Haunted House – Erotic Horror

Author’s note: The following very story has themes of horror, non-consent sex, humiliation, abuse and other dark themes. If such content offends you, please do not read. This is an erotic FICTION story not meant as any kind of gender, political or societal protest. This is purely for entertainment and never meant to happen in reality. If you have issues with such kinks, please do not read. Also, I would like to give a big THANK YOU to Artemis Kelly for editing.

“Everything okay, Tina?” My friend Margaret asks, sounding very concerned. I look at her on my laptop screen to see that her expression matches her tone. She’s even leaned into the camera, as if that would make her closer to me somehow. Her doing this does make me smirk.

How else would I expect her to sound after I told her what I told her? It’s utterly crazy at the very least, so if she doesn’t think I’m crazy, then she thinks that there’s something after me. Something not… human. Something not human that seems to be focused on me… sexually.

“Y-Y-Yeah. Just, you know… I’m just being silly,” I tell her, finding that I feel the need to calm her down instead of her making me feel better. Marg doesn’t seem very comforted by this though.

What I really want to tell her is that it’s this… house. There’s something strange here, but I don’t know what it is. It’s not something you can see or hear, but you can feel. And whatever it is, it’s not good. In fact, it’s evil. It’s evil and I swear, as crazy as it sounds, it wants to fuck me. It freaking wants to rape and hurt me.

“No girl, you ain’t,” Margaret says sternly, showing she refuses to let me think it’s just me. Hearing how serious she is makes me smile, even if I try to hide it. This is why I love Margaret. It’s why we have been friends for so long.

“You just moved into a new house, in a new city after going through a horrible, terrible divorce. That shit will feel like a kick in the balls for anyone, even if you don’t have balls!” Margaret exclaims, which makes me laugh.

“Plus, some of the stuff you said ’bout that place… it’s… well, it’s crazy,” Margaret adds, and I can tell she’s picking and choosing her words closely. Not that she needs to. I’m a 30 year old professional and educated woman. I can handle bad language.

I look down as she says this, feeling a too familiar dread come over me again. Dread not of where my life is at the moment, but because of… whatever it is that’s in the house. There’s something wrong here and it’s nearby. It seems to at all times be watching me these days.

A month ago, I moved into this house. It was kind of an impulse buy, if I’m being honest. It came on the market and was priced perfectly for me. It was much larger than I wondered I could afford, so I leaped on it before someone else did. Hell, I purchased it sight unseen because I lived in another state; the pictures just looked so awesome.

Just a few days after moving in, things started to happen. Things I couldn’t explain. Things that didn’t make any real logical sense. Stuff that you might see in some cheap-ass free horror movie on Amazon Prime.

I haven’t really told anyone about what’s gone on here, well except for Marg now, because I know everyone would think it’s all mental. That I’m going through some life crisis and it’s made me see/feel things. Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t reach out on social media to opinion about all I’ve been through with the divorce. About how horrible he was and that they had no idea.

I moved because I had to change my life. The divorce was just too painful. Hell, the marriage was too painful. Everything goes painful when the man you married turns into an abusive son-of-a-bitch. God he was a bastard. A fucking bastard.

I was lucky in the fact that I work from home so I could go wherever I want. I could live in a different country if I wanted, as long as it didn’t affect my work. This gave me something extremely precious: freedom.

“Would you mind telling me about the word-thing again?” Margaret asks. She asks hesitantly but I can tell that she’s very curious about it. I have a feeling she’s spotted something about it that I haven’t. And I’m not sure if that’s gonna be a good thing.

“S-S-Sure,” I tell her, though I think I rather have an operation to put balls on me and let someone kick them then re-live that story. It was the first time that I knew without a shadow of a doubt that something wasn’t right here. That it wasn’t just me having a mental breakdown.

“I- I was sitting on my couch, doing a puzzle,” I start and Marg smiles. I know she’s thinking “Tina and her puzzles.” Yeah, I like to do puzzles. They help calm me down. Sue me.

“I was just sitting there, with music playing and doing the puzzle when I smelled this really funky, crazy smell. A smell like rotting eggs, but worse. Like rotting meat being cooked along with rotting eggs after a group of fat, smelly and ugly men farted up the room. It was really nasty, even if it wasn’t that strong,” I explained. She nods to show she understands so far.

