A Ghost Story
© 2001...Rory V. PascualAUTHOR'S NOTE: Last month, ghost stories in abundance were shared on the HIGHLANDER MAVERICKS list. Strange timing...I mean, aren't ghost stories meant to be dished out during Halloween, and not the "Love Month"? If I'm not mistaken, this particular out-of-season spookfest was started by my listsib and infamous HLM Birthday Beagle, SHARON CROSS. Due to serious RL concerns, I was unable to participate. Well, better late than never, I always say. This particular tale of horror was once narrated to me during my days as a physician. Since then, it has become a BIG favorite of mine. Somehow, I wondered what would happen if Methos were to tell this little yarn to a certain smoky-eyed Highlander.
This tale is for SHARON. Happy Birthday, my dear Maverick! Hope you enjoy this story as much as I did writing it!!
"No!"
"Oh, come on, Mac! Please? I swear you're going to love it!"
"NO!"
"Duncan, it's just a story!"
"N-O! NO!"
"We're missing out on a great opportunity here. With this blackout, the ambience is perfect for a ghost story."
"What part of 'No!' did you not understand? Your bloody ambience is the reason why I don't like it! Where the hell are you anyway, you old fart? You're making me nervous, hovering around in the dark like this!"
There was a flash of light. Duncan almost jumped as his lover's impish face popped right before his eyes. The shadows and the flickering flame of the lighter made Methos look downright cadaverous.
"Give me that!" The Scot snatched the lighter out of the Old Man's hand, cursing under his breath as his palm was burned.
Methos couldn't help the grin that quirked up the corners of his mouth as he watched the Highlander flick the lighter back on and light the wick of the sole candlestick on the table. Looking down at the chessboard, Duncan groaned, seeing the chess pieces strewn on top of it.
The two Immortals were enjoying a little game when the electricity conked out, probably because of the blizzard that was raging outside. It was while he was searching for his lighter inside his pockets that Methos came up with the brilliant suggestion of telling ghost stories. What he never expected was the Scot's vehement objection to the idea.
*Surely Duncan is not afraid of ghosts!* thought Methos in amusement.
Seeing the Highlander about to set up the board again, the ancient quickly swept the pieces back inside the box.
"Why did you do that for?" Duncan growled menacingly.
"Duncan, you're not afraid of ghosts now, are you?" teased Methos, winking.
Before the Scot could utter a retort, the Old Man grabbed his lover's hands. "Why, Duncan! You're trembling!"
Duncan snatched his hands back. "I FEEL cold, that's why!"
"Are you SURE it's because of the cold?"
The Highlander let out a most undignified snort. Plopping down on the cushions he had lain on the carpet, he declared, "Go on, Methos! Start telling your horror story. I'll show you who's afraid of ghosts."
Methos knew a bluff when he heard one. He sidled over to the younger man, putting the candlestick on the table between them. "Okay! Like I said, I'm sure you're going to love this story."
"I can't wait!" Duncan muttered under his breath.
The ancient settled comfortably on a cushion, making certain that his face was at a convenient angle with the light of the candle. *After all,* he mused, a smirk on his lips, *isn't one of the great rules of drama to start small and then build,* especially *the suspense?*
"This story happened in a veteran's hospital in the Philippines," Methos began his narrative. "Built a few months before the Japanese Occupation of the country, it was constructed in such a bizarre manner that it resembled a giant octopus or a confusing maze. Its connecting arms constitute the various wards. They designed it this way so that if one ward is bombed, the others would escape unscathed. In one of the older wards was the hospital's morgue, and this is where our story takes place."
"The morgue, huh?" the Highlander remarked dryly. "Why am I not surprised?"
Methos ignored the sarcastic comment. "There was a new mortician at the morgue. He was like you actually -- young, quite handsome, a very likeable fellow. But he was poor, just like many Filipinos at that time. With the Japanese already knocking on the country's doorstep, it was a time of Depression, and everyone feared the war that was sure to come. Sure enough, one day, the bombings began. Before long, Manila was occupied by the Japanese. Wounded soldiers and civilians alike started pouring in to the hospital, many of them ending up in the morgue.
"One of these hapless victims was a rich Spaniard, who lived in the walled district of Intramuros. This old señor was out on the town, having just come from an opera at the Metropolitan Theater, when the bombs started falling from the sky. He was crushed to death when a wall collapsed on top of him.
"Our young mortician was working the night shift when this Spaniard was wheeled into the morgue. Despite his bloodied, mangled form, the Spanish senor was still a sight to behold in his fine evening dress clothes and his red velvet-lined hooded cloak, draped over his crushed body. But what caught the mortician's eye was the ring on the man's finger. A gold ring with a blood red ruby set in the center.
