’t for her hospitality, I don’t know what we would’ve done. I fell asleep with Erica at my side not long after, and awoke to the feeling of sunlight beaming in through the blinds. The aroma of fresh brewed coffee wafted through Janine’s apartment, and the sound of a television echoed quietly in the room.
Erica was no longer at my side, and I sprung up frantic, only to see her seated on the couch beside Janine. Janine jumped as I sprung up, before we both realized things were normal.
“Shit Carl… you always this jumpy in the morning?” Janine asked putting a hand to her chest.
“Sorry… I thought… never mind…” I hauled myself to my feet and winced as my wound stung. Janine took a sip of coffee.
“You guys made the news.” She said. My heart then quivered, and I looked to the TV to see an anchorwoman standing in front of a damaged house. After a moment I recognized the house as the same one we had been at the previous night.
The woman on the TV gave a rundown of the story. Police were swarming the area after receiving calls of a skirmish. They found the bodies of four deceased people; three of the henchmen with the other being the guy in the bathroom. They had two of the henchmen in custody, but reports of another who escaped.
Police were calling it a botched organ harvesting operation, and my jaw nearly struck the floor as the woman who we found tied-up the previous night gave her testimony. She then told her story how she thought they were all going to die; and surely would have were it not for three strangers who intervened. Janine just laughed.
“I thought you were just high as shit last night when you told me that story, but I guess you are as dumb as you look, but you’re not crazy.”
“Holy shit…” I then noticed Hal still dozing in front of the TV, with the blue-haired girl in her same position right beside him.
“Hal… Hal wake up.” I threw paper towel roll at him and it bounced off his scalp causing him to squirm.
“Mm… ah what? What time is it?” He asked groggily.
“Who cares? Just wake up.” Hal grunted and rolled onto his back, his lethargic gaze meeting the TV screen.
“What show is this?” He asked.
“It’s not a show.” I replied. Hal then seemed to understand, and immediately sprung upward, his eyes growing wide. The woman on the TV then concluded the story.
“Police are on the lookout for three persons of interest who the family claims are responsible for their liberation. If you know the whereabouts of these people then please contact your local authorities immediately.” The scene then switched to show police sketches that were undeniably of me, Erica and Hal.
“Damn… they actually did a pretty good job on those drawings. They look just like us.” Hal commented and I had to step away. Panic began constricting around my chest like the coils of a python.
“No no no no no no, this is bad. This is so bad.” I muttered.
“Yeah, looks like I’m harboring fugitives now; because that’s really what I wanted to do on my day off.” Janine grumbled, obviously sarcastic as she rose and approached her kitchen.
“I’m sorry Janine… I… it all happened so fast I just… I didn’t mean to get you involved we just didn’t have anywhere else…” Janine stopped me by putting a hand on my shoulder.
“If what you told me is true about what those bastards did to these girls, then you did the right thing.” I looked at her, confused why I wasn’t being scolded.
“I did?” Janine nodded.
“Yeah, you didn’t do it well… obviously, but at least you tried. That was very brave.” She patted my shoulder and then slapped my ass, causing a stinging pain to surge through my body. I winced and Janine seized me by the collar.
“But if you ever get me involved with something like this again then you’re gonna have to glue your ass back together.” She walked back over to the kitchen and Erica looked on in concern.
“The heretics are most depraved indeed.” She commented.
“You should just call the cops; you don’t deserve to get in trouble for this.” I called out to Janine. She cocked a brow at me.
“I ain’t no damn snitch. Soon as you leave, I’ll call em and tell em you went in the opposite direction. They’ll never know the difference.” She gave me a wink, and I nodded back.
“Thank you, Janine, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.” She shrugged.
“Take those bastards down, that’s a good start.”
“Oh yeah dude I forgot to tell you.” Hal suddenly interjected and pulled something from his pocket. He slapped a couple of papers down on the table and I leaned in to get a better look. I didn’t understand what I was looking, but Hal quickly explained.