“And I just got this feeling, like that feeling you get when someone stares at you from behind. Like what Brandon used to do, how he would sneak into the room and stare at me without me noticing at first.” I explain the feeling the best I can, but then I kick myself.

Why did I have to mention my ex? Now it’ll make it that I’m just reliving trauma or some shit. Especially as that was some creepy stalker shit he used to do. After I filed for divorce and kicked him out, I actually caught him standing in one of my windows, looking in at me. Just standing there, staring at me with wide, angry eyes.

“And, something… well…. something g-g-g-groped me. Groped my boobs. Felt like someone reached around, from behind, and took a good, solid squeeze of both boobs at the same time,” I explain, my face going red at admitting that, again.

I know a lot of people would wave this off. They would say it didn’t happen, or I got confused. But what I don’t get about people that may say that is that there is clearly a difference between your boobs pressing against something, and someone squeezing them hard. It’s a difference you cannot mistake.

“So I whipped around, thinking that someone was in the house… but no one was there. The room was empty. And I didn’t hear any running nor footsteps or anything. No one was there at all. And then… well. And then I saw it. A word written really big, at the very top of the wall behind me,” I state, gulping after remembering the terror I felt at seeing it. It was fucking enormous. It had to have been six feet across and two feet tall.

“And I mean, at the very, very top of the wall, right next to the ceiling. Like you need a ladder-to-reach-type high, where not even the tallest asshole alive could reach,” I tell my friend, feeling my heartbeat quickening. The walls in this room are super tall, much taller than typical. In fact, every room in this enormous house has super high walls.

“Then the word disappeared?” Margaret asks, remembering from when I told her before. At this I just nod to answer, remembering how scared I was. How I grabbed my mace and went room to room, thinking there was someone in the house, even if it was locked up. That I was too scared to even call the cops as I was sure they would take me to the Nut House.

I searched the entire house, and found no one. I didn’t even discover anything weird, like a door that was supposed to be locked, or a cabinet door open or an altar to the Devil that was on fire. It was my typical house, with my typical things.

But when I returned back to the living room… the word was gone. Just, gone. No trace of it at all. Not so much as a smudge on the wall.

“What… what was the word?” Marg asks, which I discover weird. She already knows what it is, so why would she ask? Is it because she wants to make sure I don’t change the word? To see if I’m making all of it up?

Venit,” I answer and it hangs in the air. One might think it should be a scarier word, like ‘death’ or ‘murder’ or maybe ‘blood’ but no. It’s a word in Latin of all things. Not even a crazy word at that.

“Huh. Interesting. Wonder if whatever wrote the word knew that you speak Latin,” Margaret ponders. I cannot help but wonder if this is her way of suggesting that maybe it was all in my head. But Margaret is far too blunt for that. She would just come out and say it. Then again, maybe she is about to. I know I’ve wondered it, at least at first.

“That means, what? To arrive? Arrived?” Margaret asks, trying to remember her Latin from a school course from a long time ago. She hated Latin, but I didn’t. It’s why it was my minor back in school.

“Yes,” I answer simply. “Well, in some cases it can mean to come,” I add on, bringing out the nerd in me. To come isn’t really the best translation of it, but one I’ve heard before.

Marg takes a few more moments to think this over, clearly confused by any potential meaning. I kind of hope she figures a meaning because I sure cannot. Of all the things for a supernatural power to say, why would it say that?

“What happened next?” Margaret prompts, leaning forward again to show she is even more interested. I open my mouth to tell her, but then pause. Do I really want to tell her everything? Everything?

Do I want to distribute that I fell asleep on that very couch and woke up with my panties around my knees? At night I sleep in a t-shirt and panties as I discover it is the most comfortable. And that night I accidentally fell asleep on the couch as I was watching TV. When I woke up, my panties were pulled down past my knees. They were stretched out and basically ruined too, as if someone yanked them down aggressively. Not to mention that my shirt had been pulled over my head, where it rested on the back of my neck, making sure my boobs were fully exposed.

