Tis the Season
December 24th, 1984
Spielberg Falls, New York
Hiya! No, that’s not right. Too chipper. This story takes some dark turns.
Hello! Is that better?
You see, this is the story of how I almost killed everybody in my hometown. Not directly. I’m not a murderer. But because of my irresponsible actions, a terrible, dangerous, and very horny plague was unleashed on the town of Spielberg Falls, New York. You probably haven’t heard about it. The government has covered it up. It took the army to restore order and then a bunch of guys in dark suits collected all the evidence and put it in trailers and disappeared. But for one night, just before Christmas, Gropelins took over my hometown and it was my fault.
Sorry, getting ahead of myself. My name is Billie Peltier. Not Bill. Not William. Billie. Despite the name, I’m a girl. Yeah, that name causes a lot of confusion at role calls when the teacher calls it and a girl with a brown pageboy haircut, big boobs, and big glasses stands up wearing a skirt and knee socks. Lots of teasing, even in high school.
But that was almost all behind me on December 23rd. I was senior in high school. An adult. A woman in the world. I had my own car (that sucked) and the job my mom helped me get at Dante’s Savings and Loan. Just a teller and not even one of the best. I think I only kept my job because old Mr. Griffon was always hitting on me. I put up with the occasional grab on my buns or glance down my blouse because I didn’t want to go work at the Burger Barn or HMart.
On the morning of December 23rd, I was late to work. I’d had trouble getting my car started and there had been several inches of snow overnight. I was slipping and sliding all over the place as I drove from my parent’s house in the suburbs to picturesque downtown, piles of snow and strings of Christmas lights on all the shops.
The roads were so slick that I spun out in front of Dorry’s Tavern and almost crashed through the front glass of the typewriter store. I waved apologies for the traffic waiting for me to back into my lane again and straighten out. I wondered if my best friend Penny was already at Dorry’s Tavern making beer and pretzel breakfasts for the second shift workers. No time to check in on her. The people honking and yelling at me wouldn’t have been happy.
My heart was pounding from the tense driving by the time I finally pulled into the parking lot of Dante’s Savings and Loan. I’d hoped to sneak in late unnoticed, but those hopes were dashed the moment I saw Mr. Griffon looking at his pocket watch.
He scowled at me and started to tell me I was in trouble when his gaze fixed on my chest. Not an uncommon event. I’m used to guys staring at my breasts. I’m eighteen and packing 38 DDs. That’s what my bra says anyway. I think my boobs are actually bigger because I’m always popping out when I bend the wrong way.
That morning I’d managed to pop two buttons on my blouse while shoveling snow and didn’t notice it until I realized my blouse was basically open and Mr. Griffon was staring at my teenage tits overflowing my white bra.
“Ah!” I cried and covered up.
“Miss Peltier!” he snapped, his face going red. “That’s… that’s inappropriate attire. Waving those things in my face! I might get the idea you want me to look at them. That’s not the idea, is it? Are you trying to get me to look at your, ah, bosoms?”
“No! No, Mr. Griffon,” I said, fixing my bra and buttoning up my blouse. “I was just in a hurry and shoveling snow and, um, sorry.
It won’t happen again.”
“If it does, I may need to have a talk with you in my office,” he said, straightening his tie. “Carry on. You’re needed at your counter.”
He gave my butt a grope on the way past. I yelped in surprise and glanced at him with anger. I didn’t dare say a word to him, particularly after showing up late. I hated gropers.
Mr. Griffon wasn’t kidding about needing me at my counter. The bank was the busiest I’d seen it since I started working there the previous summer. It had only just opened and already the lobby was packed and there were a few people waiting outside on the sidewalk.
The other two tellers glanced at me with a mixture of relief and annoyance as I apologized and opened my register.
“Next!” I called, turning around the sign on the counter to “OPEN.”
My first customer was one of my least favorite. Mrs. Deagle was a middle-aged, bottle-blonde with enormous fake breasts and a giant fur coat. She might have been a beauty queen once, but her rich lawyer husband had turned her into a tanned blonde bombshell. Nothing against that sort of person, but the only thing natural about Mrs. Deagle was that she was mean.
“I have three deposits and I need to cash three checks,” she said, opening her diamond-encrusted purse. “Think you can manage or should I ask one of the other girls?”
“I would be happy to help you, Mrs. Deagle,” I said, smiling to cover my misery. “If you can just fill out these deposit slips, I can…”
“Fill them out for me,” she said, shoving everything across the counter. “I have these envelopes to fill out. Oh, and give me postage.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, working as quickly as possible to fulfill her requests. Somewhere between depositing checks, cashing checks, and filling out deposit slips, I must have gotten my wires crossed. When I slid the last envelope over to her, she emptied the money into her hand, counted the bills, and narrowed her sparkling blue eyes.
“Sixty dollars short,” she said. “Planning on buying yourself something nice for Christmas?”
“W-what? No!” I reached for the envelope to count the money, but she held it out of my reach. “Mrs. Deagle, I’m sorry if there was a mistake. Let me count it and I—”
“You’ll try to steal my money?” she asked, raising her voice.
By then, several grumbling customers were staring in our direction. Worse, at the door, dressed in jeans, flannel, and a puffy red vest, was my best friend. Penny Berringer could have been a cheerleader or a beauty queen with her lustrous dark hair, dark eyebrows, and big green eyes. She had a perfect body. I was jealous of her. But she was too nice to make me dislike her. And she was witnessing my humiliation.
“Mr. Griffon!” called Mrs. Deagle. “Mr. Griffon, please! This young lady is trying to short me sixty dollars!”
“Is this true?” Mr. Griffon asked, gray brows knitted into an angry V over the top of his spectacles.
“No! I might have miscounted or… or gave her the envelopes out of order! Check the other envelopes!”
“I’ve already checked those,” said Mrs. Deagle, but I saw there was a sparkle in her eyes suggesting I had hit upon what had happened. I had given her too much money in an earlier envelope and she had gladly pocketed it without a word. Now that I was unwittingly evening things up she was furious and accusing me of theft.
But you know the rule. The customer is always right. That’s certainly the rule Mr. Griffon followed as he did her check all over again to Mrs. Deagle’s gloating pleasure.
“There you are, ma’am,” he said. “I promise you, it won’t happen again.”
“You need to discipline that young lady,” said Mrs. Deagle. “Before she gets it in her head that she can get away with cheating the customers.”
“I didn’t cheat you!” I cried.
“Quiet!” snapped Mr. Griffon. “Rest assured, I will discuss this matter with Ms. Peltier.”
“I hope so,” said Mrs. Deagle, smirking at me before turning in a swoosh of furs and storming out of the bank lobby. Before I could call out to another customer, Mr. Griffon grabbed me by my arm and pulled me away from the desk.
“My office. Now.” He said.
I looked at Penny with a pained expression. She smiled sympathetically as Mr. Griffon marched me back to his office.
Mr. Griffon had the sort of office you would expect from a bank manager. Stodgy and overstuffed with ledgers and books, framed certificates on the wall, a photograph of his elderly mother on his desk, and a globe next to the rarely used typewriter. The only really nice thing in his office was the arched windows looking out on the winter wonderland of downtown Spielberg Falls.
“Late and you cause a row with one of our wealthiest customers,” said Mr. Griffon, shutting the door behind us as we stepped into his office. I heard the click of the lock and the hairs went up on the back of my neck. He moved behind me, standing over me.
“I didn’t cause a fight,” I said. “It was a simple misunderstanding.”
“I know that,” he said, grasping my shoulders from behind. His hands stroked down from my shoulders and over the sleeves of my blouse. “But she can’t stand to lose face in this town. You embarrassed her, Billie. And now she is going to demand why I haven’t fired you the next time she comes in. That will be a very uncomfortable conversation.”
He stroked down to my elbows. Then his hands left my arms and found my hips instead. He stroked the curve of my hips and pressed even closer. So close, in fact, that I felt something hard pressing into the upper curve of my bottom and against my lower back. I didn’t have a lot of experience with boys, but I had enough to know what was poking me from behind.
“Mr. Griffon,” I gasped, my face turning red with embarrassment. “I’m an employee. I’m in high school. We can’t do this.”
“Something needs to be done,” he said, breathing heavily and running his fingers down to the hem of my skirt. “Some sort of compensation… for all the grief I’m going to get from Mrs. Deagle.”
I hated Mr. Griffon. I hated his disgusting, bony old man hands. I hated his coffee breath blowing over my shoulder. I hated his boner pocking me in the back. But most of all, I hated that he was a groper. There’s a special place in hell for gropers. Some pit where they get poked and squeezed and flicked by demons all day and night for eternity.
That fantasy didn’t offer much comfort as Mr. Griffon lifted the hem of my skirt, sliding one bony hand underneath it and tracing the length of my thigh to the cotton softness of my panties. I whined with dismay as he rubbed at my mound through the fabric, which only caused my butt to wiggle and rub against his obscene hardness.
“Ohhh, Miss Peltier, you’re so beautiful,” he moaned as he began to kiss my neck.
“Mr. Griffon,” I gasped. “We can’t do this.”
“You’re right,” he whispered, kissing up to my ear and squeezing my pussy through my panties. “But we have to do it. We have to get it… mmm… out of our systems.”
