The Questions

I stood naked beside the bed, still holding my wet towel. What the hell was going on around here?
 

I wouldn't go so far as to call myself a skeptic, but haunted houses were things you found in movies, not in real life. Point one: I was the only one in the place. Counterpoint one: I had left the door open, not to mention the windows.

Point two: I did have several friends who enjoyed practical jokes. Counterpoint two-A: the buggers didn't live anywhere near here. Counterpoint two-B: How would they know I was going to take a shower and just where did they get the panties?

Point three: Maybe Vonda? Counterpoint three: The woman didn't even know I'd bought the place until an hour ago. She sure as blazes didn't have time to go out and buy lingerie while I was taking a shower and hers would be too big.

Point four: It looked like the panties would fit me. The tag said size nine. Counterpoint four: How would anyone know my size in women's panties?

Point five: Anyone who's seen Ghostbusters knows ghosts do weird shit. Counterpoint five: Yeah, but panties?And why red panties with black lace?

Right about then I would have been happy to see Rod Serling step through the bedroom door and say "You're traveling through another dimension - a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind…"

Rod kept his peace, which is more than I can say for me. A joke's a joke, but really!

So I wrapped the towel around my waist, (never know who might show up) gathered up my clothes and headed back to the RV to find some of my own underwear, mumbling imprecations at my unknown jokester. As I passed the big mirror on the dresser I came to a sudden halt. The image in the mirror showed I had wrapped my hair in a towel just like I had seen untold women do on the television.

I had never done that before. And hadn't I only brought one towel with me? Where did that towel on my head come from? If this place was haunted the spirit had one sick sense of humor. Also more mind control than I was comfortable with.

So I returned to the RV and slid out my underwear drawer to find it filled with women's panties. A veritable rainbow of panties but not a single pair of my own underwear. I seem to have drawn a very detail oriented haunt.

Now wait a minute! I'm psyching myself up just like the poor slobs in the horror movies do. Next thing you know I'm going to go down in the basement without turning on the lights. Everybody knows what happens next. I was hoping real hard that there wasn't a chainsaw in the shed.

With a sinking feeling I opened my undershirt drawer.

Camisoles.

My plain old cotton undershirts were gone. In their place were lacy, silky camisoles. Some were white, some were black. Some were lacy, some plain. Now I'm no expert in women's fashions, but simple observation told me that darn few women wore camisoles these days. That drawer held several lifetime's supply of the things, especially considering I was damned if I was going to wear them.

Is there such a thing as a sex-crazed ghost? I remember when Patrick Swayze came back in that old movie he didn't seem to be sex-crazed. Then again, maybe Hollywood wouldn't let him go scattering bras and panties about without loosing their family-friendly rating.

A sex-crazed ghost who can leave its haunt and enter my RV to replace my underwear in broad daylight? Not even Hollywood would fall for that, but there might be some interesting possibilities in the porn industry.

By then I was sure I was losing my mind. I had to look at the bed - undisturbed. No ghostly succubus awaiting my attentions. Besides, I certainly wouldn't make it past the auditions with my modest but effective tool.

Enough daydreaming! I donned my fire-engine red panties. The waist was properly snug but they were rather baggy since I don't have any hips to speak of. I quickly covered them with slacks and made sure my golf shirt was long enough so I wouldn't be flashing red at Vonda.

You can be sure I carefully locked both the house and the RV before I left, securely hooking the keys to the loop on my belt. I may have dressed up a bit for dinner, but I still carried my keys and cell phone attached to my belt. Go ahead - say it. I'm a nerd as well as a nutcase. I don't mind, it's true. What the hell - dinner was awaiting.

The Dinner

Feeling rather foolish, I set out to Vonda's house. She lived about a quarter mile down the road so I wasn't going to get in my pickup for that short distance. By the time I hit the end of my driveway I was very aware that I was wearing nylon panties. Or maybe rayon or some other miracle synthetic fabric. It sure wasn't plain old cotton like I was used to.

The stuff clung to my ass cheeks and pulled with every step I took. Not too long after I realized that black lace was tickling my thighs. As I was contemplating that I realized that even though the panties were designed for the smooth contours of a woman, my tackle fit in there just fine. Who woulda thunk it?

My contemplation veered off in a new direction as I threaded my way up Vonda's driveway into a stand of trees. I wondered if they were as effective at providing privacy as my trees had been this afternoon - you never knew who would come calling. I decided that I wouldn't take up nude sunbathing any time soon.

As I came out of the trees I spied a monumental statue of Darth Vader made from old automobile parts. It was painted dead black but the eyes glowed like rubies. I forced myself to start moving again and rang the front doorbell. Since the door was open and only the screen door separated the house from the outside world I had no trouble hearing her call "Come on in! I'm in the kitchen."

