Fiction by M.K. Eidson, intended for a mature audience. About 4300 words.
Walking alone on the beach is not something I do often. I don’t get to the beach much, and never by myself. But Jenny had decided she wanted more sun, while I wanted to stretch my legs, so there I was, treading the sand under bare feet without my wife by my side.
I had a lot on my mind. Too many bills were coming due, including a huge one for home owner’s insurance. Yeah, Jenny and I were lucky to own our house. We’d even paid off the mortgage early. But that didn’t mean the house wasn’t costing us. Appliances and plumbing and other random things I’d taken for granted started breaking once we sent in that final mortgage payment. There were growing HOA fees. The insurance premiums didn’t stop climbing. And our household income was staying flat.
With everything weighing on me, I’d kept walking down the beach without paying attention to how far I’d gone. Eventually it dawned on me that the noise of the beach crowd had dwindled to almost nothing. Looking around, I noticed the lack of lifeguards. A few people lay on towels and a lovey-dovey couple waded in the shallows. It was time to turn around and go back.
I’d pivoted on one foot when a young lady in a see-through sarong, her shaded face framed by shoulder-length atomic blonde hair, sat up and called, “Hey, mister. Do a girl a favor?” She wore a two-piece bikini under the sarong.
Never have I been a very social person. I consider it a miracle that I ever met Jenny, much less married her. My instincts now were to ignore the young lady’s plea and keep walking. But there was an air about her, the like of which I don’t have. Hers was a commanding presence. People didn’t say no to her. I was people, so it wasn’t for me to say no. “What do you need?”
She pulled off the sarong and held up a bottle of lotion. I took it. She lay face down on a red-and-white-striped towel and reached back to untie the straps of her bikini top. “Don’t rub it on too heavy, please.”
I’m an older guy. Jenny is an older gal. We both have wrinkles. This young lady didn’t. I rubbed a little of the lotion on her back, marveling at the smoothness of her skin. Jenny’s skin used to be that smooth, back when we first met. “Is that good?”
“I think a little more, maybe.” The young lady laid her head on her arms and closed her eyes. “I’m Dahlia. What’s your name?”
If you’re rubbing lotion on someone’s back, do you have to engage them in conversation? Do you have to make introductions? Can you just do the rubbing and then take your leave, satisfied you’ve done your Good Samaritan thing for the day? “I’m Brian,” I lied. I didn’t feel like telling her my real name, but I also felt like I had to say something. So I lied. What did it matter? I was never seeing her again after this.
“Nah,” she said, “your hands aren’t those of a Brian. More like a Richard or a Paul. Your name is Paul, isn’t it?”
“Sure, you caught me,” I said. “Is that enough lotion?”
“Can you get some on my neck?”
I obliged, careful not to get the lotion in her hair.
“And some on the sides of my breasts. Don’t want the boobies burning, you know.”
Okay, just do it. Don’t make a big deal out of it. “Anywhere else?”
She pulled her bikini bottoms down. No, not all the way. Enough for me to see her tan line and nothing more. “Get a little along my waist, please?”
When I’d finished that, I capped the bottle and set it down on her towel. “I’ve got to be going now. Take care. Hope you don’t get burned.”
“Thanks, Paul,” she called as I retreated to familiar and comfortable territory.
Days passed before Jenny and I made the drive to the beach again. The lifeguards weren’t letting people into the water because some guy said he saw a shark. Jenny and I didn’t usually go into the water anyway. We enjoyed sitting in our lounge chairs under an umbrella, enjoying the sea breezes and watching the waves and birds. We’d typically be watching swimmers too, but because of the scare there weren’t many people at the beach.
Once again I had lots on my mind. Instead of bills, I was thinking about my job and an impending deadline for my current project. I headed down the beach, in the opposite direction I’d gone before, away from where I’d encountered Dahlia. I didn’t actively think to myself that I shouldn’t go in the same direction this time. The decision on which way to go was entirely made by my subconsciousness, and it thought it best if I went north instead of south this time. So I did.
