Aunt Penny

Layla

Aunt Penny could be mistaken for a child from a distance. The top of her silver hair barely reaches my sternum as she rests in her bed, and I’m not a tall woman, by any means. She’s definitely not the withered old crone I expected, not with her dainty, childlike features and huge, blue eyes.

I’ve never even seen a picture of her before. In truth, I could count on one hand the number of times her name had been brought up in conversation.

I’m not sure what I imagined her to look like. All I had to go off were stories about this place and this specific family line. But her brow isn’t perpetually pinched. Her nose isn’t long and gnarled and covered with warts. Her fingernails can’t scratch my eyes out, and I doubt she had a cauldron hidden somewhere in the house where she boiled potions.

She doesn’t look like the witch my family made her out to be.

It makes me sad, honestly, seeing her lying motionless in the massive four-poster bed. It swallows her tiny body whole, making her look like a discarded porcelain doll. Her white nightdress is absolutely pristine, her nails freshly manicured, and her hair is pinned in rollers like she has big plans tomorrow and wants to look her best.

In reality, Bailey takes exceptional care of her, and that's all there is to it.

I spend the next few days shadowing her and Vera, the on-call nurse. Vera has been with Aunt Penny for decades now, and while she rarely speaks a word to me during the handful of nights I watch her care for my aunt, I pick up a lot from the elderly nurse.

Night care, it seems, is simply just… being here.

I gently tuck the sheets around my aunt's frail body, smiling up into her glassy blue eyes. It’s just after 1:00 in the morning, but Aunt Penny shows no signs that she’s tired. In fact, I don’t think I’ve even seen her blink in the past hour, but her chest moves with each calm, steady breath, and the ECG next to the bed is full of green lines, the device quiet, save for the soft thump monitoring her heartbeat.

She suffered a stroke a few months ago, and while she’s somewhat recovered, I can tell whatever consciousness is there isn’t enough for her to live a full life anymore. It’s heartbreaking.

“It’s rather warm in here,” I say to her, wiping the back of my hand over my forehead. A soft, rain-soaked breeze drifts in from the open window, a screen keeping the insects at bay. I hate to close the window, but the rain is picking up, so I do.

She says nothing, her eyes fixed on a far corner of the darkened room. I check my watch and sigh as I carefully meet her eyes again, then start going through the checklist Vera gave me. It’s nearly 2:00 in the morning when I finally gather my supplies and begin to leave the room.

“Amos,” Aunt Penny says behind me, her voice a faint whisper against the breeze.

For a moment, I think I’ve imagined it, but she says it again, much softer this time. Her heart monitor picks up an arrhythmia, which causes me to abruptly turn around and watch the monitor with interest. “Aunt Penny?” I say into the dark. “Are you all right?”

I walk toward the bed, my gaze sliding from the monitor to my aunt, who has moved for the first time since I started tending to her at night by myself. Her long, thin fingers curl over the sheets as she takes a ragged breath. “Amos–”

But the moment is over before I can blink. She takes a deep breath, her eyes fluttering closed as the monitor resumes its rhythmic, steady beeping.

“Amos,” I whisper, shrugging, a wistful smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Sounds romantic. Did you have a lover once, Aunt Penny?”

My only answer is the beeping of her monitor.

I stand there for a moment watching to make sure she’s not having an attack of any kind then leave the room as I’d intended, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. I let it out in a whoosh as I close her bedroom door behind me.

The hallway is dark, no moonlight to guide my way while I walk to the staircase. I’ve gotten used to clicks, creaks, and occasionally thumping banging sounds the house makes at night and usually don’t bother to turn on a light. I’ve noticed the noises get worse if it rains, or if the humidity is especially suffocating. What had Bailey said to me when I first came here?

The house has old bones, just like Ms. Penny.