This was not as easy as it might seem. The living room was was filled with fantastic objects of every kind. Paintings from the abstract to the classic, knick-knacks, statuary, tapestries, weird furniture and other less identifiable things. Eye catching. Distracting. Once again I pulled myself away and continued.

The kitchen was almost sane, but certainly bore her unique trademark. I'd try to describe it but I'd rather describe her. Gone were the short shorts and low-cut blouse. In it's place was a fire-engine red dress, very low cut and short enough to make me wonder how she was able to bend over wearing it. The material was thin enough so I could see her lacy black bra quite clearly.

And here I thought I had passed the weirdness of the afternoon…

"You clean up real nice, Glen."

"May I return the compliment? When you said 'dress for dinner' you certainly picked out a nice dress."

"Like it?"

"I'm having trouble coming up with an answer that doesn't make me sound like a sexist pig."

"Let's start our relationship with honesty. Screw the worries about sounding sexist."

"Yeah, that's quite a dress. It suits you well."

"Thank you, kind sir. I don't get many opportunities to dress up."

"You should make some."

"As should you. You ever go square dancing?"

"Nope."

I suspect you'd like my square dance outfit. Not as revealing but very frilly."

"You make it hard to remain non-sexist."

"The square dance outfit is more practical. If I wore this to a dance I'd be popping out before the end of the set."

"Uhh…"

"See, if I can be sexist then you can too."

"I try to get a little better acquainted with a woman before I comment on her breasts."

"Which is what the evening is for. I want to get to know my new neighbor."

"Fine by me. Not to seem like a typical man who walks in the door and demands 'what's for dinner,' but what's for dinner?"

"Matzoh ball soup, salad and Rubens with homemade corned beef on homemade rye. I did buy the sauerkraut and Swiss cheese, though."

"Sounds heavenly. I may never heard of matzoh balls but I do like Rubens. How do you make your own corned beef?"

"You mix up a brine, soak the beef in it for about a week, then roast it slow and slice it thin. Much better than any store-bought I've ever tasted."

"Sounds like a lot of work."

"This from a guy who's going to rehab that old pile next door?"

"I plan to have lots of help. Not a one-man project, but this is the biggest job I've tackled."

So I explained how I'm a certified nutcase who rehabs houses for a living. She was a good listener and it doesn't take much to get me talking. Turns out it didn't take much to get Vonda talking. I fear that my mother would be scandalized if she had seen me talking with my mouth full, but Vonda was a damn good cook.

When I had told a few stories about the things I had encountered in old houses I finally asked Vonda what her passion was. It was no surprise after seeing Darth on the front lawn that she was an artist. Mostly she was into sculpture these days, splitting her interest between wood and metal. With the promise of dessert afterward she took me out to her studio.

Frankly, I was jealous. Her studio was a very well equipped machine shop; an industrial welding rig, overhead crane system, lathes (both wood and metal), a Bridgeport, drill presses and a wall of tools that put my collection to shame. The image of her in welding leathers and mask was strangely compelling.

Like any good artist, she had several projects in various stages of completion. A pair of ornate wrought iron gates ten feet high and twelve feet wide occupied the welding area. Two roughed-out wooden tables were clamped and waiting for the glue to dry as she created patterns with different colored woods. A two foot high clay form stood to one side, where she was trying out ideas for a sculpture to be cast at a foundry when she was ready to turn her dreams into solid form.

I was impressed. Not many people can combine such artistic talent with the mechanical skills to create what they see in their minds. Obviously she was a successful artist, this studio/shop represented a very sizable investment.

"Like it?" she queried."

"I'm in love! I want!"

"Just like a man. Show him some new tools and he forgets the woman right by his side."

"I wouldn't go that far, at least while you're wearing that dress. I'm not likely to forget you."

"Funny - I'm not likely to forget you in your undies…"

"Speaking of such things…"

"Yes?"

"There wouldn't be any practical jokers among my new neighbors, would there?"

"You mean besides me?"

"Well, something very strange happened today."

"You mean besides dust monsters and the fire department?"

"Yeah. Look, this is embarrassing and I just met you and all, but I have just got to tell someone about this or I'm going to go bonkers."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm serious. And before you get suspicious I am not trying to sneak up on asking you about sex."

"You don't have to sneak up if you're interested, but I believe you. What's going on?"

"Today when I showered…"

So I told her the whole thing. Like I said, she's a good listener, and she didn't laugh.

"Good Lord! Has anyone told you about the Curse of the Feminine Mystique?"

"Betty Fridan was required reading according to my Grandmother."

"There's supposed to be a curse on your new home dating from just after the Civil War. As far as I know, the Curse got renamed around the time Fridan wrote her book, it just fit so well."

"Just what I need! Who cursed what and why?"