He began sucking at my earlobe as he rubbed my pussy through my panties. Having this old man sucking my ear wasn’t exactly turning me on, but my body was responding to his fingers rubbing at my pussy through my panties. Just enough friction and pressure to get me excited. To make me softly pant and jerk my hips.
“S-stop, Mr. Griffon,” I moaned, hating him for what he was doing. For being a disgusting groper.
“Oh, but you like it,” he whispered. “I can tell. You’re getting so hot for me. Because you are a good girl, aren’t you, Miss Peltier?”
“Y-yes,” I gasped. “I mean, no! I’m not! Ah!”
He pushed me from behind and I almost fell over. I managed to catch myself on his oversized desk, leaning over it, finger knocking over that picture of his eagle-beaked old mother. He grunted and flipped up the back of my blue skirt, exposing my knee socks and bare thighs. My plush teenage bottom in my slightly-toosmall white cotton panties.
“A spanking then? Is that what you deserve?” He cocked back a hand and eyed me with amusement.
“No,” I cried, looking back at him over my shoulder. “No! I’ll be good! I’m good! It was all a misunderstanding!”
“Oh, I see,” he said, lowering his hand to my ass and giving me a squeeze. “So you’re good? You’ll avoid any further mistakes?”
“Yesss,” I moaned.
“Mmmmm, we’ll see about that, Miss Peltier,” he chuckled and yanked my panties down from my jiggling cheeks. I gasped as Mr. Griffon crouched behind me. I couldn’t fathom what he was doing until he grabbed my ass with both hands and pressed his face against my creamy cheeks. My face went bright red as I realized he
was breathing through his nose, which was wedged in my crack. I had no chance to voice my embarrassment, because a moment later he began to wantonly lick my teenage cunt.
“Ohhhhhh! Mr. Griffon!” I wailed as his tongue assaulted my delicate folds. He lashed my clit again and again, screwing his tongue into my tight pussy and slurping in an embarrassing way at my lower lips. I thought he was bad as a groper, but whatever he was doing was a hundred times worse.
And it felt so good! I moaned with pleasure, dropping my head to his desk as he snorted and sniffed in the crack of my ass and practically fucked me with his tongue. My thighs trembled and I clung to the surface of his huge desk. I couldn’t believe what was happening. The way he licked me so deeply. The way he was going to make me cum!
“Nnnnnhnnnn, so sweet! So… mmpphhhmm… delectable! Do you do aerobics? Mmmm! You must! Ohhhh!”
“Mr. Griffon!” I whined, shutting my eyes tightly so I couldn’t see anything, but unable to escape that flicking tongue. “Oh, Mr. Griffon! Please! I… I can’t… I… AHHHHH!”
Pleasure burst through me from my teenage core and explode behind my eyelids in flashes of white and pink. My tight channel squeezed against Mr. Griffon’s tongue. I think I might have accidentally pushed my butt back into his face as I was cumming, which only encouraged him to lick and suck even more lewdly. I collapsed atop his desk, my entire weight off my feet and a shameful mixture of cum and his saliva dripping down my thighs.
Mr. Griffon wasn’t done with me. While I was quivering and quaking from my orgasm, he stood up, red cock in hand, and rammed his middle-aged cock into my delicate teenage pussy. I gasped as his hardness filled me.
“I’ll teach you,” panted Mr. Griffon, thrusting hard and fast into me. “Oh, Miss Peltier, you learn so well though, don’t you? You really want this job. You need it.”
“Yesssss,” I gasped.
“Don’t want to end up… ohhhh… like your father, the inventor,” groaned Mr. Griffon.
“W-what’s wrong with my father?” I demanded, looking back at Mr. Griffon over my shoulder as he plundered my pussy with his middle-aged cock.
“Hmmmm? Nothing, just behind on every payment you can imagine. Ohhhh, but let’s not talk about him now. Let’s talk about you, Miss Peltier.” He leaned over my back, stroking my hair and kissing my shoulder and neck. “You can go a long way with the bank if you keep working this HARD.”
He slammed his cock deep into me. I moaned with pleasure. Gross, I know, but it felt good. Getting banged by my old boss wasn’t on my Christmas wish list, but now that it was happening I wasn’t afraid to enjoy it. I panted and moaned as he pounded into me, slapping his hips against my ass and sucking at my neck like he was trying to give me a hickey.
“Ahhhhh! Mr. Griffon! Don’t cum inside me!” I warned.
“Mmmmmm? Not on the pill?” He chuckled. “I should knock you up, you little minx, but I don’t need… hhmmmmm… the bother. Ahhhh! Here you go! On your knees, Miss Peltier!”
He drew his cock out of my trembling folds and pulled me off his desk. I felt to my knees with a cry of surprise and found myself staring up at Mr. Griffon and his very red, very wet cock. He stroked it right in my face and groaned, “I’m going to frost those glasses if you’re not careful, Miss Peltier!”
“What? My glasses? Wait!” I reached my hand up, but I was too slow about it. His cock erupted across my face, hot gushes of white cream splashing me from chin to forehead and into my hair. Cum splattered both lenses of my glasses and landed in my mouth. He wheezed and chuckled and thrust his cock between my lips. I cried out in protest, “MMmpphhmmhm!”
“Shhhhhhh,” he said, thrusting over my tongue. “Suck it all out, Miss Peltier. I’ll give you a nice Christmas bonus.”
I did as he said, watching his cum jiggle on the lenses of my glasses as I slurped out every disgusting drop from his cock. When he was finished he groaned and stepped back, admiring the mess he’d made of me with his horniness.
“I can’t go back out there like this,” I said, catching sight of my cum-spattered face in a reflection on a clock.
“Private bathroom,” he grunted, tucking his shirt back into his trousers. “Just through there.”
My hair and makeup were all messed up by getting clean. By the time I emerged from his bathroom, Mr. Griffon was gone. He’d left a wrapped present for me on his desk with a note that said, “Thank you for all you do for the bank.”
“The bank, huh?” I said and unwrapped the present.
It was a fruitcake. Hard as a brick. We were giving them out to all the bank customers for Christmas. I made up for it by sticking Mr. Griffon’s stapler in my purse. It was one of those nice, heavy ones. I kept out of trouble and kept the stapler in my purse until lunch, when I walked down the street to Dorry’s Tavern to check in with Penny.
“So you stole your boss’s stapler?” asked Penny, turning it over in her hands as I slouched at the bar. “Why did he leave you alone in his office again?”
“Oh, um, he had an emergency or something,” I said. I hadn’t mentioned to her that Mr. Griffon had fucked me on his desk, although I had mentioned he was being an awful groper.
“Yeah? Well, the jerk deserved it and a lot more,” said Penny, sliding the stapler back to me. “Any guy that is a groper deserves to have his balls put in a microwave.”
“I don’t think that would work,” I said, trying to picture how you would get the door shut on a Mr. Griffon’s droopy balls.
“Oh, I’d make it work,” said Penny.
She had enough trouble with gropers of her own being a hot teenage girl working at a bar. Technically she was supposed to be over-21, but the cops never did anything and it was a family business. The bar was named after Dorry, her mother, and run by her father.
“Order up!” he called from the back and slid a plate with my BLT and fries over to Penny. She set the food and a glass of Pepsi down in front of me. I wasn’t feeling very hungry. I mostly just wanted an excuse to hang out with Penny.
She was nice to me and so hot that it made me question my sexuality. But in a good way, not in one of those “I’m scared if I want to kiss her” sort of way. Spielberg Falls might be a small town. That doesn’t mean we have small minds.
“So are we going to hang out Christmas Day?” I asked. “Build a snowman?”
“Keep the tradition alive,” she said, wiping up and collecting a tip from a customer a few seats down. She sighed and I detected a flicker of sadness on her face. Those dramatic eyebrows knitting together. Those big eyes squinting. She sighed and caught me looking at her sympathetically. “Honestly? Not expecting much of a Christmas. My dad might lose the bar next year.”
“What? I knew he was having problems, but it gets busy on the weekends.”
“Yeah, on the weekends,” she said. “But dad has these loans with Mr. Deagle that are eating him alive. Not normal loans. These are like mafia loans.”
“Mr. Deagle is in the mafia?” I laughed. “He always seemed boring to me.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s in the mafia. Maybe it’s just like a Wall Street type of deal. But he has my dad over a barrel
and he’s going to take the bar if we can’t pay up by New Year’s Eve. Said he wants to turn Dorry’s Tavern into a Bennigan’s franchise.”
“Bennigan’s?” I shook my head. “Those things are taking over America. Before you know it, there will be a Bennigan’s on ever street in every city.”
“They’re an unstoppable juggernaut of casual dining and fun, pub-style cuisine,” she agreed.
“Well, I wish I could help, but I just work for the bank. I’m not the bank.” I nibbled at the sandwich.
“I know,” she sighed, leaning against the bar across from me. “At least we can build that snowman. Merry Christmas, Billie.”
She took hold of my hands and gave them a squeeze. I started to get those weird feelings in my tummy. I was glad when another customer walked in and interrupted me before I said or did something silly.
He Comes Bearing Gifts
Over the past few years I’ve gotten so used to my dad being gone that when he shows up it’s a major event. He’s a traveling salesman and inventor, although he’s not particularly good at either job. I didn’t even find out that he invented “marital satisfiers” until my junior year of high school. Mom has forbid me from looking down in the basement, but I’ve seen some of the diagrams in his workshop and that was enough to make me never want to go back.