I remind myself that this place doesn’t scare me as I creep downstairs to put away the supplies I’d gathered for the nightly ritual of putting my aunt to bed. Her thin skin doesn’t tolerate an IV for very long, and a lot of my night is spent tending to superficial wounds and making sure she’s comfortable, and her vitals are strong.

I put my unused supplies away and safely discard any sharps. The house around me is still, near silent, while outside a storm brews in the distance. It’s been sprinkling on and off for hours, but now it rains in earnest as I begin to walk back upstairs and start getting ready for bed.

Thunder rattles the house as I walk into the foyer. A soft rattle ripples all around me, like the thunder is strong enough to disturb the old paintings now trembling in their frames. I think nothing of it, my foot on the first step heading upstairs, when a loud scraping sound echoes from the formal living room, followed by sudden, crackling of jazz music.

I slowly edge toward the living room. There’s an old gramophone in the corner of the room–spinning, it’s needle skipping and scratching against a record.

“Folks’, I’m goin’ down to St. James Infirmary, see my baby there–” The record skips, the voice of the singer distorted and cracking. “She’s stretched out on a long, white table. So sweet, so cold, so fair–”

The record screeches. It’s a horrible sound that makes my ears ring as I edge closer to the gramophone.

“Let her go, let her go, God bless her ohh! Wherever she may be. She can search this wide world over. She'll never find another sweet man like me–”

I pull the needle from the record and the song, “St. James Infirmary” by Cab Calloway, cuts out abruptly.

Silence settles over the room again, penetrated by the thundering rain. The hair on the back of my neck rises as I tear my gaze from the record and look over my shoulder into the inky black shadows choking the room around me. I’m alone, but I have the odd sense that someone is watching me as I leave the living room and head upstairs to my room.

I check Aunt Penny’s ECG stats on the tablet I share with Bailey, which is set up to alert me with an alarm if anything goes wrong during the night, before undressing and stepping into the shower, letting the lukewarm water thaw my senses. Normally, my showers would be scalding, but not in this unforgiving humidity.

I run my fingers through my thick blonde hair and scrub hard, washing the day away. Even with the heat, humidity, bugs, and creepy haunted gramophones, this place isn’t so bad after all. My suite, anyway, is a dream compared to some of the places where I’ve had to stay before. My bathroom is stocked with luxurious products, a far cry from the drugstore shampoo and conditioner I picked up on my way here. The conditioner I work into my hair smells like honeysuckle and vanilla, a warm, clean scent that makes me close my eyes and breathe deeply.

Another scent wraps itself around me in an embrace that slightly blurs my senses. It’s something… musky, dark, and delicious. A male fragrance, through and through. Like leather, smoke, and sweat. I lean my head against the shower wall and breathe deeply, letting the scent flood my system while the cool water flows over my bare breasts and stomach, igniting a spark deep in my belly where warmth begins to bloom.

Shit, I’m turned on. And by what? Expensive shampoo?

I smile to myself, chuckling as I raise my face to the shower head.

The feeling lingers, however, while I lie in bed listening to the house groan against the thundering rain. My hands drift between my legs, my skin still cool and damp from the shower. I close my eyes and let my knees fall to the side as my fingers glide over my inner thighs and back up again to cup my breasts.

Admittedly, it’s been over a year since I’ve had sex. At least, from what I can remember, it’s been that long. Sure, I’ve messed around, but being a travel nurse hadn’t worked in my favor when it came to anything more than the occasional hookup that left me feeling gross and wholly unsatisfied.

Thinking of the few encounters I had during my last gig, which included a resident in a supply closet during an especially long night shift, makes that ache between my legs evaporate in a single second, and I let my hands fall to my sides.

I don’t know when I actually fell asleep. The room fades back into view, and for a moment I wonder if I’m still asleep when I feel the bed shift like someone is climbing on top of it.

There’s that thick, heady scent again. All male. Sweat and desire. I taste whiskey on his lips as his tongue sweeps over mine.

He sucks my neck as his kisses trail down between my legs.