“I think Chuck dropped these when he was running away shitting his pants. Got coordinates, a meetup location, a warehouse and this…” He then flicked a piece of blue paper in my face. It looked like schematics of a female woman; all skeletonized and interlaced with countless notes and symbols.
“Is this… for her?” I pointed to the blue-haired girl still unconscious, face down on the floor. Hal nodded.
“Yeah, I think I managed to reset her programming. Meaning in theory… she shouldn’t try to kill us when we turn her back on.” Hal replied.
“In theory?” I asked.
“Yeah, in case you haven’t noticed I’ve just been kinda winging it until now. But hey… it’s worked out so far.” I shot him a scowl.
“Yeah, I mean hey we just murdered like three people last night but other than that we’re good right?” I asked. Hal just shrugged as if decapitating people wasn’t that big a deal to him.
“Four people actually.” Janine clarified, causing me to pantomime a sarcastic thankful gesture back to her.
“Well we’re still alive, and those guys were douchebags anyway.” I guess he had a point there. I looked back to the blue-haired girl.
“So how do we turn her back on?” Hal looked over to Janine.
“Got any jumper cables?”
I can’t imagine what must’ve been going through the neighbor’s head’s when they saw us outside. Here they were, just probably enjoying the nice sunny morning when they saw a blue-haired girl dressed as a schoolgirl with us clamping jumper cables onto her breasts like some deranged sexual deviants.
The elderly man and woman just stared at us as Hal fired up his Lincoln. I wanted to say something to assuage their clear worries, but I think I just made things worse.
“Coffee just doesn’t do it for us anymore, y’know?” The old man just looked at me disgusted, and the woman appeared clearly worried. They said nothing, but picked up their pace to get away from us as quickly as possible. Can’t say I blame them for that honestly.
“Well here goes probably the stupidest idea ever…” I said, grabbing the ends of the jumper cables. I touched the red onto her umm… right bosom and Hal stood ready with her remote.
“You sure this is the right area?” I asked, referring to the depraved act I was about to perform. Hal just nodded, and I sighed; bringing the black clamp onto her other breast.
The moment the metal made contact, she lurched awake. Her eyes sprang open and her body fluttered and contorted like some kind of funky dance routine. She then knocked the clamps away and jumped to her feet, seizing me by the throat. Erica unsheathed her blade, and prepared to strike as the girl’s hand constricted around my neck.
“No wait!” Hal screamed pressing a button as Erica hesitated. The girl’s eyes then flickered, and her anaconda grip lessened. She then gasped, her eyes darting around. A wide smile then grew on her face as she looked into my eyes.
“Senpai!” She yelled, suddenly jumping onto my torso and wrapping her arms and legs around me. The sudden weight caused me to falter on my feet and fall onto my back. Erica then pressed her blade across the blue-haired girl’s throat.
“Unhand him you vile wench!” She yelled, a look of what almost seemed like jealousy in her eye. The blue-haired girl let out a whimper of fear and quickly released me from her grip. I jumped back to my feet, and the blue-haired girl hid behind me from Erica.
“Eek… Senpai… watashi oh mamatay.” The blue-haired girl pleaded. Once again, I saw the same old man from earlier at the other end of the parking lot staring at me with a disgusted look. I just gave an awkward smile and waved to him, and he just shook his head.
“Erica it’s okay… she’s just scared.” Erica’s eyes stayed ablaze, but her guard dropped a moment later and she sheathed her katana. I didn’t really know what to do, but clearly the best thing was for us to just get out of there.
The blue-haired girl clung to me like a sloth to a tree all the way up until we started to leave. I elected to drive so Hal could continue working on her, and Erica sat shotgun and helped me with my dialysis.
After driving awhile Hal finally managed to convert her language settings into English. We found out then that her name was Kurumu, and she- like Erica remembered very little of what had happened to her.
She said she was sorry for trying to kill us earlier, and seemed sincere about it. Erica didn’t look too impressed, but I felt genuine sorrow for Kurumu as well. I didn’t know what the hell we were going to do, but I did know that we now had another reason to find Chuck Hagerman and put an end to his depraved antics.