"Now, this mortician was really an honest chap, but his mother was seriously ill and he had no money to bring her to the hospital for treatment. His pittance of a salary was only enough to put food on the table and to pay the bills. The sight of that ring was a temptation the poor fellow found hard to resist. So, he took the Spaniard's hand in his grasp and started tugging on the ring. But then, it was stuck tight to the corpse's ring finger. The damned ring just wouldn't come off. He tried everything, even placed grease on the man's finger, but he couldn't get the ring off.
"After thirty minutes of trying, out of sheer desperation, the mortician gripped the ring tightly in his fist. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and pulled with all his might."
Methos paused for a moment, lowering his eyes to the floor, waiting for a response from his reluctant audience of one.
Sure enough, Duncan asked impatiently, "Well, what happened? Did he get the ring or not?"
"Oh, he got the ring all right!" The ancient lifted his head, a devilish grin on his face, at the same time opening his hand to reveal a rook. "But the old señor's finger was still attached to it. The mortician somehow ripped the finger from the cadaver's hand!"
There was horror and revulsion on the Highlander's face at this revelation. Enrapt by the story and his imagination already running wild, to him, the chess piece lying in Methos' palm looked like a finger. "So, what did he do next?" Duncan asked breathlessly.
"What else?" said Methos in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "He sawed the finger off and sold the ring at a pawnshop. But after this, weird things started to happen at the hospital."
"What...what kind of weird things?"
"The nurses and doctors have reported seeing a man in evening dress clothes roaming the wards of the hospital at night. Perhaps roaming was not the right term. One of the nurses swore that he was *floating*, his feet never touching the floor. No one ever saw his face. The hood of his red velvet-lined cloak was always pulled over his head. This...gentleman...was never seen in the same ward twice. One evening, he was in the surgical ward. The following night, he was in the nursery. It was obvious that the man was looking for something. What it was he was searching for, no one knew. When anyone attempted to follow him, this gentleman would just vanish into the hallway without a trace. Irony of ironies, only one person in the hospital didn't know about the ward hauntings.
"Certainly you don't mean the mortician?" Duncan exclaimed in disbelief.
"One and the same. He went on leave for about a week to care for his sick mother. When he finally returned, the staff had grown accustomed to the hospital's night visitor that no one bothered to tell him about the specter roaming the wards."
Methos took a deep breath. Slowly, he stood up, taking the candlestick with him. Duncan glanced suspiciously at his lover through narrowed eyes, wondering what the Old Man was up to. But Methos merely poured himself a glass of cold champagne from the bar.
Not sitting down, the ancient continued, "The mortician was on graveyard shift that night. It was midnight, and he was heading back to the morgue after a late dinner in the cafeteria. Just as he entered the ward, the swinging doors closing behind him, he was blasted by a gust of cold air. But there were no windows in that particular wing of the hospital. The ward itself was deathly still. Not a sound could be heard, even from the main hallway he just came from. A single light bulb cast a dim glow upon the corridor. At the very end of it, standing right before the doors of the morgue, was the figure of a man.
"At first, the mortician thought it was one of the physicians. But as he slowly approached, he saw that it was not a doctor. The man was dressed in elegant evening dress clothes, a velvet cloak draped over his broad shoulders, its hood covering his face. The mortician assumed it was just a trick of the light, but he swore that where the man's eyes should be were two gleaming red dots."
A smile curled up Methos' mouth as he observed the Highlander. Duncan was sitting up straight, his entire body tense. Although he knew that the older man was at the bar behind him, the Scot couldn't bring himself to look back.
"Soon, the mortician was standing before the gentleman in black," Methos went on. "This man was certainly tall, the mortician thought. About a head taller than him. With a bow, he greeted the man politely, 'Good evening, sir! Can I help you?' To this query, the gentleman replied, 'Perhaps you can.'"
The ancient deliberately lowered his voice, the tone assuming a cold, menacing quality.
" 'How may I assist you, sir?' "
" 'I lost something here. I'm looking for it.' "
" 'Sir, what is it that you lost?' "
" 'A ring. A ring with a blood red ruby.' "
As he spoke, Methos inched closer towards the Highlander. Laying the candle on the night table, he could clearly see that Duncan's body was as taut as a bow string. Beads of sweat were forming at his temples. The ancient knew that if he were to confront the younger man, Duncan's face would be pale, the pupils of his sweet brown doe eyes dilated with fear. Methos resisted the urge.
"The mortician was startled when he heard that reply," the Old Man continued. "Only he and he alone knew about that ruby. Swallowing hard, he said, 'Have you checked with the lobby? Perhaps someone found it and left it with the receptionist.'"
