Love Me

She comes at night seeking love

Photo copyright: The Author

Stories inspire stories, which in turn inspire stories. The footnote tells what inspired this one.

A couple of notes for our friends across the water and those too young to remember:

Bob is a slang term for a shilling. UK money was pounds, shillings and pence £ s d before decimalisation in 1971.

A Privy is a toilet. Usually it referred to an outside one.

“There’s work here if you want it, picking the cabbages,” the farmer said. “Five bob a day if you works ‘ard. It’s not much, but there’s a couple of cots in the old cottage,” he added. “Tis only one room but you’re welcome to stay there an’ my wife will feed you at the farmhouse.”

Sam and Joe nodded enthusiastically. This was the fifth farm they had visited and they had been turned away from all the others.

Heading over to the cottage they pushed open the rough wooden door. The air smelt dank, the inside was dark and dusty, but it was better than the barns they usually ended up in. Josh dropped his pack on the cot near the door. “I’ll take this one. Closer to the privy,” he grinned.

They swept out the cottage, hung an old tarpaulin between the two beds and ate a hearty meal in the farmhouse. The farmer’s wife, a big woman in her forties seemed to enjoy mothering two polite young lads.

“Five o’clock sharp start,” the farmer said as they headed back to the cottage.

It was dark, only faint moonlight from the cloudy night sky illuminated the room. Sam’s eyes were wide open. He could hear the sounds of Joe grunting. He reached out and pulled the tarpaulin to one side. In the gloom, he could just make out his friend writhing on the bed. He was about to call out when he noticed his blanket was thrown back, revealing the solid column of his erection pointing upward. Joe’s hands were up in the air as if he was gripping an imaginary woman by the hips as his body jerked upwards.

Sam smiled, turned to face the wall and, with his fingers in his ears, tried to get back to sleep.

“Good dream,” he asked next morning as Joe yawned at breakfast.

Joe grinned sheepishly.

They worked all day, Sam moving fast, slicing with the curved knife and lobbing cabbages onto the cart, trying to cover for Joe who was listless and looked exhausted.

That night, Sam heard Joe moaning again.

In the morning he looked as if he had not slept at all.

“You’re going to have to stop this,” Sam said. “We’ll get sacked if you don’t pull your weight.”

“I can’t,” Joe mumbled. “She makes me.”

“What do you mean? Who makes you?”

“She comes in through the door every night and insists that I…” His voice tailed off. “All night. I can’t stop until the morning when she disappears.”

“There’s nothing there,” Sam snapped. I’ve seen you. You’re just dreaming.”

“I can’t stop her,” Joe muttered.

“If she comes through the door we’ll change beds. That way she won’t find you, and we might both get some sleep.”

Joe looked up and smiled. “Thanks.”

Sam opened his eyes. Soft hands were caressing him, fingers delicately gliding up and down his shaft. The girl was kneeling over him, slim, naked, her rosy pink nipples standing out from her small breasts in the moonlight.

She leaned forward, her long blonde hair brushing against his stomach, pooling on his thighs. He could feel it, tickling his skin as if she was real. The warmth of her mouth enveloped him, and he felt that too.

He sighed as she rose up, kneeling one leg either side of his hips. Slowly she descended, taking his full length into her as she began to move. “Do you love me?” she purred as her hips swayed and she glided up and down his shaft.

“Yes,” he heard himself whisper.

“I thought you lads was fit and strong,” the farmer said as Sam sat yawning at the breakfast table.

“Told you you shouldn’t have put them in her cottage,” his wife said as she poured tea.

“Whose cottage,” Joe asked.

“Young girl lived there once after her father died,” she said. “I heard a young man seduced her and ran off when she turned out with child. It’s said she disappeared. Some reckon she killed herself and others say she became a witch.”

“Rubbish woman, ‘old your tongue,” the farmer grunted. “Besides, that were years ago.”

The next night she came again.

“Do you love me?” she breathed as she took him into her.

He was tired, so tired. She seemed to be drawing the energy from him, sapping at his life force. “No,” he shouted, “No, no more.”

“You’re just saying that. You don’t mean it.” Her voice had become a snarl.

“I do mean it. I don’t love you,” he yelled.

Her mouth opened, stretching to become an oval cave the colour of soot. Her scream wailed across the room as coal black vapour poured from the opening. Her body softened and black streaks wove around it as if she was surrounded by smoke. Her face crumpled in on itself, her arms and legs became streaks of black, tendrils reached out from the centre of what was now a swirling black core.

The dark mass lifted, hovering above his body before zig-zagging across the room, first towards Joe and then, like a buzzing fly, it changed direction and flew out of the door.

A big thank you to Nemo Omnis who suggested I read Scary Stories To Tell In the Dark, collected by Alvin Schwartz. This story was inspired by one of those tales.

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