The documents that Hal had found pointed to a meeting place that Chuck presumably was going to be at. It was slated for the following evening, and it was half-way across the country. After we had interrupted his work the previous night, we didn’t know whether he’d have the nerve to show up there, but we had nothing else to go off.
The rest of that day was spent on the weirdest road trip I’d ever imagined. If you would’ve told me a week before this that one day, I’d be a national fugitive on the lamb with two ass-kicking sex robots and my best friend Hal, then I’d have asked what drugs you were on and where I could get some.
All the things I had imagined for my own life had suddenly evaporated, but I think it also taught me an interesting and kind of stupid lesson. You can plan all you want for how your life is going to be, but when destiny comes knocking, you answer that call. We had to end it, one way or another.
We finally arrived at the city where the deal was supposed to go down well into the wee hours of the morning. Kurumu and Hal were both passed out in the backseat, and Erica – ever the faithful companion remained on full alert beside me. I pulled into some dimly lit parking lot, hearing the sounds of several crackheads arguing on the far-end of the lot. It seemed the perfect place to hide out and finally get some sleep.
I killed the headlights, and glanced to Erica in the passenger seat.
“Have we arrived?” She asked.
“Well, we’re close, but the actual thing is still a little ways away. We got the whole day before it is supposed to happen.” Erica nodded, and stared into my eyes.
“How is your buttocks feeling?” She asked. I shrugged, still soar but learning to cope.
“it’s fine…” I replied staring out into the dismal streets around us. A moment of silence swirled between us, and my eyes eventually drifted back to her. She looked crestfallen, with her lower lip trembling ever so slightly. It looked like she was trying to cry, but just couldn’t.
“Are you okay, Erica?” She lowered her head, hiding her face behind her crimson locks as she sighed deep.
“I feel a great deal of remorse for what I have done to you. This heresy arose by my own hand. It’s all my fault…” She whimpered, and my heart broke for her.
“Erica…” I reached out and clasped her hand. She sniffled, and seemed too ashamed to look at me.
“We’ve all made mistakes, and this not your fault.” She looked to me, her verdant eyes seeming to sparkle.
“But it is my lord! A piece of you has been lost because of me.” She appeared truly devastated, but in all honesty, by kidney was no longer my main concern. I mean sure, it’d be nice to have it back, but there were more important things at stake.
“A piece of me has been gained though, my heart… because of you.” Yeah, I know it was probably the cheesiest pickup line I’ve ever heard too, but Erica seemed endeared by it. I clutched my other hand around hers and stared deep into her eyes.
“This is my battle to fight too.” She leaned into me, and we shared a long embrace. So long as a matter of fact that by the time it ended I found myself waking up with a crick in my back from falling asleep in the same awkward position.
Sunlight finally pierced my eyelids some time later, but I’m not even sure how much sleep I actually got. My mind was accosted by all sorts of anxieties and harrowing questions.
What if we die?
Will I go to prison for the rest of my life even if we don’t?
What will my parents think when they find out?
What is the point of having silent letters in words?
And most importantly, what was Chuck really up to?
After our previous encounter, that question weighed the heaviest on my mind. I thought he was just some incredibly talented and equally deranged robotics engineer, but clearly there was more at play. The fact he had five henchmen with him led me to believe his operation went well beyond just organ theft. I mean sure, I’ll bet a kidney is worth quite a lot on the black market, but it seemed like that was only the beginning.
Hal managed to discover that the man’s home that Chuck had been at that night was not only a well-known executive, but also a Brazilian senator. That home was apparently just his summer vacation home.
If Chuck was really only after organs he could’ve just kept going after average Joes like me. Local news would’ve run a story on another victim of organ theft, and that would’ve pretty much been the end of it. Why target a high-profile person like that senator?