I’m dreaming. This is a dream. This is just a dream.

I look up at the ceiling, my hand tangling in his hair–thick, soft curls that feel divine when I run my fingers through it and tug ever so slightly. His teeth graze my inner thighs, his tongue lashing out and dragging over my skin as he kisses up, then his tongue parts my folds, adding new life to the desperate ache between my legs.

I arch off the bed, but his arm comes down on my waist, pinning me in place. He’s rough, starving, like my taste on his tongue is a feast, and he can’t control himself. He sucks my clit and pumps his fingers inside me–each thrust rough and demanding, his fingers curling and pulling me closer to the edge of the pleasure I’d given up on just a few hours ago. The song I heard earlier starts up again, a rhythmic groan in the background. “So sweet, so cold, so fair…”

This is a dream. You’re asleep.

I cry out, my voice piercing the air as my body begins to shake. “Please, please!” More. I need so much more.

A low laugh echoes around me. The stranger from my darkest, wildest dreams presses a kiss to my clit. “Beg for it.”

I come undone, losing control entirely. Another lick, and I’m gritting my teeth to stop myself from screaming loud enough to shatter the windows. Pleasure floods my body, rocking through me in waves. I’ve never felt anything so strong before in my life.

I open my eyes with a start to daylight flooding the room. I tear my hand from between my thighs, panting, sweat dripping down my face as I squint into the sunlight pouring through the windows.

I feel an odd sense that I’m not alone as I look around the room, narrowing my eyes into the dusty haze of golden sun now warming my bed.

Just a dream. Just a really, really sexy dream. I let out my breath and close my eyes. My body feels electric, still begging to be touched, and touched by whoever that stranger had been in my dream.

“You’re losing it,” I whisper, gripping the sheets.

Just then, my alarm goes off. I have a habit of waking up a few minutes before my alarm, and honestly, I don’t feel like I’ve gotten any sleep at all. I slowly swing my legs out of bed and then stop.

Soft, red bruises line the inside of my thighs. I suck in a breath, holding it, closing my eyes as I try to calm the sudden pitch in my heart rate.

Just a dream, I tell myself again. I did that to myself, which fills me with nothing but embarrassment. Maybe my nursing friends were right about getting laid. It’d been far too long, and now look at me? I’ve peppered myself with bruises in my sleep having a wet dream like a sex-crazed teenage boy going through puberty.

I quickly get out of bed and pull on a T-shirt and shorts, ignoring the sets of scrubs I brought here with me, at least for today. My skin prickles. I brush my hair and pull it back in a ponytail as I look at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks burn. I can barely meet my own eyes.

Why do I feel so violated if I’ve done this to myself?

I shove the thought aside and tear out of the room, barefoot, ready to tackle the next hour or so of my morning duties before Bailey gets here to take over. But I’ve barely made it down the hallway to my aunt’s room when I hear what I think is a door slamming shut overhead. I freeze. “Bailey?”

A tremor groans through the ceiling above me.

I slowly turn to the staircase at the far end of the hallway that leads to the third and fourth floors, which are nothing but bedrooms and storage rooms. I haven’t spent much time up there at all.

“Hello?” I say, my voice cracking over the word. Silence. Pure, creeping silence that settles in my bones and causes my hair to stand on end.

I nearly jump out of my skin when the front door opens, setting another shutter through the house.

“Bailey,” I breathe, loud enough she hears me.

“I know I’m early!” Bailey’s sing-song voice drifts up the stairs to the second floor as I walk to the landing and look down. She holds up two iced lattes, shaking them slightly. “I thought we’d celebrate your first night working alone in the house.”

My heart is pounding as I nod, swallowing hard.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her brow furrowing. “I scared you, didn’t I?”

I bite my lip and resist the urge to look back down the hallway toward the second flight of stairs.

Why do I feel like there’s someone–or something–standing there, right now, watching me?

“I bought croissants too.” Bailey grins, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes.