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WE'RE GIVING AWAY SOME WICKEDLY GOOD PRIZES FOR HALLOWEEN
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HERE'S HOW TO ENTER THE CONTEST
AND HERE'S MY TREAT (AND MY SPANK) FOR YOU--A SPOOOKY STORY!
GIVING HER WHAT SHE NEEDS
A whirlwind of autumn leaves whipped
around Jackson Hawes as he climbed out of his Jeep, momentarily filling his
vision with orange, red, yellow, and brown.
Then with a sigh, the leaves floated to the ground, lifeless until the
next gust.
Jackson let out a sigh himself. Another Halloween. Another night of dealing with what was set
loose by the ignorant. He’d only taken a
few steps up the walkway to the darkened house when the door burst open and two
teenage girls with flashlights rushed out, both talking at once. He picked out the words “scratched,” “ghost,”
“Ouija board,” “freaked,” and numerous “OMG”s.
“Shut up,” he commanded. “I ask questions. You answer them. Inside.”
As he led the way back into the
house, the lights flicked on, as if in welcome.
Somebody wanted to play. Fine
with him. Jackson always won. “Anyone else home?” he asked the girls.
“No,” the one dressed as a sexy
Ernie answered. “And the lights wouldn’t
come on before. They were completely
dead.”
“Typical,” he answered. “So you two geniuses were playing with a
Ouija board. Did you ask to speak to a
specific spirit?”
“We were just asking questions,” the
girl dressed as a sexy Bert said in a rush.
“Not to anybody. Just to the
board.”
“You use the board, you’re trying to
contact a spirit,” Jackson told them.
The lights flashed on and off as if in agreement. Bert and Ernie squealed. “Did you get a
message?” he continued. The girls stared
at him with eyes as blank as those of the puppets they’d decided to dress up as. “Did the little pointer spell out anything?” He spoke slowly and carefully, pretending
they were kindergartners.
“I thought she was moving it.” Bert pointed to Ernie.
“And I thought she was moving
it.” Ernie pointed to Bert.
“Not what I asked.” The lights agreed again.
“Doom. It spelled out doom,” Bert said. Apparently, Ernie was still trying to figure
out what the question actually was.
“Original,” Jackson muttered. The lights gave a rapid series of blinks, as
if someone had been offended. He had no
problem with that. “Anything else?”
Jackson asked. The girls shook their
heads.
“Just that, over and over. Then the board flipped over, and something
scratched me! And I knew it was a ghost!” Ernie exclaimed.
“That’s when we called you. We saw your ad on TV,” Bert added.
He always paid for a late-night ad
on a local station the week before Halloween, and it always got him a lot of
calls. “Let’s see it,” he said to
Ernie. She held out her arm, and he saw that
it was shaking. He should probably have
a little more patience with these two.
They had to be terrified. But,
they’d asked for it.
The three long scratches on the
girl’s arm looked as if they’d been caused by fingernails. “You sure your friend didn’t accidentally do
this?”
“No way,” Bert protested. “I was too busy screaming. And anyway I wasn’t close enough.”
He wasn’t going to get anything else
useful from them. “Give me an hour. When you get back, whatever you called up
will be gone.” The lights gave their
most rapid flicker yet. Somebody thought
he was being too cocky. Somebody was
wrong.
Bert and Ernie didn’t need to be
told twice. They were out the door
almost before he finished speaking.
Showtime,
Jackson thought. He was encouraged by
the scratches on the girl’s arm. Not
that he’d wanted her injured, but the scratches indicated the spirit was
capable of a physical manifestation, and a being with a physical manifestation
could be hurt physically.
He walked over to the upended Ouija
board. “Don’t be shy, sweetheart. Come out and show yourself,” he called
loudly. He didn’t know for sure if the
spirit was male or female, but scratching, that was a woman thing. Call him sexist, he didn’t care. Men didn’t scratch.
The lights flicked in reply. “Come on.”
He switched into a coaxing tone. Women liked coaxing. “We’re all alone. I want to see you. You must be lonely. I know I am.
Come keep me company.”
He grinned as he heard the sound of
high heels on the polished wooden stairs that led upstairs. The spirit hadn’t taken on a form he could
see, not yet, but she was coming toward him.