Anyway, that Christmas Eve, me, mom, and Trina were in the kitchen while mom made her usual Christmas Eve lasagna. Christmas lights were blinking through the windows. Christmas music was on the radio. I was helping cut the vegetables. My sister, Trina, was reading a book at the table.
There was a flash of headlights and a slosh of tires as dad’s rusty old Packard pulled up in the drive. He tromped into the kitchen tracking snow and carrying an armload of packages, his fedora rumpled and his deep voice rumbling from behind the stacks of boxes. Mom almost knocked everything out of his arms in her urge to give him a hug. My big sister, Trina, who was home for the holidays from college barely even looked up from the trashy novel she was reading. Something about a cheating elf and an orc or something. Not me, I couldn’t resist leaping to my feet and joining mom in the hug.
“Careful now! You’re going to smash the boxes!” He laughed, setting down what he could on the table.
“You never get us anything good, dad,” said Trina, looking up from her elf porn.
“Oh-ho-ho-ho to you too, Trina,” he said, dropping the jumble of packages onto the table. “I should’ve come down the chimney.”
“You wouldn’t fit,” said Trina and stuck her tongue out at dad.
“I think you look slimmer,” said mom, resting a hand on my dad’s ample midsection.
He laughed and took off his overcoat, shaking most of the snow onto the mat by the door. I took it from him to hang it up. By the time I had returned, he’d sat down at the table with mom resting against his broad shoulders. I took a seat next to him and eyed the wrapped packages.
“Normally I’d just put all these under the tree,” said dad, picking up the largest of the packages. “But I think we should each open one right now. Here, Billie. Open this one.”
“I’ll open this one,” announced Trina, grabbing a silverwrapped package that had caught my eyes as well.
Dad’s smile dropped. He blanched. “Wait, I think that’s for your—”
Trina was too fast. The wrapper tore open to reveal a lewd box with a cartoon of a woman’s breasts and little suction pumps attached to her nipples. A cord connected these two a remote control that was being manipulated by her lover in the cartoon.
“Titty Slurper? Dadddddd! Ew!” Trina dropped the box like it was a dead rat.
“Ah! Careful! It’s my final prototype!” He caught it before it dropped to the floor. “And this one was for your mother!”
“Oh, my, I love it,” said mom, who always pretended to like dad’s inventions. “I, um, can’t wait to have my titties slurped.”
Her face was the brightest shade I’d ever seen of red on a person as she collected the package and took it out of the kitchen. Dad’s smile returned. He tapped a finger on the box he had handed me and it made a sound. I heard something move inside.
“What the heck?” I almost dropped the present. “Dad, this had better not be another one of your inventions!”
“No, no!” he laughed. “There’s a store in Chinatown in the city that lets me sell some of my little toys. I traded a couple things for this beauty. I’ve never seen anything like it. Go ahead. Open it.”
“Is this thing alive?” I demanded, feeling the weight of the box shift back and forth on its own.
“Jusssst open it!”
“Alright, alright! Jeez!” I tore the paper to reveal a wooden box like a small treasure chest. I opened the lid and saw an adorable stuffed animal with white fur, little teddy bear ears, and huge blue eyes. It had a face the seemed to smile. “Aren’t I a little old for a teddy bear? I mean, it’s cute but—”
Then it blinked at me and reached its little fingers over the edge of the box. I screamed and dropped the box. This time my dad
failed to catch it before it fell to the floor.
“Careful, honey!” he cried, gingerly lifting the box back onto the table. He opened the chest again and the creature inside seemed addled and dizzy, rubbing its furry head.
“What is it?” I demanded.
“This here is named Jizzmo,” he said. “It’s a Mogwow. That’s what the shopkeeper called it. Apparently in this place up in the mountains or wherever back in his home country, lonely housewives would pray to the gods and they’d get this little fella to keep them company.”
“Keep them company how?” demanded Trina.
“Well, like cuddle them,” said my dad. “I think that’s all they meant. Although, he was real particular that you’re not supposed to bang this thing after midnight.”
“Bang it!?” I gasped incredulously.
“Well it did come from an oriental sex toy shop,” said my dad.
“Sounds problematic,” I said.
“It doesn’t look like it even has a wiener,” said Trina, peering down at Jizzmo.
Jizzmo burbled something in his cooing language and thrust his hips forward, a glistening pink penis bulged out of his fur. It was huge compared to the little creature. At least half his body length. Still small for a human. The little cute monster penis had all these bumps around the tip and sort of wiggled back and forth almost like it had a mind of its own.
“Ewwwwww, gross!” cried Trina.
“Yeah, it’s pretty gross,” I agreed, but I couldn’t look away from the thing. Jizzmo batted his big eyelashes at me and shook his furry hips back and forth.
“Knock it off, Jizzmo!” scolded my father. “Those are my daughters!”
“Sor-ee,” said Jizzmo in a tiny voice.
“He can talk?”
“A little,” said my dad. “I was teaching him some words in the car.”
“Suck Jizzmo!” said Jizzmo, thrusting his cock towards me.
“Ahhh!” I cried. “Why did you teach him that?”
“So gross!” cried Trina.
“Well, maybe he needs a little training to behave himself,” laughed my dad, shutting Jizzmo’s box. “Just remember the one rule.”
“Yeah, I think I will manage not to bang the teddy bear after midnight,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“And don’t ever, ever get him wet.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“His fur smells terrible. Like a clogged shower drain.” My dad walked over and sniffed the tray of lasagna. “Not like this! Mmmmmm! My favorite Christmas lasagna!”
Having dad home for Christmas was great. A rare treat. But he was down in the basement tinkering on some new idea he had. Trina was off on a date with Bobby Baxter. Mom, well, I think she might have been trying out the Titty Slurper. There were loud wet sounds and gasps coming from her bedroom. I sighed and carted Jizzmo back to my bedroom.
I set his box on my desk and opened it up again. Jizzmo yawned and cooed to me in his little monster language. Pretty cute, but I couldn’t get that lewd image of him wagging his wiener in my face out of my head.
I lifted him out of the box and he clung to me like a little baby monkey. He was adorable. Warm. Soft and fuzzy. Pretty much everything you could ever want out of a stuffed animal. Only he squirmed and cooed softly too. He was alive. Blinking those giant eyes and batting his lashes.
“Maybe Christmas alone won’t be so bad with you around to cuddle with,” I said, squeezing him against my breasts until he let out a happy trilling song. “Oh? You can sing too?”
He chirped out a melody that soothed me and made me smile. I held him on my knees, marveling at how soft and cute and helpless he seemed. How did a monster like this even evolve? Or maybe there was more to the myth of the lonely housewives I had originally believed.
“I can make music too,” I said as Jizzmo finished his chirping solo. “Check this out.”
I turned on my stereo and music blasted out, so loud that Jizzmo went rolling off my knees and hid under the covers. I quickly turned down Madonna singing LikeaVirgin.
“Ooh, sorry about that, little guy,” I said, lifting him from under the blanket. He purred and hugged against me, nuzzling into my cleavage. “Aw, you just want to cuddle all the time, huh? You’re warm.”
Pop music played softly and it felt so nice to have Jizzmo in my arms that I dozed off. I had really dirty dreams. First about getting plowed by Mr. Griffon at the mall food court. Pants down around my ankles getting slammed by my old boss right there in front of all my friends from high school. Then I was at Dorry’s making out with Penny. She had her hand under my shirt and was playing with my nipples. Then I dreamed I was with Jizzmo and that weird pink monster cock. So warm as it rubbed against my teenage pussy.
It felt so good and so real that it woke me up. I sat up and was alone in bed. I glanced over at my clock. Almost eleven. I’d
slept for hours. I switched off my stereo and the house was quiet. But where was Jizzmo?
I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I felt insistent throbbing between my legs from all those dirty dreams I’d been having.
“Jizzmo?” I yawned. “Jizzmo, where are you?”
I was too comfy in my bed to go hunting for the little lost toy. I yawned and stretched in bed, my breasts straining my favorite Atari t-shirt. It felt so good and I was so warm between my legs that my hands slid under the covers. I pushed my fingers into my shorts and under my panties, feeling the silky hair and soft mound of my pussy. Oh, I was wet.
I thought about Mr. Griffon and his cock plowing into me as I began to touch myself. I was grabbing the edge of his desk in his office. His belt clinking with each thrust. His balls slapping against my clit as he fucked me from behind. My mind wandered through memories of boyfriends past, a few hookups at school, including a teacher, and finally landed on Penny. My fingers became her fingers. Her lips were just above mine as I rubbed my clit. She gasped my name. Reached a hand under my shirt to squeeze my breasts and pluck at the aching bud of each nipple.
“Oh, Penny,” I gasped. “I always wanted this. I knew you did too!”
“Brrrrrbbb?” The chirping was right next to my head. I looked over and saw Jizzmo standing on my nightstand. He blinked his bug eyes and fluttered his lashes. He thrust his hips and his glistening pink cock extended from his soft furry tummy. “Suck Jizzmo!”
I don’t know why I did it! I swear. I was drunk with lust as my fingers moved against my clit. If you think most teenage girls have never fucked a stuffed animal, well, I’ve got bad news for you. Sucked their cocks, okay, maybe that was a little outside the norm.
So, yeah, I totally leaned over and let the little creep slide his pink pleasure wand into my mouth. Want to know the reallyweird part? It tasted like a candy cane! Delicious!