We spent that day preparing as much as possible; which truth be told didn’t involve as much as we would’ve liked. We wanted to buy guns, but we knew if either Hal or I tried to access our bank accounts then the cops would trace us really quick.
In the end we settled on a local junkyard. The owner was a pudgy man with a stained Nascar t-shirt that was too small and a wad of tobacco in his lip. He didn’t want to let us in at first, but Kurumu managed to butter him up by flashing puppy-dog eyes. The rotund man blushed and his grumpy demeanor lessened as he finally agreed to let us in.
We tried rounding up as many useful materials as we could find. Erica sharpened her blade, while Kurumu constructed several shurikens out of jagged scrap metal. Hal and I tried our hand at assembling some kind of armor, but realized pretty quick that neither of us were really cut out for this line of work.
Luckily Erica showed us a few nifty little tricks which I’ll describe later. Her craftsmanship and MacGyver-esque spirit was truly something to behold. Once again, the thought struck me of how she was able to do the things she did. Did she know them before she became Chuck’s little experiment, or did he specifically program her with the knowledge? And if so, why the hell would he program a sex robot with the ability to manufacture guerilla weaponry? Either he was obsessively dedicated to creating authentic personality types, or there was an entirely different explanation to all this.
Evening finally came, and our ragtag group filed in to Hal’s Lincoln and drove to the specified location. We didn’t even know whether Chuck would bother showing up there, but we had nothing else to go off and time was running out.
My gut churned like I had just eaten a Taco Bell buffet, and I couldn’t stop tapping my foot as we drove out to the location. If it’s not clear by now I guess I have to reiterate; I’m no fighter. I’ve never been a big guy, nor do I have any training in self-defense, let alone taking on international organ smugglers. I don’t think our local community college has a class on that.
Hal continued sifting through his phone and notes he had made while Kurumu drove quietly onward. I thought it was questionable whether to have her drive at all, but Hal seemed fine with it. We couldn’t even convince her to change out of her schoolgirl uniform. The sweats and hoodie we offered in exchange to help mask her appearance were quickly rejected; as Kurumu claimed they were ‘not kawaii’. She refused to reconsider and so we ended up just dropping the topic.
Clearly, we were underprepared, ill-equipped and some might even say entirely incompetent. It’s not like we weren’t aware of this fact, but we were well aware that if we didn’t stop it, no one else would.
The warehouse specified in Chuck’s stolen notes stood desolate and seemingly unoccupied. It was run down and swamped in foliage which protruded from cracks in the walls and foundations. Broken glass and various spackles of graffiti covered the exterior, and clearly the building had not been in use for many years.
It seemed the perfect place for a shady individual like Chuck to meet his equally shady contacts, but there appeared to be no one there. Hal parked his Lincoln behind an old storage container, and the four of us spread out to put our operation into motion. Hal and Kurumu snuck around the back to try and find a way inside, while Erica and I hid behind some bushes.
“Is something the matter, my lord?” Erica asked as I shivered from behind the skeletal bushes. The cold wind was like needles on my skin, but that wasn’t the only reason I was shaking like a leaf.
“Ah… it’s just cold.” I replied, trying to reassure her; there was no fooling her though.
“The eve of battle is a worrying time, my lord. It is only natural to feel anticipation.” I eyed her skeptically.
“Pshh… I’m not scared.” Neither Erica nor I myself bought my claim.
“Okay fine, I’m fucking terrified. I’ve never done anything like this before.” I admitted, unable to lie to her. Her green eyes seemed almost to glisten in the night, as the wind blew her crimson locks gently about.
“You are very brave for accepting this mission on my behalf, and I will protect you to my final breath.” I shook my head.
“I don’t want it to come to that. I want you to live, especially…” I trailed off, mulling over how to formulate the words as delicately as possible.
“Especially after what you’ve been through already, you deserve to live free.” Erica smiled.
“I already live free my lord. It is not the circumstance to which I was born into, nor the struggles I have faced which defines me, It is I who define myself, by the things I choose to do, and the people I choose to serve.” She then shifted closer to me, staring into my eyes.
