Every Thursday, a group of writers gets together to post excerpts of current works in progress. This week I'm sharing a little more of my current project, His Cemetery Doll, a story of a ghostly lover in a haunted graveyard.
Please support the Thursday Tasters by visiting the link at the end of this post and visiting the other wonderful works posted this week!
Somewhere in the slow flurry of sensation, Conall realized the doll's lips were moving. Really moving, as he kissed them. Instinct overtaking him, he slid his tongue past them and searched for hers to respond. She met him, and her mouth proved warm, soft, eager, and pliant. Her fingers came up to his chest, though, and very softly, nudged him away.
He found himself a bit out of breath. Moreover, he realized he'd started to warm, himself, feeling flush with heat.
She appeared to be searching for him, even though her hand still rested on his collar. She tilted her face up to him, lifted her chin up as though straining to say something.
To his surprise...she did.
He gave a start as the voice—like a muted rush of wind and sleet—came not to his ears, but directly into his mind.
The words were strange in tone, an uneven gust of volume and hush, echoing and tinny but then bright and clear. At first it shocked him so much he didn't even realized she'd asked a question. Unless he'd imagined what he heard?
"Did you say that?"
The doll dipped her head in a nod.
"How did you say that? Have you been able to do it this whole time?"
She appeared to struggle, making discordant, jerky movements, like she meant to clear her throat. Of course her throat didn't show any movement itself: it remained a motionless white pillar, formed as one piece with her collar.
The attempt brought more tears, though, and abruptly the doll gave up, wrenching away from him and hiding her face in her hands.
"No, no," he whispered, reaching for her. "It's all right...no. I'm...I'm not afraid of you."
She trembled in his arms, and the sharpness of the movements struck him. When she shook, she didn't feel as a human would: weightier, softer with muscle and the slight springiness of flesh. Her body shook with the hard clatter of bones hung like a wind chime. She rattled. He found it terrible, and would do anything to make it stop.
So he renewed his kisses. Wrapping one arm around her shoulders he leaned her back, bracing them both with his other hand flat on the grass behind her. He took her mouth again, and at first he found her lips frozen in their previous state—quickly, though, the heat of his kisses coaxed them to life again, freeing her to answer his affection with her own.
Her tongue met his, and she gave a quiet gasp of apparent pleasure at the touch. He tasted her, finding the faintest sweetness, and before he realized it he was stroking her hair, drawing the ribbons away from her body with slow, attentive motions.
"You came to me before," he whispered. "You...came to be with me."
She raised her arms to embrace him, lying down beneath him. As before, the ribbons began to unwind themselves, without his help: soon she lay naked on a nest of them, her fair hair splayed carelessly in a fan over the slick green grass.