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Disappointing. And Quick.
Don’t get it twisted, I’ve jerked off over the years. My efforts were not short-lived because my balls were backlogged. It was because her pussy was as tight as the noose that this town has wrapped around my neck.
I guess the secret is out. I’m a fucking ghost. Boo! Are you scared yet?
I know what you’re thinking. How can a ghost fuck? Where do you think American Horror got the idea to portray ghosts the way they do? From real ghosts. Obviously. We aren’t that cartoony shit you see on TV, no white sheets here.
Joanie has a television room and once she’s all tucked away in her wing sleeping, I'll pop it on. I know all about ghosts on TV.
Anyway, back to how we aren’t cartoon characters.
Ghosts are here, in the same form as the moment of our last breath. We decide when you see us, and when you don’t.
This place is in a graveyard, so of course there are more of us.
I don’t hang out with the others, though. I’m a loner and have a fucking house. There is no need for me to be out in the yard with the others. I only leave to meet my dealer for weed each week. He hasn't even seen me. One day, I left a note for him with cash, and the next day the baggie of weed was hidden in the agreed-upon spot. I stayed hidden, so even if he was lurking, he wouldn't see who I was. We’ve continued this over the years, and now his kid is now learning the trade.
I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but this place passes its responsibilities down from generation to generation. My dealer’s family's role is the illegal drug trade that fuels half of this town. Each founding family has a legacy to uphold, and sometimes the next generation wants nothing to do with it, like me. It consumes you.
Others love it, and pride themselves in learning the trade. Pathetic, really.
Regardless, the residents are bound here. I call it a curse.
Look at what happened to my brother. The town made him think he was safe. That he was the one to get out. Now he’s dead and his daughter has taken his place.
I’m back in my room now. Smoking a joint, sitting on my bed and staring at the ceiling. I feel no remorse about what I did earlier. Call me evil, call me a terrible person, and then ask me if I care. The answer would be no.
I guess, technically, she is my niece, my family. I suppose I should be warm and welcoming, like Joanie. Fuck, my mom has not changed since the day I drove myself off that bridge. Whatever.
I can’t be bothered to want to protect her from the inevitable. She dug her grave, and she can fucking lay in it. Coming here will always be her biggest regret. Just wait. You will see, she will hate it.
Trapped.
No way out.
Held back by your legacy.
Port Canyon does get tourists, but only during October, for Halloween. People have heard about this place, the rumors and folktales intrigue the visitors. The town puts on a show for them, and it fulfills their curiosity until the next year.
I never participated when I was alive. However, I would go into the town square looking for pussy. Whispering promises I would protect them from the monsters. They would melt in my hands and believe the bullshit I was spewing. Let’s be real though, if a monster did come for us, I would leave whatever bitch I was banging and get the fuck out of there. They meant nothing to me other than being a mediocre fuck. A different variety of pussy for one month a year. No point in reminiscing about that now. It was over 30 years ago.
Plus, I am one now, aren’t I? A monster. A scary ghost.
So now you know my story. Sort of. Well, as much as I want you to know.
Now fuck off. I’m sure Fallon’s treasure hunt can keep you entertained.
Chapter11
Fallon
I’ve continued to avoid Joanie like the plague. Harper told me to talk to her, ask her questions, but she doesn’t see the Joanie I do. This bitch wouldn’t tell me shit if I had a gun pointed at her head. We avoid each other. Since that one night we had dinner together, we fend for ourselves. I think we both prefer it this way.
I’m in the library, which is hauntingly beautiful like the rest of the house. There are plush emerald green couches, and decorative chairs with white throw blankets hanging over them, silently inviting you to sit and curl up with a good book chosen from the massive shelves that line the walls. On any other day, I would. The many windows light up the space as I’m rummaging around, looking for answers to what is happening. I’ve noticed Joanie spends a good amount of time here when she isn’t outside or in her wing of the house. Who knows what she does over there. I don’t need or want to picture it. Right now, I am on a mission.
What is this place? How does what Joanie does in the graveyard tie back me? And why can’t fucking Harper just tell me?
Screw it not being her place. My entire attitude has changed after being here for a few days. I’ve gone from grieving daughter to confused and alone, to being assaulted and dicked by my dead uncle, who didn’t seem fully dead when his dick was inside of me.