Do I dare distribute this tidbit? I decide not to, mainly because of what it’ll imply. And that’s to say that I played with myself in my sleep. That there’s some dark part of me that went to town on my womanhood, but don’t remember it cause I was asleep. It wouldn’t matter that it doesn’t feel like I did anything down there, or that if I wanted to do that, I would rather use a sex toy. Just the fact that it happened would be an instant motion that I just need to get laid.

“Next… I was going to get the ladder from the garage because I wanted to check out the wall. But when I went into the garage, I saw the attic door. It’s in the ceiling, you know? The type you pull on the cord to pull down a set of stairs that go up. Well, I saw the attic door and wondered if what I saw was because of a gas leak or something. That it was making me see shit. So I decided to go up there and check, I dunno, like if there’s a big open pipe or something, you know?” I explain to Marg what I did next, leaving out the condition that I had found myself.

I pause before I say anything more, recalling all that happened. I think what makes it so strange was that I’ve been in the attic before. Many times actually. I was already storing crap up there. Why didn’t I see it before that night? Was it because I didn’t think to see if anything was out of place, or because something didn’t want me to see it?

“I went up in the attic and looked around. I had put in a few strings of full LED light bulbs up there, so it wasn’t dark at all. It could already be creepy up there so I wanted to make sure it was as bright as possible. I looked all around the attic trying to see if there was anything broken, but it looked like it always did. But then… I noticed something I hadn’t before,” I say and pause again as I get a strange shudder of fear.

“One side of my house is flat, if that makes sense. Well, the roof, you know? It doesn’t go downward but just stops into a flat end. Like how it would be in a house of cards. When I went to that flat side, I noticed the edge, or wall, or whatever the technical term is, was way too far in. That the end didn’t match the shape of the house,” I keep on explaining, starting to use my hands to better explain.

“That’s when I discovered that someone had built a wall… in front of the wall. They made a freaking fake wall, the entire length of that side of the attic from one side to the other. A wall that was three feet away from the real wall. Someone closed it off for some reason,” I tell Marg, the dark feeling in the room getting stronger. This worries me as I consider something I hadn’t before. Does acknowledging whatever it is, make it stronger?

“Damn it!” Margaret suddenly yells, furious. Her eyes get wide and a look of near rage flashes on her face. It’s so sudden that it scares me, bad. I actually jump back at it, surprised I didn’t scream. It scares me so much that for a moment I think she’s gonna leap via the leap at me.

“Look, asshole, don’t you dare. Not after I had to clean up after you, last-fucking time,” Margaret yells, her gaze not on me but on someone beyond her screen. Right after this, I hear her husband talking, letting me know that she hasn’t gone crazy nor is she yelling at me. She’s yelling at her S.O.

“I don’t care if you are tired from a day of fishing. I wouldn’t care if you are tired from a day defeating every super villain ever created… You’re not putting all your fishing crap in here. Last time I had to rent a damn carpet cleaning vacuum to get all the mud and fish parts out of the carpet. Put all your shit in the garage where it belongs!” Margaret yells in a very stern, motherly fashion.

“Hey girl, I’m sorry. Give me a minute. All idiots have a king, and that’s my husband,” Margaret tells me apologetically. She says the same statement every time when describing her husband, which at all times makes me smile. She then stands up and proceeds to continue to yell at her husband.

This gives me a chance to reach for my whiskey. I’ve never been a wine or beer type girl, but a whiskey one. Not mixing it with anything either. Sipping on it straight, or as they say, “neat”. And I’ve found that after all that’s happened of late, I’m drinking more and more. It’s becoming one of the only things that calm me down.

I sip my whiskey and lean back in my chair, trying to relax even if I feel…the darkness looking at me. It’s why I wanted to videochat with Margaret. I knew she would make me feel better. She would chase the blackness away or maybe make me forget, if just for a little bit.

“What the?” I think as I take a sip of whiskey. On the screen is Marg’s midsection and left arm as she is still standing and yelling at her husband. But through my raised glass at my lips, it’s not what I see.

Marg’s hand is no longer a hand, but some kind of fluid-monster arm. It bends unnaturally at her wrist and elongates upward, like the end of a candy cane. Her fingers stretch, turn and stretch into what can only be tentacles like from one of those Japanese anime monster cartoons. This tentacle keeps stretching upward, wiggling furiously as it does.

