The harsh winds of the storm rattled the ancient windows; the foreboding-looking house creaked and groaned as if in torment. Eerie sounds, reminiscent of footfalls in the cold, darkened corridors, randomly approached, then retreated. The power was out yet again, and Angie lay in the majestic, four-poster bed watching the candlelight joust with the shadows on the blood-red and midnight-velvet wallpaper. Scratching sounds, monstrous, supernatural claws, or perhaps busy mice within the walls, skittered and scraped from some unseen, unknown locale. The disconcerting feeling of being appraised by an invisible, non-human gaze sent icicles through her veins.

A normal person might be scared, laugh at themselves for being childish or foolish, or seek solace under the heavy, down bed covers, chanting “I don’t believe in ghosts.” Regular persons wouldn’t have rented a house rumored to be haunted, but Angie signed the lease before even looking the historic dwelling over. There were two reasons for that. The first one was quite practical; she was buried in medical bills and the rent was incredibly cheap. A part-time burger-flipper could afford it. The second reason was that she had an unusual kink. Ghosts, phantoms, poltergeists, specters—the entire lot of supernatural creatures that go bump in the night—made her cunt tingle.

If you had passed her on the street, you might have appreciated her appearance, but you’d never suspect that ghosts made her wet. In fact, Angela looked very typical, attractive and sexy, but typical; she had a bit of an edgy vibe to her with the blond streaks in her medium-brown hair and her shapely, very feminine, sexy body, but nothing that would make you think that she was into using her Ouija board for dirty talk. If you perused her movie collection or checked her streaming history, you’d think she was a horror fan. You’d never suspect that Angela, who always preferred Angie, collected ghost-themed movies to masturbate over. The five-year lease for an actual haunted house was a dream come true—a wet dream.

Lightning lit up the sky, strobing demonic figures onto the wall—the twisted branches of the ancient hickory trees outside warped into malevolent shadows. In her perfect, horror movie setting, Angie smiled, taking a mental inventory of the known spirits said to haunt her home. Nude beneath her luxurious blankets, she caressed supple flesh, igniting her body and lust, and waited. Soon, the violent tempest would reach its climax, shaking the house with torrents of rain and echoing claps of thunder. She’d time her orgasms to match the fury of nature.

Maryanne, a promising cello player, beautiful, blond, and pale, died by suicide in the very bedroom Angie lay in. Imagining that she could hear a bow on the strings, she caressed her round, plump breasts, flicking her nipples to the echoes of thunder. Squeezing her breasts harshly, imagined, ghostly hands raised her breasts to her mouth as Angela’s tongue darted out, flicking her swollen nipples. Spectral cello music was rumored to be heard in the house, and it made her breasts swell with horny desire.

Angie’s red, talon-like fingernails slowly meandered down her torso, goose pimples erupting on her overheated body in their wake.

“Please come fuck me,” she moaned, in desperate need, to the phantoms of the house.

Her fingers quickly passed over her cleanly shaven, soaked pussy, and reached her clit as she thought of Maryanne’s lover, Jonathon, and his tragic death in the foyer, mere hours after Maryanne’s passing. Jonathon was a strapping farm boy with pronounced cheekbones, a muscled body, and a huge cock that was evident in the vintage photographs that still hung on the walls.

“Fuck my cunt, Jon. Lick my clit, Mary,” she chanted. Their star-crossed lovers’ tale of tragedy didn’t move her; the thought that perhaps actual ghosts may be here, horny after several long decades without physical pleasure, and wanting to fuck her, to feel her warmth and invade her dripping snatch with supernatural thrusts made her wetter than any bumbling human cock or lesbian tryst.

Her custom-made dildo, shaped like a Halloween ghost, slammed into her cunt as forcefully as she could muster, eliciting screams that mingled with the peals of thunder, pleas for the ghosts to take her, ravaging her mortal coil. Faster, harder, and deeper she thrust, her sweat-slicked tits heaving, her pussy-drenched thighs flying akimbo as her hips thrust in pleasure. She circled her clit with her manicured nails, finally using the flats of two fingers to rub it into oblivion.

“Fuck me, spirits, fuck me, take me, own my body. I need your wraith-like cock; I must feel your incorporeal tongue on my fucking clit.”

The entire house heaved under the gale-force winds, shaking and creaking. The storm had reached its pinnacle, and Angie made herself cum, over and over. She screamed in release, profanities echoing off the dark, musty walls. She kicked off her covers, revealing the body she had used as a model to finance her education.

“I grant you access,” she begged in invitation. “Please fuck me, please, please, please…” her moaning screams subsided with the storm.

Somewhat sated, she calmed down, her primal lust quelled for the moment. Hearing disembodied footsteps and soft whimpering sounds in the ether, she drifted off to sleep without investigating. She’d investigated every odd sound for the first week, finding naught. Her masturbation ritual had been repeated in every room of the house, more than once, to no avail. There were no ghosts, despite the home’s history.

She could dream, though; she did just that. In her dreams, the translucent figure of Maryanne played a minuet for her before her cold, phantom fingers fondled her body and her spectral tongue licked her clit into multiple orgasms. In her slumbering mind, the handsome, stout Jonathon was there, perversely smiling while he stroked his huge cock, spewing loads of his ectoplasm over her breasts and face. His ghostly cum was cold, the contrast to her steaming flesh amplifying his supernatural spunk’s chill.