“Suuuuck Jizzmo,” burbled the creature, those big bug eyes rolling back into his furry little head. He grabbed my face with his paws and proceeded to fuck my willing mouth. While I was getting my throat tickled by Jizzmo, my fingers were stroking my aching clit. Each suck brought me closer to my climax. Each taste of that minty candy cane precum dribbling off Jizzmo’s sweet swizzle stick.
Jizzmo thrust faster and faster, pumping his tiny hips and practically climbing onto my face. My nose was buried in his furry tummy as I swallowed the oozing sweetness from his cock. It tingled down my throat. The more I sucked, the more I wanted to suck. Was there some sort of drug oozing out of his cock? I don’t know, but it was making me wildly horny.
My hips began to move and I began to pump two and then three fingers into my aching pussy. I felt hot all over. I lifted my shirt up and played with my nipple with one hand while I fucked myself with my other hand.
“Mmmmmmm!” I cried out, my pleasure muffled by Jizzmo’s fur.
“Drink Jizzmo cum,” crooned the little Mogwow.
I had just enough time to wonder why my dad taught Jizzmo the word “cum” before the wee face humper let out a trilling cry of pleasure and blasted his hot goo straight into my mouth. It was delicious! So warm and thick as it slid down my throat that it sent me over the edge. I cried out around Jizzmo’s squirting sex pickle and gobbled his plentiful pudding dessert as my teenage pussy clutched at my thrusting fingers.
“Mmmmmm! Ohhhh Jizzmo!” I cried.
My orgasm subsided and my fingers stopped, but my horniness had only increased with a bellyful of Jizzmo’s delicious
eggnog. I played with my tits with both hands as I fell back on the bed, moaning.
“Fuck Jizzmo,” crooned the greedy Mogwow.
“Oh, you’re still hard!” I gasped with excitement. I picked Jizzmo up off the nightstand and squeezed him against my tits. I felt his hot, slimy cock rubbing against my tummy. “Oh, yes, I’ll fuck you! But… wait! What about the rules. I distinctly remember my father said no banging you after… what was it? Midnight?”
I looked at the clock. 12:01! My hopes were dashed. I nearly began to cry.
“We can’t do it, my candy-cocked munchkin.”
“Pacific Timezone,” said Jizzmo, lifting his face from my cleavage.
“Of course! That means it’s only 9:01 PM on the west coast! We can fuck for hours!” I forgot about Mr. Griffon, Coach Taylor, Bobby Grigsby, and even Penny. The only thing that mattered was I was going to get to fuck Jizzmo for three hours. Drunk on his spunk, I tossed the little fucky bear onto my bed and straddled his tiny body. I grabbed hold of his cock and rubbed the juicy tip all over my dripping pussy.
If I had known then what I know now, I would never have played with Jizzmo. But at that moment, I was completely under his spell from guzzling his nectar. I had no choice. Honestly.
“Jizzmo! Fuck meeeee!” I cried, sliding down onto his cock until my fuzzy mound was against his fuzzy tummy and every inch of his hardness had disappeared into my pussy.
“Bbbbrrrrrrroooooo!” he sang with delight and smacked my thighs with his tiny hands. He tried to fuck me, but with me on top I was doing all the work. I just felt him squirming a little bit down there. But his cock felt amazing as I rode up and down his hard little dick. Faster and faster. Tits bouncing as I gasped with pleasure.
I was so eager to fuck that I came almost right away. Not Jizzmo. When I was finished riding him, he told me, “Fuck on knees!” and so I went face down and ass up. He had to stand on a Rubick’s Cube to even reach my pussy. He smacked my ass and plowed my folds until I was crying out again, fingers tangled in my sheets.
He still wasn’t done with me.
“Roll over! Missionary fuck!”
Why was my dad teaching him these words? I didn’t care. I just needed more of that good Jizzmo dick. I rolled onto my back, pulling my knees up towards my chest to make it easier for the little guy to slide his cock into my pussy. He humped my honeyed hole until he was burbling one of his songs and grabbing onto the backs of my thighs. When I started to cum again, Jizzmo couldn’t take it anymore. He let out a sing-songy cry of pleasure and I felt his cock unload his delicious cream deep into my pussy.
Finally spent, Jizzmo warbled and slid his cock out of my stuffed cunt. I giggled at him as he flopped over and his cum oozed out of my well-fucked pussy and down the crack of my ass.
“You’re so good at doing sex,” I told the little guy. “And the best part? You’re a cuddler, not a groper.”
Oh, my dear friends, if only that were true.
The afterglow of my intense orgasm was short-lived. I began to feel a strange and growing fullness in my lower abdomen. My ovaries throbbed. My pussy shuddered.
“Ohhhh, what is happening?” I groaned, pressing a hand to my tummy.
Jizzmo answered me with a growl. I lifted my head from the pillow to see that he had curled into a ball and was vibrating. I started to say something to the little Mogwow when my body was wracked by intense spasms. Suddenly, little slimy reddish-brown balls of flesh began to launch from my pussy. I felt like a pitching
machine with an oil leak as Mogwow spooge and these weird flesh balls poured out of me. Nine of the little things shot out of me in total before I collapsed, completely exhausted, back onto the bed.
Nine greasy, slimy, disgusting little humanoid unfurled from the balls. They had wide, wedge-shaped heads, yellow eyes, gangly limbs, and mouths full of sharp teeth. Oh, and oversized, slimy pink cocks. Nine pairs of yellow eyes stared at me as the creatures began to grow and stand up from my slime drenched bed. They were even bigger than Jizzmo. Growing like one of those sponge dinosaur eggs you can put in water and it swells up to ten times its size by morning. Only these were done growing in less than a minute.
“Jizzmo,” I moaned. “W-what did you do to me? That Pacific Time Zone stuff was a lie, wasn’t it?”
“Jizzmo sorry,” said the little liar. Only, he stood up and he had become one of these slimy creatures too! His smile bared little fangs and he leapt at me. I thought for sure he was going to take a bite out of me, but before I could scream he was grabbing and groping me. He was a groper! Sort of like a goblin! A gropelin, if you will. I came up with that name as the creature surrounded me and began fondling me and squeezing me. Slimy tongues licked at my body. Little monster mouths sucked at my tits.
Jizzmo crawled triumphantly up to my head, just as gangly and ugly as the rest of them.
“W-what are you doing?” I gasped as he took hold of my head and turned it towards his swollen cock.
“Suck Jizzmo!” he laughed excitedly.
“Suck Jizzmo!” chorused the others, crowded around my head with their cocks in hand.
Despite my revulsion at popping these monsters out, I couldn’t hold back. I wanted to do it! I loved all these gropelins! Blowjobs weren’t enough to satisfy them. It wasn’t long before another one of the little beasties was pumping my pussy full of a
gooey load of gropelin spunk. More gropelin balls came popping out of my pussy as my first batch of troublemakers went scampering off to cause trouble elsewhere in the house.
Getting Physical! Physical!
My adventure pretty much ended there. I spent the next few days getting pounded by the gropelins in a non-stop gangbang of epic proportions. I lost track of time, where I was, or even who I was as I fucked and sucked the endless gropelins eager for sex. The little reddish freaks never stopped and I didn’t want them to stop. I’ll admit, now that things have gone back to normal, I sort of miss those days too. It was exhausting, but it felt sooooooo good!
But I’m jumping ahead of what happened. While I was getting gropelin goo stuffed into every possible hole, Jizzmo was on a rampage. It was only later that I learned from the army guys what happened to the rest of Spielberg Falls. All those files are like double or triple top secret now, but I read a bunch of the transcripts so I know how it went down.
I was in the throes of a gropelin gangbang, popping out batch after batch of gangly little gropers, while my mother was in the kitchen heating up a midnight snack in the microwave. She had her back turned to the door and when she heard someone enter she thought it was me for some reason.
“Billie? Do you want me to heat up some lasagna?” she asked, watching her plate spin in the microwave.
Little did she know, that wasn’t me creeping into the kitchen, but a half-dozen or so of my recently spawned gropelins. They gangly little freaks fanned out into the kitchen. Some crept under the table. Another jumped onto the counter. Mom, still thinking it was me, ignored any sounds they were making and opened the refrigerator. She bent in, rooting in the back for something, her
plump butt poking out from under her nightgown and barely covered by her pink panties.
Jizzmo was leading the group, eager for a taste of another human pussy now that he had transformed from Mogwow to Gropelin. He was the most daring of his little squad of miscreants and he stole up close behind my mother, his face just beneath the level of her fat, heart-shaped ass. He slid his hands under the nightgown, lifting it up to reveal her panty-covered bottom.
“Billie, what are you doing?” laughed my mother. “Stop that. Have you seen the French dressing? Billie, what are you—”
She stopped objecting and swatting at the hands that were dragging her panties down from her ass. She stood up, bonking her head on a shelf in the fridge and causing a jar of pickles to roll out and break on the floor. She jerked away from Jizzmo’s touch. Turned. Stared in wide-eyed horror at a half-dozen little spindlylimbed gropelins advancing on her.
“What the hell!?” She cried, fumbling for a knife on the counter. “Stay back! Stay back or I’ll… I’ll cut you!”
The gropelin on the counter behind her pressed the handle of a wooden spoon into her hand. Thinking she’d found a knife, she brought the spoon around to defend herself. The gropelins cackled with laughter as she threatened them with the wooden spoon.