I’d gone a fair way down the beach when I heard quick footsteps and a young lady speak up behind me. “Hey, Paul. Lotion man. Is that you?”
Turning, I recognized Dahlia. She wore another see-through thing, decorated with a hummingbird and tropical plants. A two-piece bikini showed through the see-through. “Hello, young lady. I see you survived the sun.”
“Can I ask another favor? Please, please?” She held up a camera, one of those things an older person like me used before the advent of smart phones and selfies.
“Sure, I can take your picture.” I took the camera.
She pointed at a button. “Just push that. It’s already on. Can you get the ocean in the background?”
I can do this. In my day, strangers took pictures of other people all the time. It was a social rule that if someone with a camera wanted their picture taken and you were the closest person to them at the time, you had to do it. You couldn’t say no, as that was just rude. But I’m not a photographer. I don’t know about lighting and camera angles. I know they’re important for good pictures, but that’s the extent of my knowledge on the subject. I pointed the camera at her. “Say cheese.”
She struck a pose. I made sure the ocean was at her back and pushed the button. I handed her the camera.
“Thanks, Paul.” She pulled a memory card out of the camera and held it out to me. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, but I have plenty.” I turned to leave.
“See you later, Paul. Think about me.”
Now why would I want to do that?
When I got home from work the following Thursday, I settled in to watch some television. Some prime-time reality show. There wasn’t anything else on I cared to watch. All the shows seemed to be about relationships between stupid people.
Jenny snuggled up beside me. “Who’s Dahlia?”
At the moment, I wasn’t thinking girl-on-the-beach. I thought family, friends, or reality contestants. “Don’t know. Who is it?”
She got up, walked into the laundry room and came back carrying something in the palm of her hand. She handed it to me. “Found it in the pocket of your swimming trunks when I was doing your laundry today.”
It was a memory card, the kind that would work for a camera, with the name Dahlia written in cursive across the front with a red magic marker. The obvious truth seemed liable to lead to too many uncomfortable questions, so I lied. “It’s for a project at work. Images for a web site.”
“In your swimming trunks?”
“I had it in my hand when we were ready to go, and I stuck it in my pocket. It’s not like I’d have gone swimming with it.”
The answer satisfied Jenny enough she snuggled up against me again to watch our show. I don’t remember which contestant was voted off that night.
The picture I’d taken had Dahlia’s face cloaked by shadow. But it wasn’t so dark to prevent me from noticing the inch-and-a-half-long streak of blood running down from the corner of her mouth. Something else looked strange about her mouth. I clicked the image to enlarge it and saw what looked like fangs.
Shows how observant I am when I’m out. I hadn’t noticed either the blood or the fangs when I’d been on the beach with the woman. But here they were in the picture I’d taken.
It seemed Dahlia wanted me to think she was a vampire. To what end, I couldn’t guess. I didn’t for a moment entertain the idea that the fangs could be real. The blood, maybe. The fangs, no. Dahlia liked playing with people’s heads, and that was it. Harmless, really.
I work at a telecommunications company, where I write code for custom business reports. Dry stuff, involving computer languages with names like SQL and Java. Most people don’t understand it and don’t want to, which enables me to make a living. I sit at my computer in an office with a few other guys who know similar technologies. Some of them are more outgoing than I am, and some maybe less so. Some of the guys talk every day about their lives outside the office. I don’t. My life outside the office isn’t worth talking about.
No one in the office, including myself, expected a young lady to show up at our door asking for me, wiping tears from her cheek. I’m not a cad, and it would have been rude to tell Dahlia to go away, when she was clearly in distress. So I walked outside with her and asked what was wrong.
“My father is disinheriting me.” She buried her head in the crook of my neck, her body trembling. I patted her on the back and mumbled something meant to be comforting. How did this get to be any of my business? She lifted her head, cheeks glistening. “I have no one else to turn to, Paul.”
Seriously? A girl like Dahlia, she could have any guy she wanted for the asking. Except for me. How did I become her go-to guy? “Wait here.” I went inside and asked my boss for the rest of the day off. Family business.
