Eliza

By Mica Le Fox

Newly married Rebecca and Mark move into their renovated Victorian villa and she immediately senses a presence – a personality.
At the housewarming party Rebecca, a little drunk to be fair, is fixing herself another glass of wine when someone comes up behind her and, astoundingly, presses close and begins to seduce her in full view of those in the room. At first, she thinks it’s her husband, but then she feels the soft curves of a female body against her back and realises that the person with a hand inside her underwear is most definitely a woman. But she’s bewitched, hopelessly aroused and can barely stand as her body responds naturally to caresses like she’s never known before - and there, against the island unit in her kitchen, she is brought to a shuddering orgasm. She turns to face her seducer but actually faces... no one.
The thing is, Eliza resides in this house. She has done since long before Rebecca. She is tall and beautiful and casts her glamour around the young wife in a soft, female erotic dream. But beware pretty Rebecca, Eliza’s past is full of unhappiness and tragedy – and seduction can turn to spite if unrequited.
Eliza is a story of erotic possession... a loving, sensual manifestation that turns into a tempestuous, jealous wraith. It’s a lesbian love triangle in the here and now, and a history that gradually reveals itself with terrifying consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mica Le Fox
• Release date: Aug 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005505943

Mica Le Fox

Totally out of my depth at an academic school I mercifully discovered I could draw and blagged my way into a career in advertising and visual arts. So far, so not too bad. It's been OK, but writing has been part of my remit and I've always itched to do more, so here I am, blagging my way into book writing. It's all fiction. Fiction is often way better than real life and I spend most of my time thinking things up. But I will never try to make you accept the completely unbelievable. If you watch, say, science fiction on TV, it's alright to 'suspend your disbelief' - I do - but not to accept the unbelievable. I hope my books will introduce to you human characters (mostly) with ordinary human emotions and fallibilities. I especially like fallibilities... they are the most interesting thing about us all and certainly the best to write about. I want you to have a booky window on people sometimes making mistakes... maybe sometimes getting it right as well. And I will try to make you feel what they do, you know, like you are in their shoes... well, unless they're undressed of course. Whether I do all this well is another matter, I only write these stories so I have no idea. Anyway, it's for you to decide. Buy the books and let me know. Ha! Blagging again.

Book preview

Eliza

By Mica Le Fox

Copyright 2022 Mica Le Fox

Published by Mica Le Fox at Smashwords

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As the angular patch of light grew in strength on the floor of the six-by-eight-foot room, the occupants of the narrow bed kept their eyes fixed on each other.

A door clunked in the corridor and they heard footsteps approaching. The younger woman flinched slightly and her breath caught in her throat.

The elder cupped her hands around her face and smiled tenderly, encouragingly. She leaned forward and kissed her.

"My sweet girl. I love you dearly and will always love you. Remember this... love such as we feel does not just end. Wait for me and I’ll find you."

Chapter one

The moment she walked in she sensed a presence. Not that she was frightened by it - on the contrary, she was strangely uplifted by it. Rebecca had sensed atmospheres in places throughout her life, some stronger than others and occasionally so strong she had to leave the room, but in fact many houses had what she described as ‘a personality’.

47 Calverton Crescent most definitely had a personality.

Interestingly, it did not prevent her from buying the house. Mark had not the slightest notion of the house’s personality and agreed wholeheartedly to the purchase. It was, after all, a steal. Rebecca did not mention her feeling about the property to him - indeed she never mentioned her sensitivity, if that is what it was, about any building they had been in together. Not the easiest thing to explain, she had learned to conceal it from others, even though on occasion she felt compelled to act as if nothing was happening when actually she knew someone or something was standing in the space next to her.

She had never experienced a manifestation that another person present had also witnessed. So if these ‘personalities’ were spirits - ghosts - people that had died and ‘not moved on’ as she’d often heard it explained, did they choose, she wondered, to manifest themselves to her rather than others, or was she simply ‘eavesdropping’ into their world? They were clearly difficult questions to get definitive answers for.

Wandering from room to room, she inspected the progress of the build. Rebecca loved this stage of a project - the major works all in place and final fit under way, she could now properly assess the spaces she’d have to play with in her designs for each interior.

The house was, in fact, a designer’s dream. A Victorian villa, standing in a crescent of beautiful houses containing generously proportioned rooms with crafted embellishments, built for newly wealthy merchants and bankers in the eighteen-eighties as part of a development ripple to allow easy access to the City of London. But later in the mid-twentieth century, with the area falling out of fashion and becoming run-down, number 47 had been converted into four flats and let out relatively cheaply to students and new immigrants who were either reluctant or could not be bothered to pursue the landlord for maintenance as the house gradually fell into disrepair.