Stunned I stare at it through the warped glass, not believing what I’m seeing. It’s so terrifying that my glass actually starts to shake as it’s pressed against my lips. In my terror I actually drink all of the whiskey as I’m too scared to lower the glass. Too scared to see what that thing really is.

Finally, freaked out and terrified, I lower the glass as fast as I can. It’s so fast that it falls right out of my hand and sails down to the carpet, not that I care. My eyes are focused only on the screen.

On screen, I see Marg, still standing like typical, yelling at her husband. No funky hand, no unnatural bending. No nothing. Just typical Marg. Ordinary everything. A typical hand at the end of a typical arm on a typical body.

“Fuck me,” I curse in panic and stand up suddenly as something touches my nipples. It feels like someone took the tip of their fingers and moved it over both of my nipples at the same time, like they are are trying to tease them.

I turn around in reaction, trying to catch whatever just did it. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, and probably not the last. And each time there’s never anyone here. Just like each time I have on a bra, so it’s not even feasible anyone could even touch my nipples. Yet whatever it is, can’t just touch them, but pinch and pull on them even with a bra on.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Marg asks, very concerned as she sees my panic. I give my living room another glance, as if expecting something to appear out of nowhere. Yet, like all the times before, nothing shows up, nor do I even hear anything out of the normal.

“N-Nothing. Nothing. Just… dropped my glass,” I lie, not wanting to have to explain what just happened. Telling someone that you saw their arm turn into a monster, then had someone play with your nipples is a bit too much to say without them knowing you’ve lost it. And I’m scared Marg already thinks that very thing.

I sit down and pick up my glass, trying to make my face look typical. Or in any case, like I wasn’t just sexually molested by thin air. I then pour myself more whiskey, thinking that if I don’t watch it, I’m gonna get plastered.

“Alright. Tell me about this wall in the attic,” Marg says, clearly interested. I’m not sure how her argument with her husband went, but her focus is back on me as she sits back down.

“Yeah. Well, I got a screwdriver and-” I start but stop as the power goes out. The entire house turns off and leaves a layer of darkness all over. Darkness and silence. Only this darkness feels more than just darkness. Feels like a blanket coming down to wrap around every inch of me.

“Oh shit,” I say, terror coming over me. But before the terror builds too much, the lights turn back on. Beeps and boops sound off as devices are powered back on and the lights chase the darkness away. The sounds of the house coming alive with a multitude of electronic devices play out, making me feel not so alone.

Looking at my laptop screen, I frown. The laptop does have a battery, but without the internet, it got rather upset. The screen is now a pixeled mess of the videochat program. Not knowing how long it’ll take for it to reboot, I decide I’ll just call Marg to finish our conversation.

Standing up, I feel my cell vibrate in my pocket. Smiling because I know it’s Marg, checking on me. I reach into my pocket to pull it out, only to get another surprise.

My cell’s screen looks strangely like my laptop’s screen. It’s a pixelated mess of my icons and background. This doesn’t make any sense because my cell wasn’t charging or touching anything electronic when the power went out. Yet it’s clearly messed up.

“Damn it,” I growl and press the button on the side to try and restart my cell. Of all the freaking times for my cell to have issues, it has to be now. It’s like it was planned or something.

“Double damn it!” I shout and have to fight the urge to send my cell phone flying. It turned off, sure, but now won’t turn on. I press and hold the button, but it doesn’t power on. The screen stays as black as midnight.

Upset, I slam my cell on the coffee table, knowing I’ll need to let it sit for a moment. It most likely got overheated and needs to cool down before it’ll turn back on. I’ll just leave it for the 5 minutes and then call Marg. No biggie.

Trying not to get freaked out worse than I am, I grab my whiskey and walk to the large bay window. Despite me calling this room my living room, it’s really not. It’s an upstairs main hub, where all the rooms up here connect. I guess you could call it a living space or something, but since I spend most of my time here, I call it the living room. The stairs to go down are one end, and hallways lead to the other rooms.

Sipping my whiskey, I look out at the scene in front of me. I do like the view from here. My house is at the end of this dead-end street, so I can see completely down it. From here I see every single house on this small street, right down to the main drag. Hell, I can even see beyond and at the rest of the neighborhood too, since the house is so high up. Unlike the other houses, this one is built on a large hill.

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