I never go out for lunch, always packing leftovers from the previous night’s dinner. Jenny is a great cook. So I didn’t know any restaurants in the area. We stopped at the first one I spotted and went inside. Dim lights. Loud, whiny punk music. The waitresses dressed in cut-off shorts and button-down shirts without the buttons. I wasn’t there for the view or the food. We asked for a booth. Our waitress introduced herself as Cat. Dahlia ordered a White Russian. Cat gave Dahlia a broad smile and barely spared me a glance when I asked for a club soda.
“Listen, Dahlia,” I began when Cat had gone to fetch our orders.
“I know,” Dahlia said. “You don’t owe me anything. But I literally have no one else to turn to.”
“You seem like a nice girl. I hate to see nice girls hurting. But whatever your problem with your dad, you need to work it out with him.”
A tear welled in her eye and dropped on the table. She stared at me, examining the wrinkles around my eyes. “Sorry.” She slid out of the booth. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I can’t expect a stranger to have a little sympathy for a girl, enough to even just listen to her story. And you are a stranger, after all, aren’t you, Paul. Think about me sometime, if that’s not too much to ask.”
Dammit. Laying a guilt trip on me. I usually don’t respond well to obvious attempts at manipulation, but hell, we weren’t really strangers, were we? What if she really didn’t have anyone else to turn to? What if her father was an abusive man whose communications with Dahlia started with the back of his hand against her cheek? What if that blood on the corner of her mouth in that photo had been from his hitting her? “Sit down, Dahlia. Please.”
She paused, one hand on the table and the other hiding her eyes. Her parted lips revealed her fangs, two of them, her lateral incisors. Fake, of course. Had to be. Her lower lip trembled. “You won’t help me. I know.” She walked away.
“Dahlia.” I slid out of the booth.
Cat set our drinks on the table. She eyed me like she was ready to call a manager to make me pay the bill. I fumbled with my wallet, slapped a twenty on the table, and hurried after Dahlia. But she was gone. Nowhere in sight, in the restaurant or the parking lot. Not walking on the sidewalk. Must have gone straight to the ladies room. I went back inside and waited until an older woman walked out. Excuse me, I said to this complete stranger, but did you see a young woman in there? Her gaze and grunt told me no. I went back to my table. The drinks and the twenty were gone. But I caught Cat’s attention, and asked her to see if my friend was in the ladies room. Maybe she was sick?
“Didn’t think you were coming back. Can I get you another club soda?” But then she realized I was really worried, and went to check on Dahlia in the ladies room. “She’s not in there. Sure I can’t get you another drink?”
I had nowhere else to be for the next three hours. Jenny wouldn’t expect me home this early, and I’d already asked my boss for the rest of the day off. After I drank my club soda, Cat brought me the White Russian I’d paid for. I ended up paying for three more.
I arrived home at my regular time. Jenny met me at the door with troubled eyes. “Where have you been?”
“What do you mean? I’ve been at work.”
“No,” she said, her eyes growing wide, “I called. Your boss said you took off half the day. Said some girl came to your office and you left with her.”
Jenny doesn’t call me at work unless something’s wrong. “What happened? Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right. A man was here. Looking for someone named Dahlia. Said he was her father. I told him I didn’t know anyone by that name, and he raised his hand like he was about to hit me. I slammed the door in his face and called the police. They’re looking for you now. I have to call them and tell them you’re here.” She bustled off to make the call.
Holy damn. What had Dahlia pulled me into?
The police asked me to come with them. For questioning regarding an incident of alleged domestic violence, they said. Jenny’s hawk eyes accused me of unspoken crimes as I climbed in the back of the police car. The car interior smelled of sweat and coffee and White Russian. Maybe that last odor was my breath.
I didn’t lie to the cops like I had to Jenny. I told them about the beach walk. The lotion. The camera. The memory card. The blood on the side of Dahlia’s mouth in the picture. Her visit to my office. Cat and club soda and White Russians. The disinheritance discussion and Dahlia’s disappearance. Not the fangs. I didn’t want them thinking I was more of a nut-job than they already thought.