The gropelin on the counter grabbed her neck and shoulder and started licking her ear. She beat him on the head with the spoon as the other gropelins scurried forward, dragging her down to her knees and tearing her night gown to shreds with their sharp claws. They probably could have killed her, but gropelins, though mischievous, didn’t want to hurt humans. They just wanted to grope.
Their horrible little hands fondled my mother’s big, soft tits. Little tongues flicked at her nipples. Fangs teased against her sensitive buds as they sucked at her breasts. One gropelin caught a
kick from her as she fought back and went flying out the window into the scene. This prompted more cackling.
“Stop it! Stop sucking my breasts! Ohhhhh!”
She beat at the two gropelins squeezing and slurping on her breasts. They were having too much fun to be discouraged by a wooden spoon. The gropelin clinging to her shoulders and neck managed to get her head turned sideways and began savagely tongue-kissing her. She fought back for a moment longer, then relented as its slimy tongue slithered and swirled into her mouth. Gropelin saliva was an aphrodisiac. Not as strong as their cum, but definitely strong enough to get my mom’s motor running.
“Mmmmmmm!” she cried out against the gropelin’s bumpy lips.
Jizzmo, the conqueror, walked between my mom’s legs as she began to calm down and accept her fate. His cock jutted from his scrawny crotch. It was much bigger than it had been only a few minutes earlier. Now, his transformation complete, he was a strutting, gangly gropelin eager to pump my mom full of a cursed creampie.
He pushed her nightgown up her thighs and dragged aside the gusset of her panties to reveal her puffy cuntlips and dewy mound. She was much hairier downstairs than me, but gropelins aren’t picky about that sort of thing.
“W-what are you doing?” she gasped.
“Jizzmo fuck,” growled the gropelin.
“Jizzmo fuck! Jizzmo fuck!” The others chanted excitedly.
“Ooooohhh!” Her eyes went wide with fear, but she couldn’t look away as the gropelin leader grasped his cock and rubbed it against her plump pussy. A lusty moan escaped her and a hot thrill went through her body as she realized the gangly little monster was about to fuck her and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
Jizzmo’s gropelin face was an evil parody of his Mogwow cuteness. He snarled, savoring the moment, and then thrust his bigger, badder, bumpier cum pump straight into my mother’s steamy cunt. She wailed with ecstasy that I could hear all the way in my room even though I was getting fucked senseless by a swarm of horny gropelins. My own cries of pleasure united with my mother’s as Jizzmo began to roughly ride her creamy thighs.
Jizzmo was relentless. He could hardly believe his luck. He had spent hundreds of years in that box just waiting for a new home and on his first night out he’d managed to trick me into letting him transform into a gropelin. He had two eager sluts under his spell. He was going to breed a whole army of gropelins. Big enough to take over the town. Maybe the whole world.
“Ahhhhh! Pussy too good!” Jizzmo cried and exploded deep into my mother’s clutching cunt. In almost the same moment the gropelin pounding me from behind erupted into my slime slicked pussy. I wailed with pleasure and heard my mother do the same.
It was as we were popping out the next batch of gropelins that my poor sister Trina had the bad luck to return home from her date with her boyfriend. He was a real gym rat and they’d been working out together in more ways than one. She was still dressed in her aerobics leotard and tennis shows, a Walkman in her coat pocket and headphones on her ears. The gropelins rising to full size in the slime splattered kitchen could not believe their luck as a fresh human woman blundered right into their midst.
“What’s that smell?” said Trina, wrinkling her nose. “Did the garbage spill or… or…”
Words failed my sister as she saw the reddish-brown creatures standing all around our mother and stroking their cocks. Mom, lust-drunk and smiling, cried out, “It’s Christmas!”
As if in celebration, the horny gropelins surrounding her gave her a ten-gun salute of white frosting to cover her face, hair, and heaving tits. While my mom was being hosed down with gropelin
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Eliza Tillinghast was at that time eighteen years of age, and had been reared as gently as the reduced circumstances of her father permitted. Her arguments with her father concerning the proposed Curwen marriage must have been painful indeed; but of these we have no record. Certain it is that her engagement to young Ezra Weeden, second mate of the Crawford packet Enterprise, was dutifully broken off, and that her union with Joseph Curwen took place on the seventh of March, 1763, in the Baptist church, in the presence of one of the most distinguished assemblages which the town could boast; the ceremony being performed by the youngest Samuel Winson. The Gazette mentioned the event very briefly, and in most surviving copies the item in question seems to be cut or torn out. Ward found a single intact copy after much search in the archives of a private collector of note, observing with amusement the meaningless urbanity of the language:
Monday evening last, Mr. Joseph Curwen, of this Town, Merchant, was married to Miss Eliza Tillinghast, Daughter of Captain Dutie Tillinghast, a young Lady who has real Merit, added to a beautiful Person, to grace the connubial State and perpetuate its Felicity.
The social influence of the Tillinghasts, however, was not to be denied; and once more Joseph Curwen found his house frequented by persons whom he could never otherwise have induced to cross his threshold. His acceptance was by no means complete, and his bride was socially the sufferer through her forced venture; but at all events the wall of utter ostracism was somewhat worn down. In his treatment of his wife the strange bridegroom astonished both her and the community by displaying an extreme graciousness and consideration. The new house in Olney Court was now wholly free from disturbing manifestations, and although Curwen was much absent at the Pawtuxet farm which his wife never visited, he seemed more like a normal citizen than at any other time in his long years of residence. Only one person remained in open enmity with him, this being the youthful ship's officer whose engagement to Eliza Tillinghast had been so abruptly broken. Ezra Weeden had frankly vowed vengeance; and though of a quiet and originally mild
disposition, was now gaining a hate-bred, dogged purpose which boded no good to the usurping husband.
On the seventh of May, 1765, Curwen's only child Ann was born; and was christened by the Reverend John Graves of King's Church, of which both husband and wife had become communicants shortly after their marriage, in order to compromise between their respective Congregational and Baptist affiliations. The record of this birth, as well as that of the marriage two years before, was stricken from most copies of the church and town annals where it ought to appear; and Charles Ward located both with the greatest difficulty after his discovery of the widow's change of name had apprised him of his own relationship, and engendered the feverish interest which culminated in his madness. The birth entry, indeed, was found very curiously through correspondence with the heirs of the loyalist Dr. Graves, who had taken with him a duplicate set of records when he left his pastorate at the outbreak of the Revolution. Ward had tried this source because he knew that his great-great-grandmother, Ann Tillinghast Potter, had been an Episcopalian.
Shortly after the birth of his daughter, an event he seemed to welcome with a fervor greatly out of keeping with his usual coldness, Curwen resolved to sit for a portrait. This he had painted by a very gifted Scotsman named Cosmo Alexander, then a resident of Newport, and since famous as the early teacher of Gilbert Stuart. The likeness was said to have been executed on a wall-panel of the library of the house in Olney Court, but neither of the two old diaries mentioning it gave any hint of its ultimate disposition.
In 1766 came the final change in Joseph Curwen. It was very sudden, and gained wide notice amongst the curious townsfolk; for the air of suspense and expectancy dropped like an old cloak, giving instant place to an ill-concealed exaltation of perfect triumph. It was after this transition, which appears to have come early in July, that the sinister scholar began to astonish people by his possession of
information which only their long-dead ancestors would seem to be able to impart.
But Curwen's feverish secret activities by no means ceased with this change. On the contrary, they tended rather to increase; so that more and more of his shipping business was handled by the captains whom he now bound to him by ties of fear as potent as those of bankruptcy had been. He altogether abandoned the slave trade, alleging that its profits were constantly decreasing. Every possible moment was spent at the Pawtuxet farm; though there were rumors now and then of his presence in places which, though not actually near graveyards, were yet so situated in relation to graveyards that thoughtful people wondered just how thorough the old merchant's change of habits really was. Ezra Weeden, though his periods of espionage were necessarily brief and intermittent on account of his sea voyaging, had a vindictive persistence which the bulk of the practical townsfolk and farmers lacked; and subjected Curwen's affairs to a scrutiny such as they had never had before.
Smuggling and evasion were the rule in Narragansett Bay, and nocturnal landings of illicit cargoes were continuous commonplaces. But Weeden, night after night, following the lighters or small sloops which he saw steal off from the Curwen warehouses at the Town Street docks, soon felt assured that it was not merely His Majesty's armed ships which the sinister skulker was anxious to avoid. The lighters were wont to put out from the black silent docks, and they would go down the bay some distance, perhaps as far as Namquit Point, where they would meet and receive cargo from strange ships of considerable size and widely varied appearance. Curwen's sailors would then deposit this cargo at the usual point on the shore, and transport it overland to the farm; locking it in the same cryptical stone building which had formerly received the Negroes. The cargo consisted almost wholly of boxes and cases, of which a large proportion were oblong and heavy, and disturbingly suggestive of coffins.
Weeden always watched the farm with unremitting assiduity, visiting it each night for long periods, and seldom letting a week go by without a sight except when the ground bore a footprint-revealing
snow Finding his own vigils interrupted by nautical duties, he hired a tavern companion named Eleazar Smith to continue the survey during his absences; and between them the two could have set in motion some extraordinary rumors. That they did not do so was only because they knew the effect of publicity would be to warn their quarry and make further progress impossible.
