The Last Handful of Clover - Book 1: The Hereafter

1.41 The Well

June 6, 3:00 pm

It started in his right hand.

As Howard's soul deflated, his fingers were no longer his. It was as if his own fingers were withering within the shell of his hand, yet the glove of flesh he left behind stayed whole. The spirit part of his hand curled in on itself like a withering flower and withdrew up his arm. The rupture spread to his other hand, and then his feet, and then with terrifying rapidity, his whole soul fell in on itself like a collapsing star, and he felt himself falling away from his own body the way a rotten apple would fall from a tree.

This was not the first time he had experienced possession. But it was no less terrifying for that.

When his soul struck the bottom of the black pit, it uncurled itself and he felt almost like himself again. But now he was alone, and only dimly aware that he had left his flesh behind. The body that was left, the one he now controlled, he instinctively knew, was just a construct of his mind. His real body was distant, far above him.

And yet it was still his body. He could feel everything. He could feel the hard cot under his ass, the cold metal his fingers squeezed, and even the stale, industrial smell of the air in his cell. He felt it all, but he could control nothing.

His eyes popped open, but it was not Howard Gunderson who demanded that they open. He could see everything. They were his eyes, but not his eyes. He was still locked in his cell, and yet he was now also at the bottom of a well. It was a dark stone pit that was wet and cold, with unclean creatures crawling on the dank walls and the sound of vermin writhing near his feet. The world he had left behind was somewhere way up there, in that circle of light far beyond his reach.

His mind wanted to rebel at this dual awareness. How could he see and feel everything in the body he had left behind, and yet also be here, confined and locked away in this dark place? He reached out his spirit hand and felt the cold wall in front of him, and the moisture and filth under his fingers.

He tried to reach out his other hand, his actual hand of flesh and blood, to touch the cot, or the far wall of the prison cell, but it refused to obey his command.

Instead, he felt his hand moving at the command of something, someone, else. Then he felt that hand touching his face. The touch felt repulsive, like the unwelcome hand of a stranger. It explored his cheeks. The hand forced open his mouth and put a finger on his tongue. He tasted the stale salt and sweat and wanted to bite it, to force it away. But all he could do was flail at the dark walls of the pit.

And then the hand crept lower. He felt the hand reach through the gap under his orange shirt and caress his naked belly, reaching higher to toy with his nipples, which sent an icy shiver through Howard's soul. Then the hand went lower, sliding down, and finally under the band of his white jockey shorts.

When the hand grabbed his cock, he at first felt familiar pleasure, but then pain as the hand squeezed. And then the violation of it overwhelmed him. He tried to recoil away from the touch, tried to force the hand out of his pants. But it just squeezed and stroked him until he was hard, his body defying his mind and responding to the touch. Then the hand continued lower, over his balls, alternately stroking and squeezing, which caused waves of pain and pleasure to flow over Howard, deep in his well.

When the hand went deeper, and then slid a finger into his ass, he thought he might go mad.

But then he heard a voice.

It wasn't his voice. His voice would have been screaming and protesting. And yet it was his voice. He recognized the sound, and knew the voice was speaking aloud in the cell, using his own mouth, his own breath. The voice was calm, quiet, and despite the strangeness of it, the voice quelled his panic long enough to listen.