Blithe Little Spirit
This story is loosely based upon the fine 1945 film by David Lean,
Blithe Spirit
. In that film, the ghost of a man's first wife shows up to haunt him and his second wife. It's a fun film, well worth seeing, but was made almost 80 years ago, in a time when studios required films to be wholesome and clean. This story lends itself well to all sorts of naughty possibilities with only the slightest tweaking.
And who doesn't enjoy a little tweaking?
While this story follows the basic plot of the film, I have taken significant liberties with it, much as my characters have taken liberties with each other. So while it may begin and end at similar places, the identity of the characters is tweaked, and the way they arrive at their pre-determined destiny is new journey.
This family-friendly version of the story contains descriptions of close family members engaged in entirely inappropriate activities that some may find either disturbing or hot. This family is VERY friendly! If family members fantasizing about or taking liberties with each other or otherwise behaving in naughty ways offends you, then you probably should stop reading right about... now.
All characters in this novel are fictional and are eighteen years or older. Any resemblance to any real person, living, dead, undead, or under the age of eighteen, is in your own dirty little mind. Sadly, most of the events portrayed in this story are not based on true events. I wish.
If you are still reading and are not offended by SILF or BILF or pseudo-necrophilia and believe siblings or family members—living or dead--behaving in very naughty ways is hot, I hope you enjoy this naughty ghost story.
Trick or Treat!
One commonality all ghost stories share is tragedy. Without tragedy, ghosts would be no more interesting than living, breathing people. Tragedy has sent them to the spiritual realm. How that spirit handles their transition to the Great Beyond determines the nature of their ghost story. A pissed-off ghost makes a scary horror story, but ghosts may also be benevolent, warning of danger or otherwise protecting or comforting the living.
Some, on the other hand, seek in the afterlife the experiences they craved in life, but were denied by tragedy. This can create very naughty ghosts.
This one started at a dinner party our yuppie friends threw. My wife and I and our friends were thirty-ish, that awkward age when people leave their youth behind and become parents of their own, as several of our friends had. Parties no longer are about drinking and scoring. Some of them have themes, as did this one. This was the Roaring Twenties: braless flappers and men wearing straw hats, drinking some concoction that was supposed to be bathtub gin. It tasted like it came from the toilet instead, but strong enough to kill germs.
It was Halloween.
The main event was the medium. Spiritualism boomed in the Roaring Twenties, as people reached out to loved ones killed in the dual nightmares of the Great War and the Spanish Flu, which, in 1918, killed millions who survived the war. Thunder rolled, bolts of lightning lit up skeleton tree branches outside. On that dark and stormy night, we revisited this eerie part of the past.
Everyone suspected the Madam Desiree was a fraud, if not a stripper. If the neckline of her dress plunged any lower, we would have seen pubes. I was hoping she'd kick the crystal ball off the table, jump up and strip naked, but she instead had us all hold hands in a candlelit parlor while she went into a trance.
"Is anyone from the spiritual realm here with us tonight?" At first, only distant thunder responded. She repeated the question several times, growing louder and more plaintive; perhaps ghosts are hard of hearing.
About the time our last traces of interest had lapsed, the table our linked hands rested on lifted, crashing with thuds to the floor, first on my side, then the side opposite me. An impressive enough display from a grizzled gypsy woman, more so from a woman whose regular salary is dollar bills tucked in her garter.
"They are here. Does anyone here wish to speak to someone who is no longer with us? Perhaps someone who died in France or succumbed to the flu? Or any other loved one."
My wife glanced at me, but I remained mum.
"My grandmother died last year," Winnie said. I stifled a yawn.
After Winnie and her grandmother bored us all with dull, vague stories and my wife caught me peeking at the medium's rack several times, Madam Desiree's body began shaking as her trance went to another level.
"I see a teenage girl: pretty, blonde, maybe 18 or 19. An innocent face. I cannot hear her, but she's reaching out to someone here. Reaching toward someone to my right."
My wife looked at me again. I was on Madam Desiree's right. Janice squeezed my hand and cleared her throat, but I kept my trap shut. I wasn't getting sucked into this nonsense. I still had my hopes up for a table dance.
That's when Madam Desiree began having an epileptic fit. It started off well enough, eyes rolling back in her head, boobs shaking and threatening to escape from her dress—a tad more orgasm than supernatural contact. Perhaps Madam Desiree has a thing for college girls. Who can blame her?
She flung forward onto the table, precariously close to her crystal ball, jerked back, then collapsed onto the floor. There she spazzed in either the hottest orgasm ever or a medical emergency. Defying all known laws of physics, her breasts did not pop out of her dress.
Then she fell still.
"Someone should do something!"
This was a time for heroics. I stepped up. "How 'bout CPR?"
Do you compress a chest over the sternum or over the heart? Seemed like it should be the heart, which in this case was conveniently located under her ample left breast. My hesitation gave Susan a chance to protect her breast. "I'm a nurse—I'll do it."
Logical, if unlucky. But, as long as she didn't die, a little girl-on-girl action would liven this party of the dead up a bit.
Before Susan could begin molesting Madam Desiree's bosoms or begin hot lesbian mouth-to-mouth, life returned to the medium. Her dark eyes fluttered open, and she sat up. "What happened?"
She held up her arms as all the husbands jockeyed for position to help her to her chair. "You saw a girl reaching for someone," Janice helpfully filled her in, "then went into a trance and..."
"We thought you were dead," Ginnie, the host, said. Or at least that her boobs would stage an escape.
"Yes, it's coming back to me," Madam Desiree said, hands in a slow wave over the table, her voice low and ominous. "A girl—close. Reaching, trying to grab hold of someone. Sometimes spirits try to cling to someone... and if they grab hold of someone—well, you don't want them to do that."
Ginnie, her voice fearful and breathless, asked, "What can happen?"
"They can possess the unwary. Haunt something belonging to them. Spirits don't just haunt castles and old houses. They can haunt items or even people."
This medium had talent—she kept everyone on the edge of their seat with her tale, half of them buying her ghost story. She knew it, too, so she kept up the Halloween hokum.
"Does anyone feel her? Is she in this room?"
Janice shivered. "It suddenly feels cold—does anyone else feel it?" My eyes darted down to her chest for a nipple check. So did every other husband. Sure 'nuff, she was cold.
Madam Desiree, fully recovered and enjoying having us eating out of her hand, left us with this dire warning: "Beware! Once a spirit clings to an object or person, removing them can be very difficult—and
very
dangerous."
I didn't mean to kill my sister.