"But the gentleman answered, 'No. I did not lose it carelessly.' " " 'Then...what happened to it?' "
" 'It was stolen from me.' "
The ancient heard the soft gasp from the young man before him. Methos rubbed an ice cube he had taken from his wine glass briskly in his hands. He then set his glass down on the table beside the candlestick. Methos didn't speak, allowing the suspense to build, as he eased closer and closer towards the petrified Scot. He was right behind the Highlander and, still, Duncan didn't notice him, caught as he was in the chilling grip of the tale.
Though his hair was standing on end, it was Duncan himself who broke the silence. "The ring...who...who...stole it?"
At that moment, the window banged open and a gust of icy wind blew the candle out. That same instant, with his hands cold and moist, Methos gripped Duncan's cheeks, roaring, #"YOU!"#
An ear-piercing shriek reverberated throughout the loft. Before Methos knew what was happening, the Highlander dropped to the floor in a dead faint.
~~~~~
Duncan awoke on a smooth, cold surface. *A morgue's table?* he thought in alarm. But then, he remembered where he was...Seacouver, the loft, the blackout, Methos, and what his lover had done. *Damn you, Old Man! I'll get you for this!*
However, the Scot couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. Even the startling revelation that he was now naked was not enough to will his eyelids to flutter open.
"A ring for a ring," a smooth voice whispered in his ear.
"This isn't funny anymore, Methos." Despite the strength of his words, Duncan's voice trembled as he spoke.
"A ring for a ring," that insidious voice whispered again.
"But I don't have a ring. It's just a blasted story!"
"My ring..."
Exasperated, the Highlander declared, "All right, all right! You should have told me right from the start that you're feeling horny again, you dirty Old Man. Okay, I'll go along with your little fantasy scenario! Yes, I stole your ring, and I ripped off your finger from your hand along with it. I'm sorry I did it, but my mother's sick and I needed the money to bring her to the hospital. What must I do as reparation for the crime I have committed against you? Tell me what I must do to calm your angry spirit!"
In answer, a firm but frigid body lay on top of him. Duncan hissed in surprise, "DAMN IT, METHOS! YOU'RE LIKE ICE!" He shuddered all over.
"As cold as the gold band of the ring that you had taken from me," Methos replied with an amused chuckle.
Clammy hands caressed his flanks, causing a delicious shiver of anticipation to run up the Scot's spine. *You are one kinky bastard, Methos!*
Pulling that frigid body close to him, Duncan said in a voice husky with desire, "But metal can be warmed, heated in the blaze of a furnace."
"Yes," answered Methos, pressing eager, cold lips upon the Highlander's full mouth. "That is true! Oh, so true!"
"Let me warm you up then," muttered Duncan invitingly.
After that, there was no need for words. The Scot embraced his lover, warming that icy flesh with the fire of his lips and tongue. His hands rubbed over that body, drawing heat from the friction of skin against skin.
The Highlander gasped as freezing lips suckled upon his nipples, turning the peaks into hard, sensitive pebbles with every frigid lick of that fiendish tongue and the playful nipping of ice cold teeth.
Duncan couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up inside him. "Methos, how did you get so damned cold? Have you been walking naked in the blizzard?"
"Not really," the ancient mumbled, delighted by the fervent motions of the beautiful body beneath him. But there was also a trace of regret in his voice. "It's just that I've been deprived of human contact for so long."
"Really! It's been only two days."
"No. For me, it's been an eternity."
Duncan's hand found the Old Man's cock. It didn't surprise the Scot to discover that it was as cold and stiff as a slab of bologna. "You're right," he whispered, smiling. "It HAS been an eternity." That ice cold erection prodded hesitantly at the circular opening between his legs.
"May I? Please?" Methos asked breathlessly. "A ring for a ring?"
The Scot parted his thighs, laying his legs on the older man's shoulders. "Be my guest!"
Duncan moaned as the ancient's cock pushed at the tight ring of muscle. A cry was drawn from his throat as the constriction was breached, that cold, hard head striking his pleasure zone. The lines of erotic battle crossed, the two men bucked against each other -- Methos thrusting hard into Duncan's tender flesh while the Highlander took that demanding erection deeper and deeper inside him. Fire and ice dueled for supremacy.
But in the end, neither hot nor cold could be felt, the pleasure, the ecstasy overwhelming all else. When the peak was reached, the seed they spilled surrendered to the temperature of the body it fell upon -- the Highlander's fluids cooling to a congealed sheen on Methos' abdomen, the ancient's seed warmed by the furnace of Duncan's channel.
Before Duncan succumbed to blissful slumber, there was a red spark that penetrated through the slits of his closed eyelids. As he stretched out languorously on the table, something cold was laid in the hollow of his navel.