When I got home, Jenny served me dinner without asking one damn question. That meant she was angry. She fixed enough dinner for me to pack lunch for the next day, so she could have been angrier. Everything I’d done seemed so innocent, I didn’t feel compelled to explain anything. Except for one thing. The lie I’d told Jenny needed an explanation. But I couldn’t explain why I’d lied, so I didn’t try.
Jenny kissed me goodnight as she’d done most every night since we were married. I could feel the lie hanging between us, festering like an open sore.
I couldn’t sleep. I finally did. Then I dreamed about Dahlia. Dammit. The girl had gotten in my head. She didn’t have fangs in my dream. I knew they were fake. But the blood streamed down the side of her face, down her slender neck. I licked her flesh clean. It was just a dream. It didn’t mean anything. I woke with the urgent need to urinate. Too many White Russians.
The next morning, I parked my car outside my office building. Dahlia was sitting on the sidewalk curb, her head in her hands. Sobs shook her shoulders. She wore a white blouse, a yellow miniskirt with a black belt, and black leather boots. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, showing her flowered panties to the world. She didn’t look at me when I climbed out of my car. I knew she was there for me anyway. “Dahlia, I’m ready to talk. Let’s go for a drive.”
She ignored me. I took the opportunity to call my boss and ask for the day off. When that was settled, I called Jenny and told her I was taking another day off, that I had to help this girl I barely knew. Jenny is too trusting. She told me to do what I had to do. She didn’t say I’d have to explain anything, but I knew I’d have to tell her something. I’d worry about it later.
When I turned my attention back to Dahlia, she was looking up at me, a huge bruise on her face, on her right side. Hope glistened in her eyes. I offered her my hand. When she got on her feet, she threw her arms around me and cried on my shoulder. Her young body pressed into my old carcass. I can’t say I didn’t derive some enjoyment from her misery. I’m really not a bad person, but I am human and male and sexually attracted to females. I understand there are words that describe my sexuality and gender and all that business in precise terms, but I don’t use them properly, I’ve been told, and some of them I don’t like anyway. Let’s just say my body was responding to this young woman’s closeness in a manner I couldn’t have stopped if I wanted and she couldn’t have helped but notice.
I managed to put her at arm’s length and walked her to the passenger side of my car. When we were both settled inside, not all my body parts had settled. She spared me some dignity by not looking down there. When she smiled, the tips of her fake fangs glimmered like in those tooth paste commercials. I started up the car, backed out of the parking space, and headed down the road to nowhere.
‘Nowhere’ turned out to be the same restaurant we’d visited before. I lost my boner by the time we got there. Cat waited on us again, giving me a look saying she knew I was up to something I shouldn’t be up to, but not the kind of look accusing me of making the bruise on Dahlia’s cheek. “Same as before,” I told Cat. She remembered.
Dahlia downed her White Russian without taking a breath. I pointed at the empty glass, and Cat brought another. I hadn’t touched my club soda. Dahlia hadn’t said anything since we’d taken our seats, and I hadn’t said anything to her. I finally took a sip. “Why me, Dahlia?”
She peered at me from under those heavy black eyelashes. “That’s not the right question, Paul. The right question is, why me? Why are you helping me, why are you interested in me, someone you don’t even know?”
“You’re the one who asked me to put lotion on her back. Why did you ask me?”
“I was asking every man who looked my way, Paul. You responded.”
“I don’t believe that. How could any man have said no to you? You’re lying.”
She smirked. This wasn’t the hurt little girl anymore. This was a woman who’d schemed and was seeing her schemes coming to fruition. “I didn’t say no one else responded, Paul. Plenty of men rubbed lotion on my back, just like you. Plenty of them took my picture, just like you. Plenty of them lied to their wives about me. I caused plenty of boners.” Her foot minus a shoe slid up my right leg.
“Why are we here, Dahlia?” I pushed her foot away. My club soda had formed condensation on the outside of the glass. “What do you want from me?”
Her chuckle raised the hair on the back of my neck, like I’d have expected if I’d seen a ghost. “You’re still asking the wrong questions, Paul.”