Now, with regentrification sweeping through the boroughs lying to the east of the City, the villa was unmasked as a gem and Mark and Rebecca Page could hardly believe their good fortune as they snapped it up at auction for a bargain price. But the work needed to renovate was not for the fainthearted and as the auction bidding had increased, they found their only real competition were developers with a need to make a profit and in the end the couple were able to outbid them.

. . .

She was met in the kitchen-diner by Stanley, the build manager, who let her know that the kitchen fitting would take a couple of days longer than they’d planned as one of his team was off sick. Rebecca enquired after him.

With just a moment’s hesitation, Stanley said, not really sure what’s going on, but I may have to replace Richard completely. He raised his eyebrows in mild exasperation. I’m kind of getting the feeling he doesn’t want to work on the project.

Rebecca put down her bag. Really? What’s up?

Dunno. Richard’s always been a bit... spookable. He loses it sometimes.

You mean he’s spooked in here?

Stanley took in her expression and backtracked. Look, no need to read anything into what Richard does. He’s a good carpenter but he’s never going to be rich because he’s off his bloody head sometimes. It affects his work.

Rebecca experienced a slight feeling of uneasiness. What’s his problem in here?

Stanley hesitated, then continued warily. Well, he says he senses an atmosphere here.

What kind of an atmosphere?

You would not expect Richard to be specific about his feelings. He just says he gets a bad feeling sometimes - and he smells perfume.

Rebecca was now very curious and a little concerned. Someone else had sensed the ‘personality’.

Stanley saw the look on her face. I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t worry Mrs Page, Richard won’t be back. I’m going to bring in a replacement tomorrow.

What kind of perfume?

He has no idea about perfume. All he says is it’s not one that you use and it wafts about during the day when you’re not here. Old fashioned he said it was, like his granny used to wear. He broke into a cheeky grin and joked to lighten the conversation. And it’s none of the lads I hasten to add. I mean we’re builders after all and have a reputation to keep up.

Hmm. You mean Richard thinks the house is haunted?

I mean Richard has an overactive imagination, not to mention an overactive sense of smell.

The builders left early for the day, unable to progress without a joiner on-site, leaving Rebecca to drift through the house alone, taking dimensions and sketching room layouts. Despite Stanley’s logical explanation for Richard’s imaginings, Rebecca had entered each room with an anticipation of perfume drifting on the air and perhaps the accompanying uneasiness that Richard had experienced. But as she sipped her Americano, bought from the café on the main road, she felt not dread, but really quite light-hearted. It was as if she were a child, afraid of the dark and someone had given her a hug and said, don’t worry, there’s nothing to be afraid of here.

Two weeks later, Mark and Rebecca moved into 47 Calverton Crescent.

. . .

Are you drinking herbal tea?

Rebecca laughed, but she knew what he meant. They lay sweating on the mattress – a temporary bed while they were still in mid-project – drinking expensive wine from paper cups while they regained their breath.

I mean, you have to take it easy on your old man, Rebs. After all I’m nearly thirty and I’m having difficulty keeping up with you.

They had already made love three times… her libido powering into him like a train, energetic, forceful and unrelenting, dragging him back to fulfil her unabating need when he flagged.

In reality, she was surprising even herself. Since moving in she had felt… charged… up several notches on the horny dial. Not that she was normally uninterested, but recently she found herself turned on far more than normal.

Something in the Dalston water? It was more like there was an erotic charge in the house. She’d be sitting quietly, doing something completely innocuous like reading a paper or watching television when she’d sense the atmosphere of the room change. Not like the temperature dropping or a feeling of oppressiveness that people often associate with the onset of a manifestation. Quite the opposite. This was exquisitely pleasurable - a real sense of the personality making itself known to her or, incredibly, coming on to her. There was no direct contact involved, but she became spontaneously aroused as though having a deliciously sexy fantasy in her half-sleep, but she couldn’t relate what it was about afterwards.

These trance-like fantasies could happen at any time, day or night. Sometimes, like now, enhancing her sex-life with Mark, sometimes inappropriate and hugely embarrassing, like when chatting to friends or builders in the house.