“And I choose to be at your side; now and forevermore.” She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. I was blown away by her response, but still my gut was churning.
“What if we die?” I asked. Erica turned, and like some effervescent, Valkyrie queen from the heavens, she solidified her badass persona with seven simple words.
“Then it will be a glorious death.”
Headlights approached in the distance, turning onto the neglected road which led out to where we had stationed ourselves. The vehicle drove onward, eventually turning to reveal itself as a blacked-out suburban. Typical, I thought chuckling under my breath, but the stereotypic display wouldn’t last.
The suburban closed in eventually parking in the far-end of the lot and killing it’s headlights. The vehicle just sat there, and I was unable to make out who was inside. Finally, after a few minutes the rear-left door opened. Out stepped a man dressed in camo, holding a large rifle. He lit a smoke and exhaled a cloud which was immediately abducted by the wind. The door on the other side opened a moment later, and another man stepped out dressed in matching attire.
My phone buzzed, and I peeked at it to see a text from Hal.
“They look like Army guys. What’s the plan?” He plucked the thought right out of my brain.
“Stay hidden, wait for Chuck.” I texted back, contemplating what the sight entailed. Hal was right; the guys did look like they were from the US Army or some other military branch. But what the hell was the military doing out there? Was it a sting operation they had set up?
I don’t know if the military even does sting operations, or if that’s more of an FBI thing. I suppose they could have been mercenaries or hired goons, but the uniforms threw me off. I expected tattooed bald dudes with beer guts and dark suits along with some Russian dude named Yuri calling the shots, but clearly that wasn’t the case.
We waited there for at least twenty more minutes, before another pair of headlights emerged down the road. It drove the same path as the Suburban before it, and as it entered the same patch of moonlight; I recognized Chuck’s van.
“It is the one we seek.” Erica began to move; clutching her blade, but I grabbed her arm.
“Wait… I want to see this.” Erica hesitated, and slumped back down beside me. The van parked adjacent to the suburban, and killed it’s headlights. The two men outside with assault rifles tensed up, and the driver door of the suburban stepped out. He wore a black suit and gloves, sporting a balled head and clean-shaven face. The van door then opened, and out stepped a familiar and hated face.
Chuck. Fucking. Hagerman. He rounded the van, and approached the man in the suit.
“You’re late.” The man in the suit said in a voice devoid of emotion and expected Russian accent. He sounded more midwestern than anything.
“Apologies, we had an… incident but it has been taken care of.” Chuck replied, clutching something underneath his arm.
“I hope it wasn’t anything serious.” The man in the suit said, glancing at the guards beside him. “Do you have it?” He asked sternly. Chuck nodded.
“Yes, yes of course. Not like I’m gonna come all the way out here to waste you gentleman’s time. That’s a good way to get wacked, amirite?” Chuck was clearly trying to lessen the mood with his cheesy, salesman routine, but the man in the suit didn’t look impressed.
“There’s still time for that.” He responded, and Chuck looked like he had just shat a cinderblock.
“Right, well as promised I have the models here that you requested.” Chuck beckoned them to follow him, and the group ventured to the back of the van. I couldn’t see what was going on, and was about to text Hal and ask since he had a better vantage point, but he beat me to it.
“Dude there’s more of them.” His text read.
“What do you mean? More goons?” I replied. Erica looked like a jaguar eyeing a field mouse from her crouched position. I could tell she was chomping at the bit to engage them, but still stood firm. My phone buzzed again.
“No… more dolls.” I don’t know why I didn’t see that coming, but it was still a surprise. How many of those damn dolls did that psychopath Chuck make?
“They are totally obedient, following every order without question.” Chuck declared, waltzing from behind the van with the other men. My phone buzzed once more.
“He stole that line from Attack of the Clones.” I just shook my head.
“Hal. Focus.” I replied, shoving my phone back in my pocket. Chuck walked out accompanied by two gorgeous women dressed in scantily clad attire. There was a black girl dressed in leather pants and a crop top, while the other was a Latina girl wearing low-cut jean shorts, cowboy boots and a corduroy, collared shirt.
