Coming Home
From Torg Adventure
Coming Home
Bi/lesbian love affair with a ghost.
Jenny waved the pheasant wing over the burning sage bundle in her hand. Herb scented smoke wafted toward the ceiling. She didn't need the smoke to chase the ghosts away any more, but it made the clients calmer. She had tried it with sage and without it; the ghosts listened just as well either way. People dealing with reluctant spirits for the first time have enough reasons to be nervous that every little thing might help. So many rituals exist around exorcising the spirits of the dead for just that reason: they reassure the mundane folk that the invisible stuff the exorcist is really doing will be effective.
Jenny walked through the house, leaving a trail of smoke behind her. Dora and Peter Maxwell huddled together three steps behind her; they had the harried look of people not getting enough sleep. Probably the ghost or worrying about the ghost. They had a nice house, and, if the description of the ghost's activities were accurate -- and people rarely leave much out once they start talking to an exorcist, Jenny completely understood why they'd want to get rid of the uninvited guest. Finding ectoplasm in all your pots in the kitchen or being woken at 3:47 A.M. every few days by ethereal death screams could really put a crimp in your week.
When she walked into the second bedroom upstairs, the temperature dropped twenty degrees. She'd found the spirit. "Peter. Dora. It's here. Do you feel that chill running up your spine? That's the ghost's psychic emanations."
"Y-yes," they both said with nearly the same stutter. Jenny looked them over. They were pretty spooked, even with all the prep and sage.
Jenny rang the small silver bell she'd been holding quiet until now. This tool was directed at the ghosts, as well as the clients. It got their attention. "Spirit of this house, attend my voice," Jenny said with all the voice training her high school debate coach could impart. She pushed her psychic awareness out into the room. Her vision was drawn to the closet; she thought she caught sight of an ethereal head poking through the door. The bell had worked.
She went to the closet and stood a pace away. "Come on out. I saw you." The dead hate when you can see them, but they also like it; they know they've found company.
She stepped into the room as bold as Falstaff. She was beautiful with shiny brown hair almost to her ass, a thin night gown covering her lithe body. Compact boobs and narrow hips covered in a
