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Authors: Molly Tanzer
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there was anything actually frightening about the place, of course. I had merely scared myself nearly out of my wits in there as a child.
What it is about graveyards that so captivate children I know not, but I would venture there often as a girl. It was far from the house proper, which made it exciting, and overgrown, which put me in mind of fairy-circles or some such nonsense. The day I found enough bravery in myself to push open the door—and found it unlocked—I made my one and only exploration of its interior. There I had fancied I saw a ghost, or perhaps it was the Ghast, a puerile notion I know … though I confess, looking out upon that temple in miniature again, the little hairs on the back of my neck rose quivering.
A sudden movement tore my eyes away from the loathsome mausoleum. A lone figure ran across the grounds. It was, of all people, Orlando Vincent! Pell-mell he pelted over the grass and through the dregs of the rainstorm, and he was headed toward the graveyard, curiously enough. I wondered on what errand he went; it must be something so urgent it could not wait until morning, so I watched him dash to the crypt and duck inside its carven doorway.
It could not have been five minutes later that he emerged, though with quite a different air about him. Instead of seeming like a man possessed of a desperate mission, he had the lackadaisical aspect of a gentleman very much at his leisure. He stood casually under the overhang of the crypt-entrance for a moment, hands in his pockets—and then he looked up at me!
How he knew I was at my casement I could not say, but I am sure he knew, and I felt another strange shock when his shadowed eyes met mine. I raised my hand in greeting, not knowing if he could see the gesture, but he mirrored it. When a final flash of lightning illuminated the grounds I saw he was smiling at me.
I felt a flush of passion worthy of my heroine Camilla and rose from my seat, alarmed at myself. It was then that I re-lit the candle and sat down here—to write—to try to settle my mind. I am not sure if it has worked …
***
I was too disturbed by my newfound carnal thoughts about my cousin to sleep, so I crept from my room to the tower stairs, thinking I should like to see how altered was the place we had used to play together as children. Up and up I climbed, my candle casting strange shadows on the walls of the staircase, until I reached the door. Upon pushing it open, I found the room unchanged by time. There was even still a sheet strung from wall to wall, the roof of our play-castle in which we had pretended to be lords and ladies. I took a faltering step and my foot hit something—looking down, I saw it was the play-sword that Laurent once used to carve dragons and monsters to pieces. That sword was the only thing that had gotten me to come up to the tower, for the first time we braved the stairs, I had believed it haunted!
A sudden movement made me scream—perhaps there really was a ghost that haunted this room! But then my cousin emerged from the shadows, grinning at me.
“Why Camilla! Venturing up here—and in the dark!”
“Oh, Laurent! You gave me such a fright!” I cried. My legs were trembling beneath my night-dress; perceiving this, he offered me his arm and led me to a dusty sofa.
“Will you allow me to make it up to you?” said he. “I know a treatment that is said to cure nervousness in women, it is called fucking .”
“Oh, I know all about fucking,” I laughed weakly. “I have never done it, but nearly everything but. The girls at school said I could lick a quim better than anybody, and a gentleman on the train said my cock-sucking was first rate!”
“Let us see about that,” he said, putting my hand on his stiffening prick. It was quite a large affair, larger than anything I had yet encountered. “If you are as good as you say, then I shall introduce you to the very best pleasure of all!”
5 April 1887, Morning. In my room.
Oh, what
What it is about graveyards that so captivate children I know not, but I would venture there often as a girl. It was far from the house proper, which made it exciting, and overgrown, which put me in mind of fairy-circles or some such nonsense. The day I found enough bravery in myself to push open the door—and found it unlocked—I made my one and only exploration of its interior. There I had fancied I saw a ghost, or perhaps it was the Ghast, a puerile notion I know … though I confess, looking out upon that temple in miniature again, the little hairs on the back of my neck rose quivering.
A sudden movement tore my eyes away from the loathsome mausoleum. A lone figure ran across the grounds. It was, of all people, Orlando Vincent! Pell-mell he pelted over the grass and through the dregs of the rainstorm, and he was headed toward the graveyard, curiously enough. I wondered on what errand he went; it must be something so urgent it could not wait until morning, so I watched him dash to the crypt and duck inside its carven doorway.
It could not have been five minutes later that he emerged, though with quite a different air about him. Instead of seeming like a man possessed of a desperate mission, he had the lackadaisical aspect of a gentleman very much at his leisure. He stood casually under the overhang of the crypt-entrance for a moment, hands in his pockets—and then he looked up at me!
How he knew I was at my casement I could not say, but I am sure he knew, and I felt another strange shock when his shadowed eyes met mine. I raised my hand in greeting, not knowing if he could see the gesture, but he mirrored it. When a final flash of lightning illuminated the grounds I saw he was smiling at me.
I felt a flush of passion worthy of my heroine Camilla and rose from my seat, alarmed at myself. It was then that I re-lit the candle and sat down here—to write—to try to settle my mind. I am not sure if it has worked …
***
I was too disturbed by my newfound carnal thoughts about my cousin to sleep, so I crept from my room to the tower stairs, thinking I should like to see how altered was the place we had used to play together as children. Up and up I climbed, my candle casting strange shadows on the walls of the staircase, until I reached the door. Upon pushing it open, I found the room unchanged by time. There was even still a sheet strung from wall to wall, the roof of our play-castle in which we had pretended to be lords and ladies. I took a faltering step and my foot hit something—looking down, I saw it was the play-sword that Laurent once used to carve dragons and monsters to pieces. That sword was the only thing that had gotten me to come up to the tower, for the first time we braved the stairs, I had believed it haunted!
A sudden movement made me scream—perhaps there really was a ghost that haunted this room! But then my cousin emerged from the shadows, grinning at me.
“Why Camilla! Venturing up here—and in the dark!”
“Oh, Laurent! You gave me such a fright!” I cried. My legs were trembling beneath my night-dress; perceiving this, he offered me his arm and led me to a dusty sofa.
“Will you allow me to make it up to you?” said he. “I know a treatment that is said to cure nervousness in women, it is called fucking .”
“Oh, I know all about fucking,” I laughed weakly. “I have never done it, but nearly everything but. The girls at school said I could lick a quim better than anybody, and a gentleman on the train said my cock-sucking was first rate!”
“Let us see about that,” he said, putting my hand on his stiffening prick. It was quite a large affair, larger than anything I had yet encountered. “If you are as good as you say, then I shall introduce you to the very best pleasure of all!”
5 April 1887, Morning. In my room.
Oh, what
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