“These are our newest models. I think you’ll find them quite impressive.” Chuck pulled out a remote and hit something on the screen. The black girl’s eyes flickered, and she took a step. Her eyes focused on one of the men dressed in camo, and she began seductively strolling towards him. Her hand raised with an illustrious motion and her fingers danced around his neck. The man’s face lit up in a perverse smile.
“They are programmed with state-of-the-art sensual features, but also…” Chuck pressed another button. The girl’s eyes then flickered, and in one swift motion she pulled the man into a headlock, flipped him over her thigh and flat on his back. The man struck with a groan, and tried to fight back but the girl held a dagger against his throat before he could move. The man shuttered and lifted his quivering hands in surrender. The man in the suit just grinned.
“Impressive.” He commented as Chuck commanded the girl to release the man. The man in camo stood back up and dusted himself off as his comrades chuckled at him.
“And they can be operated remotely?” The man in the suit asked and Chuck nodded.
“From up to one-thousand clicks away.” That may have been the most interesting claim he’d made thus far. I couldn’t help but wonder why someone would possibly need to be able to operate a sex robot from over one thousand miles away. I mean, maybe remote viewing or voyeurism of some kind, but it just seemed like an unnecessarily expensive feature, but as I looked at the strange ensemble of Chuck’s friends, I was struck by an epiphany. Maybe Erica, Kurumu and the others were more than advertised.
The girl strolled back to Chuck’s side; like a noble and obedient hound. I couldn’t decide what to do. I tried devising a plan of catching them all of guard, but there were too many. Before either I or Erica could act, a commotion caught our attention from the far side.
“Die perverts!” Like some methed-out tiger there was Kurumu, leaping from the shadows and soaring through the air like some Jackie Chan prodigy. In one fluid motion she flung a shuriken out with tremendous speed, burying it deep into one of the goons faces. The man gurgled and fell dead a moment later as the others opened fire. Kurumu ducked, and dove behind an old truck, and I realized I had to do something.
Before I could even act, Erica stood and shouted.
“For the glory of the one true god!” Her voice rose to a clamorous warlord, and she charged at the men. They turned to her, but before they could fire, she was on them like a piranha on a wounded calf. She reached the first man, slicing both his arms at the wrist as I rose to charge out.
The man screamed in agony but was silenced by Erica shoving her blade right through his throat. She then hunched her back against the man’s mutilated corpse; using it as a makeshift shield as his compatriots riddled his body with a surge of bullets.
I saw Chuck panic and scurry away yelling out a command to his Amazon warriors.
“Kill them.” The two other girls sprang into action, with one tackling Erica while the other darted towards where Kurumu had hidden. A brick then came soaring through the air and nailed one of the henchmen on the head as he was reloading. He groaned and clutched his face as Hal came charging out of the darkness screaming like a banshee. I think it was meant to be a war cry, but it sounded more like he had reached puberty and orgasmed simultaneously. The iron bucket on his head didn’t help his case much either.
He reached the wounded henchmen and tried punching, but the goon caught his fist. He flipped Hal around, punching him twice in the face and once in the gut before tossing Hal onto the ground. Hal groaned and spat out blood as the man moved to finish him off.
Before he could I dove onto his shoulder, causing him to waver and fumble around. He tried freeing himself, and soon tossed me free. Hal had since regained his footing and swung a metal pipe towards the man. The man ducked and instead Hal’s swing struck me in the shoulder.
I crumpled in pain, and the man kicked Hal in the groin, causing him to crumple as well. Once again, the two of us were outmatched by a single opponent, but before he could land a killing blow on either of us, he was set open by a wild Kurumu.
She slammed the man into the side of the suburban burying his face through the window. Another man rounded the back of the Suburban, but before he could fire Kurumu had flung a shuriken into his hand. The man screamed and fell backwards squeezing the trigger and causing a barrage of bullets to fly aimlessly out into the night sky.