I raised a hand, stopping her next statement. “I know. The right question is, what do I want from you?” I stood up. “The answer is nothing, Dahlia. I want nothing from you. Goodbye. Don’t come by my office again.”
“Wrong answer.” She downed her White Russian and set the glass down with a thud. “Buy me another?”
I slapped a twenty on the table and drove home.
The front door to the house lay on the ground, torn off its hinges, not from someone busting into the house, but someone busting out. I rushed up the sidewalk as sirens approached. Halfway to the porch, I paused to look back as cop cars screeched to a halt at my curb.
Police officers jumped out of their cars, pistols aimed at me. “Hands in the air!”
I didn’t resist, and answered truthfully when they asked me to identify myself. They cuffed me and hauled me down to the station.
Jenny was dead. They eventually let me see her body. It was her. I didn’t cry. This was all too surreal. If someone had told me I’d never married Jenny, never worked at a telecommunications company, never walked on a beach, I’d almost have believed them. I didn’t know what to belief anymore.
There was no waitress named Cat at the restaurant where Dahlia and I had shared drinks. Never had been, according to the manager. Cops couldn’t find any Dahlia that met my description of her, either.
With my presence at the scene of the crime shortly after it was committed, having no alibi, and showing not one sign of grief over Jenny’s death, the jury had no trouble finding me guilty of her murder. They locked me in a cell and threw away the key, as the cliche goes.
Everything was still too surreal. My whole body was numb. I couldn’t sleep. Didn’t want to eat. Didn’t want to live. I couldn’t think, other than to repeat a single word over and over in my head. Why?
When they told me I had a visitor, I knew it was Dahlia. I was right. She’d managed a conjugal visit, somehow without my having given my consent. My curiosity made me go along with it.
When we were alone, she stripped. Her skin glowed in the dim light.
I sat on the edge of the bed, fully clothed and not doing anything to change my state of dress. “What are you doing?”
She flashed her fake fangs at me. “This is a conjugal visit, Paul. What do you think I’m doing? Why aren’t you getting undressed?”
“I’m not having sex with you, Dahlia.”
She turned perplexed eyes on me. “Why not? You’re not married anymore. What’s there to stop you?”
“Is that why you killed Jenny? You wanted her out of the way because of some sick fantasy you have about me?”
“I didn’t kill Jenny. My father did. He went to your house looking for me, and lost his temper when Jenny lied to him about us.”
“There is no us, Dahlia.” I went to the exterior door and knocked. “Goodbye. Don’t visit me again.”
“Wrong answer,” Dahlia called after me. “Why do you have to be such a challenge? I’m getting really tired of this, Paul.”
The other prisoners started treating me badly after that. I’m not going into details. Whatever you can imagine, it was worse than that. I had to turn off to reality completely just to survive. I have no recollection of eating or drinking anything after that day. What my cell looked like or what anyone did for me or to me, I don’t recall. Why was no longer a question I asked myself. I merely existed, and barely succeeded at that.
When the next visit occurred, I no longer cared. I found myself sitting on the edge of a bed, facing some young naked woman whose name I didn’t ask, though she looked familiar. The name Jenny ran through my brain, but I knew that was wrong. A part of me responded to the woman’s nudity. A bit of life stirred inside me, and I slipped out of my clothes. Lying on my back on the bed, I let her have her way with me. When she was done, I kept lying there while she dressed.
The door opened and in walked a man with a scruffy beard, broad shoulders, and a T-shirt that rippled with each stride. “You did well, Dahlia. You’ve finally earned succubus status.”
“Thank you, father.” She bowed to him. Crimson leathery wings sprouted from her shoulders. She rose and turned to me. “Can I have him? As a souvenir?”
Scruffy Beard nodded. The winged lady stepped next to me and plucked out my soul.
Wow, not what I expected, but intriguing. Never read a story about a Succubus before.
Thanks, Tim! The idea for the story came to me back in 2016, and I wrote the first half of the story then. Finally finished it up and published it, two years later. Better late than never, eh. Glad you found the story intriguing!