It is gathered that Weeden and Smith became early convinced that a great series of tunnels and catacombs, inhabited by a very sizable staff of persons besides the old Indian and his wife, underlay the farm. The house was an old peaked relic of the middle seventeenth century with enormous stack chimney and diamond-paned lattice windows, the laboratory being in a lean-to toward the north, where the roof came nearly to the ground. This building stood clear of any other; yet judging by the different voices heard at odd times within, it must have been accessible through secret passages beneath. These voices ran the gamut betwixt dronings of dull acquiescence and explosions of frantic pain or fury, rumblings of conversation and whines of entreaty, pantings of eagerness and shouts of protest. They appeared to be in different languages, all known to Curwen, whose rasping accents were frequently distinguishable in reply, reproof, or threatening.
Weeden had many verbatim reports of overheard scraps in his notebook, for English, French, and Spanish, which he knew, were frequently used; but of these nothing has survived. He did, however, say that besides a few ghoulish dialogues in which the past affairs of Providence families were concerned, most of the questions and answers he could understand were historical or scientific; occasionally pertaining to very remote places and ages. Once, for example, an alternately raging and sullen figure was questioned in French about the Black Prince's massacre at Limoges in 1370, as if there were some hidden reason which he ought to know. Curwen asked the prisoner—if prisoner it were—whether the order to slay was given because of the Sign of the Goat found on the altar in the
ancient Roman crypt beneath the cathedral, or whether The Dark Man of the Haute Vienne Coven had spoken the Three Words. Failing to obtain replies, the inquisitor had seemingly resorted to extreme means; for there was a terrific shriek followed by silence and muttering and a bumping sound.
None of these colloquies was ever ocularly witnessed, since the windows were always heavily draped. Later, no more conversations were ever heard in the house, and Weeden and Smith concluded that Curwen had transferred his field of action to regions below.
That such regions in truth existed, seemed amply clear from many things. Faint cries and groans unmistakably came up now and then from what appeared to be the solid earth in places far from any structure; whilst hidden in the bushes along the river-bank in the rear, where the high ground sloped steeply down to the valley of the Pawtuxet, there was found an arched oaken door in a frame of heavy masonry, which was obviously an entrance to caverns within the hill.
It was in January, 1770, whilst Weeden and Smith were still debating vainly on what, if anything, to think or do about the whole bewildering business, that the incident of the Fortaleza occurred. Exasperated by the burning of the revenue sloop Liberty at Newport during the previous summer, the customs fleet under Admiral Wallace had adopted an increased vigilance concerning strange vessels; and on this occasion His Majesty's armed schooner Cygnet, under Captain Charles Leshe, captured after a short pursuit one early morning the scow Fortaleza of Barcelona, Spain, under Captain Manuel Arruda, bound according to its log from Grand Cairo, Egypt, to Providence. When searched for contraband material, this ship revealed the astonishing fact that its cargo consisted exclusively of Egyptian mummies, consigned to "Sailor A. B. C.," who would come to remove his goods in a lighter just off Namquit Point, and whose identity Captain Arruda felt himself in honor bound not to reveal. The ViceAdmiralty Court at Newport, at a loss what to do in view of the non-
contraband nature of the cargo on the one hand and of the unlawful secrecy of the entry on the other hand, compromised on Collector Robinson's recommendation by freeing the ship but forbidding it a port in Rhode Island waters. There were later rumors of its having been seen in Boston Harbor, though it never openly entered the Port of Boston.
This extraordinary incident did not fail of wide remark in Providence and there were not many who doubted the existence of some connection between the cargo of mummies and the sinister Joseph Curwen; it did not take much imagination to link him with a freakish importation which could not conceivably have been destined for anyone else in the town. Weeden and Smith, of course, felt no doubt whatsoever of the significance of the thing; and indulged in the wildest theories concerning Curwen and his monstrous labors.
The following spring, like that of the year before, had heavy rains; and the watchers kept careful track of the river-bank behind the Curwen farm. Large sections were washed away, and a certain number of bones discovered; but no glimpse was afforded of any actual subterranean chambers or burrows. Something was rumored, however, at the village of Pawtuxet about a mile below, where the river flows in falls over a rocky terrace to join the placid landlocked cove. The fisherfolk about the bridge did not like the wild way that one of the things stared as it shot down to the still water below, or the way that another half cried out although its condition had greatly departed from that of objects which normally cry out.
That rumor sent Smith—for Weeden was just then at sea—in haste to the river-bank behind the farm; where surely enough there remained the evidences of an extensive cave-in. Smith went to the extent of some experimental digging, but was deterred by lack of success—or perhaps by fear of possible success. It is interesting to speculate on what the persistent and revengeful Weeden would have done had he been ashore at the time.
By the autumn of 1770 Weeden decided that the time was ripe to tell others of his discoveries; for he had a large number of facts to link together, and a second eye-witness to refute the possible charge that jealousy and vindictiveness had spurred his fancy. As his first confidant he selected Captain James Mathewson of the Enterprise, who on the one hand knew him well enough not to doubt his veracity, and on the other hand was sufficiently influential in the town to be heard in turn with respect. The colloquy took place in an upper room of Sabin's Tavern near the docks, with Smith present to corroborate virtually every statement; and it could be seen that Captain Mathewson was tremendously impressed. Like nearly everyone else in the town, he had had black suspicions of his own anent Joseph Curwen; hence it needed only this confirmation and enlargement of data to convince him absolutely. At the end of the conference he was very grave, and enjoined strict silence upon the two younger men.
The right persons to tell, he believed, would be Dr. Benjamin West, whose pamphlet on the late transit of Venus proved him a scholar and keen thinker; Reverend James Manning, President of the College; ex-Governor Stephen Hopkins, who had been a member of the Philosophical Society at Newport, and was a man of very broad perceptions; John Carter, publisher of the Gazette; all four of the Brown brothers, John, Joseph, Nicholas and Moses, who formed the recognized local magnates; old Dr. Jabez Bowen, whose erudition was considerable, and who had much first-hand knowledge of Curwen's odd purchases; and Captain Abraham Whipple, a privateersman of phenomenal boldness and energy who could be counted on to lead in any active measures needed.
The mission of Captain Mathewson prospered beyond his highest expectations; for whilst he found one or two of the chosen confidants somewhat skeptical of the possible ghostly side of Weeden's tale, there was not one who did not think it necessary to take some sort of secret and coördinated action. Curwen, it was clear, formed a vague potential menace to the welfare of the town and Colony; and must be eliminated at any cost.
Late in December, 1770, a group of eminent townsmen met at the home of Stephen Hopkins and debated tentative measures.
Weeden's notes, which he had given to Captain Mathewson, were carefully read; and he and Smith were summoned to give testimony anent details. Something very like fear seized the whole assemblage before the meeting was over, though there ran through that fear a grim determination which Captain Whipple's bluff and resonant profanity best expressed. They would not notify the Governor, because a more than legal course seemed necessary. With hidden powers of uncertain extent apparently at his disposal, Curwen was not a man who could safely be warned to leave town. He must be surprised at his Pawtuxet farm by a large raiding party of seasoned privateersmen and given one decisive chance to explain himself. If he proved a madman, amusing himself with shrieked and imaginary conversations in different voices, he would be properly confined. If something graver appeared, and if the underground horrors indeed turned out to be real, he and all with him must die. It could be done quietly, and even the widow and her father need not be told how it came about.
While these serious steps were under discussion there occurred in the town an incident so terrible and inexplicable that for a time little else was mentioned for miles around. In the middle of a moonlit January night with heavy snow underfoot there resounded over the river and up the hill a shocking series of cries which brought sleepy heads to every window; and people around Weybosset Point saw a great white thing plunging frantically along the badly cleared space in front of the Turk's Head. There was a baying of dogs in the distance, but this subsided as soon as the clamor of the awakened town became audible. Parties of men with lanterns and muskets hurried out to see what was happening, but nothing rewarded their search. The next morning, however, a giant, muscular body, stark naked, was found on the jams of ice around the southern piers of the Great Bridge, where the Long Dock stretched out beside Abbott's distilhouse, and the identity of this object became a theme for endless speculation and whispering. It was not so much the younger as the
older folk who whispered, for only in the patriarchs did that rigid face with horror-bulging eyes strike any chord of memory. They, shaking as they did so, exchanged furtive murmurs of wonder and fear; for in those stiff, hideous features lay a resemblance so marvelous as to be almost an identity—and that identity was with a man who had died full fifty years before.
Ezra Weeden was present at the finding; and remembering the baying of the night before, set out along Weybosset Street and across Muddy Dock Bridge whence the sound had come. He had a curious expectancy, and was not surprised when, reaching the edge of the settled district where the street merged into the Pawtuxet Road, he came upon some very curious tracks in the snow. The naked giant had been pursued by dogs and many booted men, and the returning tracks of the hounds and their masters could be easily traced. They had given up the chase upon coming too near the town. Weeden smiled grimly, and as a perfunctory detail traced the footprints back to their source. It was the Pawtuxet farm of Joseph Curwen, as he well knew it would be; and he would have given much had the yard been less confusingly trampled. As it was, he dared not seem too interested in full daylight. Dr. Bowen, to whom Weeden went at once with his report, performed an autopsy on the strange corpse, and discovered peculiarities which baffled him utterly. The digestive tracts of the huge man seemed never to have been in use, whilst the whole skin had a coarse, loosely-knit texture impossible to account for. Impressed by what the old man whispered of this body's likeness to the long-dead blacksmith Daniel Green, whose greatgrandson Aaron Hoppin was a supercargo in Curwen's employ, Weeden asked casual questions till he found where Green was buried. That night a party of ten visited the old North Burying Ground opposite Herrenden's Lane and opened a grave. They found it vacant, precisely as they had expected.