As I regained my footing, I saw the Latina doll in the distance hogtied and squirming in the dirt after her failed battle with Kurumu. Kurumu was a monster, and before I could even regain my footing, I saw her slam the goon’s face into another window on the suburban. By that point his face looked more like a pancake made of glass.
Kurumu’s eyes were ablaze with the madness of the old gods, and she swiftly set upon the man she wounded previously. He screamed and tried crawling away, but Kurumu showed no mercy. She laughed manically as she grabbed the man around the neck and began pulling at it. In seconds I heard the man’s pained shrieks mix with a cacophony of wretched snaps and gurgles before Kurumu tore the man’s head clean off his shoulders.
Meanwhile I saw Erica facing off with the black girl in front of the vehicles, and Chuck diving into his van. I knew then I had to stop him and so I charged towards him with reckless intent. As his van’s tires screeched and flung rocks up around the vicinity, I grabbed onto the side door handle.
The van charged forward, with me clinging onto the side for dear life. Chuck’s eyes were wide with terror as I somehow managed to haul myself up his passenger side. The door then swung open, and Chuck swerved to try and lose me. I hung on for dear life as my back scraped against the abrasive gravel road.
With all the strength I possessed I just barely managed to pull myself up inside his van. Chuck tried punching me, but clearly his fighting skill was matched only by my own incompetence. I caught his fist and tugged him away from the driver seat. The van swerved wildly, and I felt it tip up on two wheels, before tumbling sideways.
The next moment consisted on what I can only imagine of what it feels like to be inside a blender. I was accosted by all manner of debris; glass, pencils, coins and whatever other frivolous items Chuck kept in his cabin. The van tumbled side over side before finally falling still in a shattered husk of it’s former glory.
I lay there dazed and in pain, as my mind attempted to reel itself back in. I looked up and realized the van was upside down. Chuck was hanging inverted from the driver seat; his seatbelt keeping him tethered to what had now become the roof.
I felt a sharp stinging radiate all over my body, but the adrenaline fueled me to click his seatbelt release. Chuck came crashing down onto the inverted roof like a sack of potatoes; groaning as he struck. I hauled myself towards him, mounting on top as he looked at me with dazed eyes. I punched him in the face.
“Kidney… now.” I mumbled between labored breaths. Chuck appeared on the verge of unconsciousness. He didn’t respond, and I took a moment to catch my breath.
Behind me I heard a sudden commotion and turned to see the suburban rocketing towards the road out. It swerved wildly before slamming into a telephone pole and stopping dead in it’s tracks. A person was then jettisoned through the windshield, screaming before landing in a heap several dozen feet ahead of the wrecked vehicle.
I crawled out towards the wreckage, figuring Chuck was no longer in any condition to flee. I saw Kurumu fall in a heap from the roof, wincing softly as she thudded onto the ground. The rear tire of the suburban had like five shurikens lodged into it, and it looked more like an oversized, used condom by that point.
Erica was still facing off against the black girl, but their conflict ended when Hal arrived and tasered her from behind. The black girl quivered and fell to the dirt unconscious. Erica was panting heavily, and her and I locked eyes in the moment.
A sudden screech then echoed behind us, and the sounds of a boom echoed out. I turned and saw an odd, net-like projectile come hurdling towards the scene. Before anyone could react, I saw the thing coil around Erica like some vile serpent. She fell to the dirt and I rushed to her side, but I was too late; the suburban reached her first.
Two men stepped out and hauled the flailing Erica inside. I screamed and dashed towards them, but was frozen by the sight of the man in the suit. He was holding a pistol aimed directly at my chest. I saw it just in time for him to pull the trigger. A harsh impact thundered into my chest, feeling like a punch from superman direct to the gut. I fell onto my back, seeing Erica screaming as my vision swam around me. I then saw her convulse and fall still as she was hoisted into the depths of the suburban. I could do nothing but watch as they drove away into the night and my vision faded to black.
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