It was, she thought, both unnerving and dangerously exciting. Never before had she had to leave the supper table in the middle of a convivial meal with friends to rush to the bathroom, unzip her jeans and bring herself to a heaving, cry-stifling orgasm - then look into the mirror as she regained her composure thinking, what the hell am I doing?

. . .

‘Liskeard’ was the colour. It was a beautiful and complex blue with influences of grey and green... but yes, it was powerful. She thought the space could carry it - the room they would use during the day and it was filled with morning light. She chose it because it would make your spirits soar. But Mark had said, Christ, that’s... very blue.

Rebecca painted a large swathe of the emulsion on the wall next to the window. Never mind those little sample pots - they were never enough to let you experience the colour properly. Once the paint had dried, she’d really be able to see the effect on the room. She put the lid back on the tin and went to wash the brush out in the boot room sink. Walking back into the kitchen she stopped to admire its new cabinetry and ran her hand along the grey quartzite surface.

She heard Gary, the plumber, call out from the hall. We’re off now Mrs Page. See you tomorrow. Then she heard the door close behind them.

Unable to resist checking on how much they’d achieved during the day, she took the stairs and walked into the bathroom. Rebecca admitted she was finicky and soon had her tape measure on the shower screen, checking for accuracy of fit before standing back and admiring its expensive glass and dull metallic fittings.

After ten minutes she went back downstairs to check on the drying paint in the morning-room, but was stopped dead in the doorway as she looked into the room. The 2.5 litre tin of blue emulsion was lying on its side in the middle of its spilt contents, which she could see had been emptied onto the floor. She could not help but think it had been done to create the maximum impact, spiralling out from a point in the centre of the room. Footprints could be seen in the paint, appearing as steps seeming to wander in the spillage, then walking off towards the door... but at the door, they stopped.

What, you don’t like the colour? Irritated, she said the words aloud to the room.

Looking around the room, she waited for some kind of response. After all, this was a clear declaration of disapproval by whoever’s footprints paced to the door. But the silence lengthened and eventually she went down to the cellar to find some cleaning materials.

Clearing up the mess took an hour and covered her with splashes and daubs of blue. Luckily the floorboards still had to be sanded, so remaining traces would disappear in time. Curiously, she told Mark that she had upended the pot herself.

She changed the colour to ‘London Mist’.

. . .

Meeting Mark had changed her life in many ways. Firstly, it was his energetic self-confidence that impressed her. He’d appeared in the doorway of the offices where Rebecca and her two team members were working on creating interiors for the publishers that were moving in. Striding across the large open-plan floor space, he’d deposited doughnuts and coffee onto the only free table and announced a coffee break.

Rebecca was twenty-three and talented enough to have gained her first job, straight from university, as a junior interior designer working for a stylish architects and space-design practice based in fashionable Hoxton, East London.

Mark had been twenty-eight with the confidence of a maturing trading floor operator and he’d set his sights on her following a twelve-floor lift journey together that he’d reluctantly exited when it stopped at his own offices, two floors below her clients’ new premises in the Leadenhall Street office block. When he got out, Rebecca smiled to herself at his unconcealed attraction for her.

It was fair to say he’d made a big impression on her with his clean good looks and easy charm, and although proud of her down to earth practicality as well as artistry, Rebecca found herself enjoying stepping into Mark’s world. For all her cautious practicality and conscientious awareness of the inequalities of society, getting out of Mark’s sporty Audi and into the most chic restaurants in London was quite a thrill.

At first, her self-respect had made her steel herself in the face of a four-hundred-pound dinner bill and suggest they split it, but he’d no more have gone Dutch than gone naked, brushing off the cost of dining out as ‘just petty cash’. When you’re a partner in your firm, he’d said, you can take me for fish and chips. Rebecca had laughed, but thinking about it later, she’d rankled slightly at his underlying implication that even reaching the top of her game would literally not allow her to dine at his table unless he paid for it.

Even so, she had the effect of reining him in from some of his more extravagant habits - once, for example, confining his losses at a card game in a west end casino when he finally took notice of her horrified expression as eight-hundred-and-fifty pounds worth of his chips sat in front of the banker.

It’s OK, Babe. Mark had laughed at her open mouth as he’d turned the card and bust yet again. You have to have balls and stand your ground when the shit is flying. Things will come good again.

Rebecca had then stood hers. No more, Mark.

He’d huffed in exasperation, but he had left the table. Rebecca wondered about his success as a stock market trader and portfolio manager. How did you calculate the benefits of ‘having balls’ against knowing when to take shelter in a storm? But she admitted the element of danger was attractive as well. It may not