The clicks stopped, and Jackson
assumed the spirit woman had reached the carpet. A whiff of perfume, something old-fashioned,
honeysuckle maybe, indicated she was close.
Then he felt breath on his cheek.
Very, very close.
His heart gave a kick in his
chest. This part always got him going,
adrenalin whipping through him, not a fear response, but one of excitement.
Close was good. But he needed her corporeal.
He decided to go with some
flattery. Women liked that too. “You smell wonderful.”
“Feed me some more applesauce,” came
the whispered response in his ear.
“Applesauce?” What was she talking about.
She giggled at his confusion, and as
she did, the air in front of him began to ripple then solidify, taking the form
of a woman in a flapper dress. More of a
girl than a woman. She looked about
eighteen under all that makeup. She’d
powdered her face almost while, colored her lips a deep crimson, and had on
enough eye shadow he was surprised she could keep her eyelids open.
“Annabelle,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows, surprised.
Jackson had done some quick research
on the house before he’d come, and he’d discovered a young woman named
Annabelle Patterson had died there in 1927.
She’d broken her neck in a fall down the stairs. She’d been just about
to turn twenty-one.
“And who are you, Father Time?” she
asked. She didn’t ask what he was doing
there. That was typical of spirits. They somehow worked everything they saw into
a reality that made sense to them. “A
friend of my papa’s, I suppose.”
“That’s right. Mr. Jackson Hawes.” And who was she calling Father Time? He was only thirty-two.
She pulled a silver flask from the
top of one of her rolled-down stockings, took a slug, then promptly
choked. “Bathtub gin wasn’t in the
bathtub long enough,” she explained. She
took a cigarette out of a case in her bag, put it between her lips, and looked
at him expectantly.
Jackson lit it. She was already dead. It’s not like it could kill her.
She took a puff and started coughing.
It was as if she’d never had a smoke
or a drink before tonight. She was an
innocent little thing, and he reminded himself that she’d grown up—as much as
she had—almost a hundred years ago. And
that let him know exactly how to handle her.
He plucked the cigarette out of her mouth and put it out on the bottom
of his shoe.
“Wurp.” She gave an exaggerated pout.
He had no idea what that meant, but
he had the idea it wasn’t a compliment.
“You and I are going to have a talk, young lady,” he told her. “You terrified those girls, do you know
that?”
“I was just playing with the
dumb doras,” she answered. “I didn’t
mean to scratch one of them.”
“That’s only the first thing you and
I have to discuss. But before we move
on, first I’m getting that gunk off your face.”
He took her by the elbow, marched her into the kitchen, grabbed a
dishtowel, then wet it and began to scrub her face. She wriggled and protested, but he didn’t
stop until her face was clean and shining.
“Much better. Now sit.”
He pointed to one of the kitchen chairs.
She quickly obeyed as if it didn’t
occur to her to refuse. It was like washing
off her makeup had washed away most of her attitude.
“What were you thinking wearing all
that stuff on your face?” he asked sternly.
She dropped her eyes to the ground.
Yeah, he was on the right track.
“And carrying a flask. What would
your mother think?”
“Don’t tell her!” Annabelle
exclaimed, jerking her eyes up to him.
“It would break her heart.”
Guilt. That was what was keeping her here, on this
plane. Well, he knew exactly how to
handle that.
“And what about the rest of what you
got up to tonight?” He knew she’d died
after midnight. Looking at her, he knew
she had to have been sneaking back into her house.
“I didn’t do anything,” she said,
raising her chin, with just a hint of defiance.
“Don’t lie to me, Annabelle
Patterson,” Jackson ordered.
“I went to a petting party at my
friend Susan’s,” she mumbled.
“Speak up,” he barked.
“I went to a petting party at my
friend Susan’s,” she said more loudly. “Please
don’t tell Mama. Or Papa. Please, please don’t tell Papa.” She suddenly sounded like a little girl.
“If I did, I’m sure he’d put you over
his knee and warm your bottom, am I right?”
Her face flushed, and she nodded.
“Well, since papa isn’t here, I’m
going to have to take care of that myself,” Jackson informed her. Once she’d taken her punishment, he was
pretty sure she’d be released from this plane and free to go on, to go to her
parents and everyone else she loved.
He pulled one of the kitchen chairs
away from the table and sat down. “Let’s
get this done.”