"They found the grave vacant—precisely as they had expected."
Meanwhile arrangements had been made with the post riders to intercept Joseph Curwen's mail, and shortly before the incident of the naked body there was found a letter from one Jedediah Orne of Salem which made the coöperating citizens think deeply. Parts of it, copied and preserved in the private archives of the Smith family where Charles Ward found it, ran as follows:
I delight that you continue in ye getting at Olde Matters in your Way, and doe not think better was done at Mr. Hutchinson's in SalemVillage. Certainly, there was Noth'g butt ye liveliest Awfulness in that which H. rais'd upp from what he cou'd gather onlie a part of. What
you sente, did not Worke, whether because Any Thing miss'g, or because ye Wordes were not Righte from my Speak'g or yr copy'g. Alone am at a Loss. I have not ye Chymicall art to followe Borellus, and owne my Selfe confounded by ye VII. Booke of ye Necronomicon that you recommende. But I wou'd have you Observe what was tolde to us aboute tak'g Care whom to calle up, for you are Sensible what Mr. Mather writ in ye Magnalia of ——, and can judge how truely that Horrendous thing is reported. I say to you againe, doe not call upp Any that you can not put downe; by the Which I meane, Any that can in Turne call up somewhat against you, whereby your Powerfullest Devices may not be of use. Ask of the Lesser, lest the Greater shall not wish to Answer, and shall commande more than you. I was frighted when I read of your know'g what Ben Zariatnatmik hadde in his Ebony Boxe, for I was conscious who must have told you. And againe I ask that you shalle write me as Jedediah and not Simon. In this Community a Man may not live too long, and you knowe my Plan by which I came back as my Son. I am desirous you will Acquaint me with what ye Blacke Man learnt from Sylvanus Cocidius in ye Vault, under ye Roman wall, and will be oblig'd for ye Lend'g of ye MS. you speak of.
Another and unsigned letter from Philadelphia provoked equal thought, especially for the following passage:
I will observe what you say respecting the sending of Accounts only by yr Vessels, but can not always be certain when to expect them. In the Matter spoke of, I require only one more thing; but wish to be sure I apprehend you exactly. You inform me, that no Part must be missing if the finest Effects are to be had, but you can not but know how hard it is to be sure. It seems a great Hazard and Burthen to take away the whole Box, and in Town (i. e. St. Peter's, St. Paul's, St. Mary's, or Christ Church) it can scarce be done at all. But I know what Imperfections were in the one rais'd up October last, and how many live Specimens you were forced to imploy before you hit upon the right Mode in the year 1766; so will be guided by you in all Matters. I am impatient for yr Brig, and inquire daily at Mr. Biddle's Wharf.
A third suspicious letter was in an unknown tongue and even an unknown alphabet. In the Smith diary found by Charles Ward a single oft-repeated combination of characters is clumsily copied; and authorities at Brown University have pronounced the alphabet Amharic or Abyssinian, although they do not recognize the word. None of these epistles was ever delivered to Curwen, though the disappearance of Jedediah Orne from Salem as recorded shortly afterward showed that the Providence men took certain quiet steps.
Curwen, despite all precautions, apparently felt that something was in the wind; for he was now remarked to wear an unusually worried look. His coach was seen at all hours in the town and on the Pawtuxet Road, and he dropped little by little the air of forced geniality with which he had latterly sought to combat the town's prejudice. The nearest neighbors to his farm, the Fenners, one night remarked a great shaft of light shooting into the sky from some aperture in the roof of that cryptical stone building with the high excessively narrow windows; an event which they quickly communicated to John Brown in Providence.
Mr Brown had become the executive leader of the select group bent on Curwen's extirpation, and had informed the Fenners that some action was about to be taken. To them Mr. Brown had entrusted the duty of watching the Curwen farmhouse, and of regularly reporting every incident which took place there.
The probability that Curwen was on guard and attempting unusual things, as suggested by the odd shaft of light, precipitated at last the action so carefully devised by the band of serious citizens. According to the Smith diary a company of about one hundred men met at ten P.M. on Friday, April twelfth, 1771, in the great room of Thurston's Tavern at the Sign of the Golden Lion on Weybosset Point across the Bridge. Of the guiding group of prominent men in addition to the leader, John Brown, there were present Dr. Bowen, with his case of surgical instruments, President Manning without the great periwig (the largest in the Colonies) for which he was noted, Governor
Hopkins, wrapped in a dark cloak and accompanied by his seafaring brother Eseh whom he had initiated at the last moment with the permission of the rest, John Carter, Captain Mathewson, and Captain Whipple, who was to lead the actual raiding party. These chiefs conferred apart in a rear chamber, after which Captain Whipple emerged to the great room and gave the gathered seamen their last oaths and instructions. Eleazar Smith was with the leaders as they sat in the rear apartment awaiting the arrival of Ezra Weeden, whose duty was to keep track of Curwen and report the departure of his coach for the farm.
About ten-thirty a heavy rumble was heard on the Great Bridge, followed by the sound of a coach in the street outside; and at that hour there was no need of waiting for Weeden in order to know that the doomed man had set out for his last night of unhallowed wizardry. A moment later, as the receding coach clattered faintly over the Muddy Dock Bridge, Weeden appeared; and the raiders fell silently into military order in the street, shouldering the firelocks, fowling-pieces, or whaling harpoons which they had with them. Weeden and Smith were with the party, and of the deliberating citizens there were present for active service Captain Whipple, the leader, Captain Eseh Hopkins, John Carter, President Manning, Captain Mathewson, and Dr. Bowen; together with Moses Brown, who had come up at the eleventh hour though absent from the preliminary session in the tavern. All these freemen and their hundred sailors began the long march without delay, grim and a trifle apprehensive as they left the Muddy Dock behind and mounted the gentle rise of Broad Street toward the Pawtuxet Road.
An hour and a quarter later the raiders arrived, as previously agreed, at the Fenner farmhouse; where they heard a final report on their intended victim. He had reached his farm more than half an hour before, and the strange light had soon afterward shot once into the sky. There were no lights in any visible windows, but this was always the case of late. Even as this news was given another great glare arose toward the south, and the party realized that they had indeed come close to the scene of awesome and unnatural wonders. Captain Whipple now ordered his force to separate into three
divisions; one of twenty men under Eleazar Smith to strike across to the shore and guard the landing-place against possible reinforcements for Curwen until summoned by a messenger for desperate service; a second of twenty men under Captain Eseh Hopkins to steal down into the river valley behind the Curwen farm and demolish with axes or gunpowder the oaken door in the high, steep bank; and the third to close in on the house and adjacent buildings themselves. Of this last division one third was to be led by Captain Mathewson to the cryptical stone edifice with high narrow windows, another third to follow Captain Whipple himself to the main farmhouse, and the remaining third to preserve a circle around the whole group of buildings until summoned by a final emergency signal.
The river party would break down the hillside door at the sound of a single whistle-blast, waiting and capturing anything which might issue from the regions within. At the sound of two whistle blasts it would advance through the aperture to oppose the enemy or join the rest of the raiding contingent. The party at the stone building would accept these respective signals in an analogous manner; forcing an entrance at the first, and at the second descending whatever passage into the ground might be discovered, and joining the general or focal warfare expected to take place within the caverns. A third or emergency signal of three blasts would summon the immediate reserve from its general guard duty; its twenty men dividing equally and entering the unknown depths through both farmhouse and stone building. Captain Whipple's belief in the existence of catacombs was absolute, and he took no alternative into consideration when making his plans. He had with him a whistle of great power and shrillness and did not fear any mistaking or misunderstanding of signals. The final reserve at the landing, of course, was nearly out of the whistle's range; hence, would require a special messenger if needed for help. Moses Brown and John Carter went with Captain Hopkins to the river-bank, while President Manning was detailed with Captain Mathewson to the stone building. Dr Bowen, with Ezra Weeden, remained in Captain Whipple's party which was to storm the farmhouse itself. The attack was to begin as soon as a messenger from Captain Hopkins had joined Captain
Whipple to notify him of the river party's readiness. The leader would then deliver the loud single blast, and the various advance parties would commence their simultaneous attack on three points. Shortly before one A.M. the three divisions left the Fenner farmhouse; one to guard the landing, another to seek the river valley and the hillside door, and the third to subdivide and attend to the actual buildings of the Curwen farm.