"A ring for a ring," he heard his beloved say. "You have earned it."
~~~~~
Methos was shocked to say the least when his lover collapsed at his feet. He didn't intend to take the joke this far. How was he to know that Duncan MacLeod -- fearless Immortal and honored son of the Chieftain of the Clan MacLeod -- was scared of ghosts!
Panicking, the ancient groped for his wine glass, hoping to awaken his lover with a sprinkle of cold champagne upon his face. What his fingers closed around was the lighter. But as he lit the candle, an astonishing sight greeted him.
Duncan was carefully being stripped of his clothing by snake-like wisps of mist. First, the Highlander's sweater and his shirt came off. This was followed by a tug on the shoes and socks. Last but not least, his slacks and briefs slid down his long legs, leaving Duncan as bare as a babe.
The white cloud lifted the Scot into the air, laying him on top of the living room table. He heard his lover speak, but the words were so soft that he couldn't make out what the younger man said. At first, there was fear and a bit of anger on Duncan's face. But then, a sweet smile crossed the Highlander's lips and he whispered the ancient's name. Looking on in shock, Methos saw his lover raise his arms and embrace the mist hovering above him.
*By the Gods,* Methos thought in horror, *Duncan thinks it's me who's making love to him!*
The minutes passed and all the ancient could do was stand and watch helplessly as Duncan gave his body to the seductive succubus on top of him. Strangely enough, there was something arousing about the entire scene unfolding before his eyes.
Lost in the throes of passion, Duncan moaned, moving with graceful undulations, eagerly responding to the desires being elicited by the amorphous being floating above him. Methos saw depressions pitting the Scot's skin where fingers should be. Those sweet little nipples were nipped and pulled to tautness by invisible lips. Even the circles of the areolae were drawn up into the mist, sucked again and again by an unseen, ravenous mouth. He saw the Highlander's hand close around empty space. At the same time, his lover's cock rose to its full length. Urging that invisible rod to the region between his thighs, Duncan raised his legs, spreading them wide apart. Those long, graceful appendages were actually suspended in mid-air. Methos' eyes widened as the Scot's rosebud slowly opened, revealing the moist, silky channel within. The ancient was horrified and mesmerized at the same time, watching Duncan's ass tighten and relax reflexively around the invisible shaft that was penetrating him. When the Scot came, his semen coated the underpart of the specter above him. Methos saw milky cum spill into Duncan's ass.
The bizarre coupling over at last, Duncan let out a blissful sigh as he stretched out on the table. Something materialized from out of nowhere and was gently laid on the Highlander's navel.
"A ring for a ring," a grateful voice spoke in the darkness. "You earned it."
For a moment, the mist assumed the shape of a man, a warm smile on his handsome face. Then, right before the ancient's eyes, the man disappeared.
Although he was shaking in terror, Methos somehow managed to stumble to the Scot's side. Carrying Duncan in his arms, the Old Man laid his lover on the bed.
It was then that his eyes fell upon the thing that was lying in the pit of the Highlander's belly button. A gold ring with a blood red ruby. Methos felt a chill run up his spine.
A gentle hand was laid on his arm. Methos saw Duncan peering at him drowsily through heavy-lidded, loving brown eyes.
"Wasn't that warm enough for you? God, you're still freezing!" The Scot hastened to divest his stunned lover of his clothing. Pulling Methos down to the bed with him, he whispered happily, "Let's do it again sometime, Methos. But next time, if you want to play ghost, don't go out in the snow. Immortal or not, I don't want you catching pneumonia."
Not knowing what else to say, Methos stammered, "Uh, yeah! Sure, Mac."
"Methos?"
"Yes, Duncan?"
"A ring for a ring...Have I paid you back in full, my beloved ghost?"
Methos didn't answer at first. He pulled his lover close to him, the Scot's back nestled comfortably against his chest. Duncan was such a gentle, loving creature, it did not surprise the Old Man that the ghost of the Spaniard had chosen the Highlander to be his partner in this one last moment of ecstasy that only LIVING mortals could enjoy, before moving on to the afterlife.
But then again, Duncan had been willing, only because he believed that it was the ancient he was making love with. Certainly not a wraith who came straight out of Methos' ghost story.
Kissing Duncan's cheek soothingly, Methos decided, *I won't tell him. He need not know what really happened.*
Still, he found himself looking at the ring. It was obviously a gift for the Highlander. And he saw no reason why it should not be accepted. Without thinking twice, Methos slid the ring onto Duncan's finger, the ruby glittering in the candlelight.
"A ring for a ring, Duncan," Methos muttered back, embracing his lover. "Yes, my sweet, you earned it well."