Tears started to roll down her
face. “I only wanted to have a little
fun. All I did was a little hugging.”
“And a little sneaking out. And a little smoking. And a little drinking. And a little lying to Mama and Papa. And, let’s not forget, a little scaring of
those girls.” Jackson counted her sins
on his fingers. “You know you’ve earned
a spanking. Now come here and get
yourself over my knee.”
Annabelle stood and slowly
approached him. He held out his hand,
and he took it. All he had to do was
give it a gentle tug and she was across his lap. She knew she had this coming.
Jackson place one hand on her back
and used his other to pull the hem of her fringed dress up over her
bottom. She have a gasp when he took the
top of her panties in his fingers, and planted her hands firmly over her fanny.
“You better move those paws unless
you want your spanking to last twice as long,” Jackson warned.
She jerked her hands away almost as
fast as she’d gotten them in place.
Jackson made quick work of getting her panties—with their wide, loose
legs—down to her knees. Her bottom was
smooth and round and creamy. You’re not
here to ogle her, he reminded himself.
He raised his hand and gave her a sharp spank, sharp enough to leave a
perfect red hand-print and to get a squeal from Miss Annabelle.
Jackson continued methodically,
making each spank count, covering every inch of her bottom and the tops of her
thighs. Her flesh remained firm—well
firm, but bouncy—under his hand.
Obviously, she thought she deserved something harsher. He rained down a second round of spanks,
these faster so there wasn’t even a few seconds between strikes for her to
recover. She squirmed and bucked, but
didn’t begin to fade as he’d thought she would.
Maybe a little lecture was in
order. Jackson planted his palm firmly
on her bottom. “You really have behaved
horribly. Smoking. Drinking.
I know you weren’t raised that way.”
“No, I w-wasn’t,” Annabelle
stammered. He could hear tears in her
voice.
“Do you have any explanation for
yourself?” he demanded.
“No.
I’ll never do it again. Never!”
she exclaimed. But she remained
solid. Her guilt hadn’t left her. Jackson began spanking again, turning her
skin crimson. “Please, stop. Please, please. I will never, ever do it again.”
Jackson paused. Had he been wrong
about a spanking being what she needed to free her? “If it was your papa spanking you, would he
stop now?”
Annabelle didn’t reply. Jackson gave her a sharp smack. “Answer me!”
“I won’t do it again!” Annabelle
exclaimed.
“That’s not what I asked.” He gave her another spank.
“I’m sorry. I know I was bad. But I’ll be good, I will.”
“Not an an—“ Jackson began.
Then a hairbrush materialized in
thin air and fell to the ground at his feet.
He didn’t need to be told twice.
He picked it up. Annabelle looked
over her shoulder and began to struggle to get free when she saw what he held. “Papa’s hairbrush!” she cried.
Papa’s paddle was more like it, he
thought. The back was wide and
thick. It would deliver quite the wallop.
Annabelle gave a hard jerk and
almost broke free. “Enough!” Jackson pushed
her further forward on his lap, and looped one of his legs over both of his
just as she began kicking. She was no
match for his strength. He began
applying the back of the brush to her already well-punished bottom and it only
took three strokes before her shoulders began to shake with sobs. He didn’t let that stop him. He brought the brush down again and again.
Finally he saw that she’d begun to
turn translucent. He paused with the
brush raised to deliver another spank.
She twisted around and looked at him.
“You’re probably hating me right
now,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, you were right. I deserved a spanking. I’ll be good from now on.”
“I know you will. I know you were always a good girl, most of
the time. You can go now.” He put the
brush on the table, gave her bottom one last spank, this one more of a
tap. He could hardly feel her under his
hand. Her body was now feather-light
over his lap. As he began to pull her
panties back up, the doorway leading to the living room began to glow.
Jackson squinted into the
light. A man and woman, Annabelle’s parents
going by their age and dress, stood there.
Her mama smiled at him. Her
father gave him an approving nod.
Annabelle scrambled up from his lap
and started toward them, then spun around and gave him a kiss on the
cheek. Then she ran toward her parents,
toward the light, and disappeared.
“Nothing like a good spanking,”
Jackson said. He decided that he’d give
the same treatment to Bert and Ernie when they returned. They deserved it. Playing with a Ouija board and on Halloween
no less.
THE END
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