Eleazar Smith, who accompanied the shore-guarding party, records in his diary an uneventful march and a long wait on the bluff by the bay; broken once by what seemed to be the distant sound of the signal whistle and again by a peculiar muffled blend of roaring and crying and a powder blast which seemed to come from the same direction. Later on one man thought he caught some distant gunshots, and still later Smith himself felt the throb of titanic thunderous words resounding in upper air. It was just before dawn that a single haggard messenger with wild eyes and a hideous unknown odor about his clothing appeared and told the detachment to disperse quietly to their homes and never again think or speak of the night's doings or of him who had been Joseph Curwen. Something about the bearing of the messenger carried a conviction which his mere words could never have conveyed; for though he was a seaman well known to many of them, there was something obscurely lost or gained in his soul which set him for evermore apart. It was the same later on when they met other old companions who had gone into that zone of horror. Most of them had lost or gained something imponderable and indescribable. They had seen or heard or felt something which was not for human creatures, and could not forget it. From them there was never any gossip, for to even the commonest of mortal instincts there are terrible boundaries. And from that single messenger the party at the shore caught a nameless awe which almost sealed their own lips. Very few are the rumors which ever came from any of them, and Eleazar Smith's diary is the
only written record which has survived from that whole expedition which set forth from the Sign of the Golden Lion under the Stars.
Charles Ward, however, discovered another vague sidelight in some Fenner correspondence which he found in New London, where he knew another branch of the family had lived. It seems that the Fenners, from whose house the doomed farm was distantly visible, had watched the departing columns of raiders; and had heard very clearly the angry barking of the Curwen dogs, followed by the first shrill blast which precipitated the attack. This blast had been followed by a repetition of the great shaft of light from the stone building, and in another moment, after a quick sounding of the second signal ordering a general invasion, there had come a subdued rattle of musketry followed by a horrible roaring cry which the correspondent Luke Fenner had represented in his epistle by the characters "Waaaahrrrrr—R'waaahrrr." This cry, however, had possessed a quality which no mere writing could convey, and the correspondent mentions that his mother fainted completely at the sound. It was later repeated less loudly, and further but more muffled evidences of gunfire ensued; together with a loud explosion of powder from the direction of the river. About an hour afterward all the dogs began to bay frightfully, and there were vague ground rumblings so marked that the candlesticks tottered on the mantelpiece. A strong smell of sulphur was noted; and Luke Fenner's father declared that he heard the third or emergency whistle signal, though the others failed to detect it. Muffled musketry sounded again, followed by a deep scream less piercing but even more horrible than those which had preceded it; a kind of throaty, nastily plastic cough or gurgle whose quality as a scream must have come more from its continuity and psychological import than from its actual acoustic value.
Then the flaming thing burst into sight at a point where the Curwen farm ought to lie, and the human cries of desperate and frightened men were heard. Muskets flashed and cracked, and the flaming
thing fell to the ground. A second flaming thing appeared, and a shriek of human origin was plainly distinguished. Fenner wrote that he could even gather a few words belched in frenzy: "Almighty, protect thy lamb!" Then there were more shots, and the second flaming thing fell. After that came silence for about three-quarters of an hour; at the end of which time little Arthur Fenner, Luke's brother, exclaimed that he saw "a red fog" going up to the stars from the accursed farm in the distance. No one but the child can testify to this, but Luke admits the significant coincidence implied by the panic of almost convulsive fright which at the same moment arched the backs and stiffened the fur of the three cats then within the room.
Five minutes later a chill wind blew up, and the air became suffused with such an intolerable stench that only the strong freshness of the sea could have prevented its being noticed by the shore party or by any wakeful souls in Pawtuxet village. This stench was nothing which any of the Fenners had ever encountered before, and produced a kind of clutching, amorphous fear beyond that of the tomb or the charnel-house. Close upon it came the awful voice which no hapless hearer will ever be able to forget. It thundered out of the sky like a doom, and windows rattled as its echoes died away. It was deep and musical; powerful as a bass organ, but evil as the forbidden books of the Arabs. What it said no man can tell, for it spoke in an unknown tongue, but this is the writing Luke Fenner set down to portray the daemoniac intonations: "DEESMEES—JESHET —BONEDOSEFEDUVEMA—ENITEMOSS." Not till the year 1919 did any soul link this crude transcript with anything else in mortal knowledge, but Charles Ward paled as he recognized what Mirandola had denounced in shudders as the ultimate horror among black magic's incantations.
An unmistakably human shout or deep chorused scream seemed to answer this malign wonder from the Curwen farm, after which the unknown stench grew complex with an added odor equally intolerable. A wailing distinctly different from the scream now burst out and was protracted ululantly in rising and falling paroxysms. At times it became almost articulate, though no auditor could trace any definite words; and at one point it seemed to verge toward the
confines of diabolic and hysterical laughter Then a yell of utter, ultimate fright and stark madness wrenched from scores of human throats; a yell which came strong and clear despite the depth from which it must have burst; after which darkness and silence ruled all things. Spirals of acrid smoke ascended to blot out the stars, though no flames appeared, and no buildings were observed to be gone or injured on the following day.
Toward dawn two frightened messengers with monstrous and unplaceable odor saturating their clothing knocked at the Fenner door and requested a keg of rum for which they paid very well indeed. One of them told the family that the affair of Joseph Curwen was over, and that the events of the night were not to be mentioned again. Arrogant as the order seemed, the aspect of him who gave it took away all resentment and lent it a fearsome authority; so that only these furtive letters of Luke Fenner, which he urged his Connecticut relative to destroy, remain to tell what was seen and heard. The non-compliance of that relative, whereby the letters were saved after all, has alone kept the matter from a merciful oblivion. Charles Ward had one detail to add as a result of a long canvass of Pawtuxet residents for ancestral traditions. Old Charles Slocum of that village said that there was known to his grandfather a queer rumor concerning a charred, distorted body found in the fields a week after the death of Joseph Curwen was announced. What kept the talk alive was the notion that this body, so far as could be seen in its burnt and twisted condition, was neither thoroughly human nor wholly allied to any animal which Pawtuxet folk had ever seen or read about.
Not one man who participated in that terrible raid could ever be induced to say a word concerning it, and every fragment of the vague data which survives comes from those outside the final fighting party. There is something frightful in the care with which these actual raiders destroyed each scrap which bore the least allusion to the matter
Eight sailors had been killed, but although their bodies were not produced their families were satisfied with the statement that a clash with customs officers had occurred. The same statement also covered the numerous cases of wounds, all of which were extensively bandaged and treated only by Dr. Jabez Bowen, who had accompanied the party. Hardest to explain was the nameless odor clinging to all the raiders, a thing which was discussed for weeks. Of the citizen leaders, Captain Whipple and Moses Brown were most severely hurt, and letters of their wives testify the bewilderment which their reticence and close guarding of their bandages produced. Psychologically every participant was aged, sobered, and shaken. It is fortunate that they were all strong men of action and simple, orthodox religionists, for with more subtle introspectiveness and mental complexity they would have fared ill indeed. President Manning was the most disturbed; but even he outgrew the darkest shadow, and smothered memories in prayers. Every man of those leaders had a stirring part to play in later years, and it is perhaps fortunate that this is so. Little more than a twelvemonth afterward Captain Whipple led the mob who burnt the revenue ship Gaspee, and in this bold act we may trace one step in the blotting out of unwholesome images.
There was delivered to the widow of Joseph Curwen a sealed leaden coffin of curious design, obviously found ready on the spot when needed, in which she was told her husband's body lay. He had, it was explained, been killed in a customs battle about which it was not politic to give details. More than this no tongue ever uttered of Joseph Curwen's end, and Charles Ward had only a single hint wherewith to construct a theory. This hint was the merest thread—a shaky underscoring of a passage in Jedediah Orne's confiscated letter to Curwen, partly copied in Ezra Weeden's handwriting. The copy was found in the possession of Smith's descendants; and we are left to decide whether Weeden gave it to his companion after the end, as a mute clue to the abnormality which had occurred, or whether, as is more probable, Smith had it before, and added the underscoring himself from what he had managed to extract from his friend by shrewd guessing and adroit cross-questioning. The underlined passage is merely this:
I say to you againe, doe not call up Any that you cannot put downe; by the which I meane, Any that can in turn calle up somewhat against you, whereby your powerfullest Devices may not be of use. Ask of the Lesser, lest the Greater shall not wish to Answer, and shall commande more than you.
In the light of this passage, and reflecting on what last unmentionable allies a beaten man might try to summon in his direst extremity, Charles Ward may well have wondered whether any citizen of Providence killed Joseph Curwen.
The deliberate effacement of every memory of the dead man from Providence life and annals was vastly aided by the influence of the raiding leaders. They had not at first meant to be so thorough, and had allowed the widow and her father and child to remain in ignorance of the true conditions; but Captain Tillinghast was an astute man, and soon uncovered enough rumors to whet his horror and cause him to demand that his daughter and grand-daughter change their name, burn the library and all remaining papers, and chisel the inscription from the slate slab above Joseph Curwen's grave. He knew Captain Whipple well, and probably extracted more hints from that bluff mariner than anyone else ever gained respecting the end of the accursed sorcerer.
From that time on the obliteration of Curwen's memory became increasingly rigid, extending at last by common consent even to the town records and files of the Gazette. It can be compared in spirit only to the hush that lay on Oscar Wilde's name for a decade after his disgrace, and in extent only to the fate of that sinful King of Runagur in Lord Dunsany's tale, whom the gods decided must not only cease to be, but must cease ever to have been.
Mrs. Tillinghast, as the widow became known after 1772, sold the house in Olney Court and resided with her father in Power's Lane till her death in 1817. The farm at Pawtuxet, shunned by every living soul, remained to molder through the years; and seemed to decay with unaccountable rapidity. By 1780 only the stone and brickwork were standing, and by 1800 even these had fallen to shapeless heaps. None ventured to pierce the tangled shrubbery on the river-