For months, it went on like that. Life continued, but the veil of death remained impenetrable. Almost imperceptibly, at first, odd happenings began. The occasional door slammed when nobody else was around. Angie attributed it to hope and an overactive imagination. Things, small at first but growing in size and mass, would be displaced, missing from where she could have sworn she’d put them. Long searches could not discover the missing keys, endless hospital paperwork, or the current novel she was immersed within. However, they’d reappear, either right where they should have been, or in the most unusual places. Angie would have never dropped her car keys into a random coffee mug on the kitchen counter. She never took the hospital bills into the bathroom, so why would they suddenly appear in the claw-foot tub?

Loud crashes interrupted her sleep, and the report of what sounded like a pistol, one night, caused her to bolt upright from bed. As always, nothing was there.

“You’re going insane,” she told her mirror image on more than one occasion.

But, one night, in that empty void between sleep and wakefulness, just as her consciousness was drifting toward the astral plane, she felt something. It could have been nothing, but, then again, it could have been something. Featherlight touches, cool and tentative, ran up her leg. At first, it startled her. Forcing herself to relax and be calm, Angie concentrated on the sensation. She wondered if it were merely an insect crawling on her but soon knew that it had to be the caress of some entity.

“Don’t be shy,” she whispered in a husky, passion-consumed voice. “I want this, need this. Take me.”

Angela’s body grew chilled as if her life’s energy was being slowly siphoned from her core. Her pussy gushed wetness, her nipples responding more to the erotic sensations of poltergeists molesting her tits than the cold. She felt lapping, like a soft, gentle tongue, on her nipples and a soft but firm force spread her legs slowly and gently.

“Yes, please. Please take me, fuck me. I need you inside me, Jon; please keep licking my tits, Maryanne.”

Suddenly, the unseen but felt became barely perceptible. Angie could barely make out two wispy, humanoid-shaped glowing figures. Incorporeal, but imbued with physical force, the nearly-invisible fogs moved with lithe grace. One was hunched over her breasts, smoky, arm-like tendrils of gray-blue smoke holding her arms, a rounded, beautiful face lapping at her nipples.

The other shape, more manly, flowed between her legs as she felt a large, thick, long cock penetrate her eager cunt. The dual sensations were unlike anything she’d experienced. Her body, unable to move, drifted apart from her conscious mind. She could only feel the cold chill of the afterlife about her; a pleasure, unlike any other rapture she’d ever imagined, filled her soul with each thrust of the ghostly manhood fucking her hard and fast.

“Fuck me, fuck me harder. I want this, forever. I give all of myself to you. Take me, forever. I’m yours.”

Angie felt a glorious orgasm build within her, a volcano of icy fire, a tsunami of chaotic bliss.

“I’m cumming. It’s so good. Please don’t stop! Give me more, more, more…”

The intensity of her orgasmic release sent her mind reeling into parts unknown, her body still immobilized. However, her inner core and essence bore her overwhelming, intense pleasure with welcoming greed. The pleasures of the warmth of life and the cold despair of what lies beyond consumed her, her mind, body, and soul crashing into oblivion time and time again until the darkness of the deepest sleep conquered her mortal being.

The next morning, it all felt as if it was a dream, but Angie knew better. She spent the day dusting the old photos, leaving the house to go lingerie shopping. She wanted to look sexy for her ghostly lovers.

For weeks, it went on like that, her pleasure ever-growing, the chill of phantasm touches draining her body. Eventually, she could occasionally feel the ghostly touches as she moved through the ancient, drafty house; she felt their wispy, wraith-like kisses upon her lips as she welcomed them…

One spring morning, Jennifer stood in the foyer, luggage arrayed about her, a state-of-the-art laptop slung in a satchel over one shoulder.

“So this is where Jonathon Knox was shot by Mister Crowley?” she queried.

“Yes,” was the response. “Alex Crowley shot and killed the farm boy just a few feet from where you’re standing. He was so distraught that Maryanne had slit her wrists after he forbade them to be together that he went insane. He hanged himself in the dining room just over there.” The landlord pointed to the ornate, wooden, sliding doors.

“And Angela Landon?”

“She rented the place two years ago. Poor girl; she had mental issues and was obsessed with ghosts. She died in the same room Maryanne did. The coroner said that it was a heart attack, but I found the body. She died of fright, I think. Her skin was pallid, and her mouth was agape as if she was screaming.”

“Or cumming,” Jennifer mused. “She was a spectrophiliac.”

“Is that some mental disease? She’d had a terrible car accident, buried in medical bills, and her head just wasn’t right after that, from what I’d heard.”

“No, it’s a sexual fetish. She got horny over ghosts.”

“How do you know this, and why are you leasing this place? It’s cursed and haunted, you know. The ghosts of the past, as well as Angie’s ghost, anchor themselves here rather than move on to their eternal peace.”

“I’m a psychologist specializing in human sexuality. I’m writing a case study on peculiar sexual fetishes and will be featuring Angela Landon in my book. I thought some first-hand experience of her final environment would help.”

“So long as your check doesn’t bounce,” the landlord chuckled. “Here’s your keys.”

Hours later, Jennifer sat alone in the study, a glass of wine and a plate of cheese beside her laptop. Typing away, she suddenly stooped, wondering if it was just her imagination. She could have sworn that she heard a door creak open, upstairs, followed by tentative footfalls.

Looking around, listening in earnest, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror on the wall, hung between antique, dusty photos of Alex Crowley and his wife, Eve. She marveled at the sex toy on a nearby shelf. Covered in a layer of dust, it was a firm, rubber dildo, shaped and colored to resemble a cartoon, Halloween ghost.

“You’re going insane,” she told her mirror image.