"It gets complicated. I'm afraid you're going to have to wait until Wednesday before I can tell you all about it. I don't want to be mysterious, but the Historical Museum is only open Wednesdays and Saturdays. That's where you need to go in order to learn about the history of your house."

"My house is in the Historical Museum?"

"Sure is. Bet nobody told you about the history when they were selling you the place."

"They said it was haunted."

"Bet they never mentioned the Curse."

"You'd win that bet. So all right! What's the curse?"

"No man has ever lived there longer than six months."

"I got a spirit with an agenda to get me to move out before I can rehab the place?"

"Darned if I know. But there's more… Every generation of women who got married in that house got pregnant about five minutes after the ceremony. Before she could deliver her husband was gone and the husband's sister moved in to help raise her niece. By the way, it's never a nephew."

"I had been thinking about the sort of ghost stories that get told around the campfire at Scout camp. I don't think Mr Baldwin would have approved of this one for his impressionable boys."

"Hey! I don't vouch for the truth of the tales, I just tell 'em."

"So what happens Wednesday?"

"You get the illustrated version.

Monday: The Weirdness Continues

The start of a new week. I was up early and wishing I had been able to find the time to get some men's underwear last night. No such luck, but at least there was a pair of plain white panties in the drawer so I wouldn't have to worry about showing them off quite as much.

Were they a bit less baggy than they were last night? My shorts did feel a bit tighter when I got them on. Had I managed to shrink them in the wash?

I was ready for my crew to arrive and had just finished breakfast when the truck pulled up. We trudged up to my newly dusted attic and started moving the piles of stuff to the third floor.

Easy to say but harder to do since the family that owned the place were the last of the big-time hoarders. The third floor rooms - servants quarters when the place was built - already had a comprehensive collection of crap, so we first had to shove it into a more compact mass. Then the lugging began. It didn't take long to get sick of moving heavy things down those narrow stairs.

Even though I had removed most of the dust, we still raised quite a cloud. We were sucking down water by the gallon both from the heat and the dust.

"Hey!" called one of my guys. "I found an Electric Chair!"

Now, I thought I had reached the point where nothing I found in that place could surprise me, but I was wrong.

"Bring the damn thing down and let me have a look."

Grunting and groaning the guys brought it down and put in one of the bedrooms. Damned if he wasn't right - it sure did look like an electric chair.

So Jeff hauls out his cell phone and snaps a picture of the thing, then Googles it. Turns out it's an ancient electric hair curling device. What women will go through for fashion!

It was mid-afternoon before we had the place cleared. I was damn glad to get the job done as I was coughing with the dust and my chest was itching to beat the band. I must be allergic to something in the place.

Bidding my crew goodbye I collected some clean clothes and towels and once again opted to shower in the house. I just shook my head as I selected a pair of powder blue panties from my collection, thinking I really should go into town for dinner and buy some regular underwear.

I admit to some trepidation as I put my clothes on the bed, remembering my experiences of the day before. Surely one practical joke should satisfy whoever was having fun with me. Besides, I locked the door of the RV and the house. I wasn't going to make it easy for a repeat.

The water felt good, but my nipples were pretty sensitive. In fact, they seemed puffy and slightly swollen. Just what I needed - an allergy attack. Dammit, I don't get allergy attacks.

I stayed under the water for a while and my mind drifted. I remembered reading about some guy who claimed he grew breasts from eating chicken McNuggets. I guess finding myself involuntarily wearing panties must have triggered some odd connection in my brain. Maybe I was going to need those camisoles?

Nonsense!

All good things come to an end, so I left the bathroom scratching my chest. I couldn't help it - I looked at the bed before I came out of the bath. No new clothes.

Whew!

As I passed the mirror I noticed I had unconsciously wrapped my hair in a towel once again.

Maybe I actually was becoming a nutcase.

I removed the towel, brushed and blow-dried my hair, got dressed and jumped in the pickup to head for town, where I bought two six-packs of good old men's underwear and had a good dinner. Unfortunately, my aching nipples and itchy chest distracted me.

I was wearing one of my favorite T-shirts, one with the logo of my favorite band on the front. This was one of the rubberized iron-on things that leave the front of the shirt rather stiff. It had never bothered me before, but it was sure causing me some trouble today.

It was a relief to take it off when I got home. I unwrapped my new underwear and threw them in the wash - yes, the RV had a washer and dryer. I had added up how much laundromats would cost and figured I could pay off the machinery in about two years and not have to spend a day a week washing my clothes. When you do construction work you get a lot of clothes dirty.

With a sigh of satisfaction I put the panties and camisoles in the bag the underwear came in and found a book to read - no Internet yet and TV was not so hot out here in the boondocks. Only problem was I had to scratch my chest about every two pages. Even some cortisone cream didn't help.

The dryer finally buzzed and I put away my new underwear then hit the rack, hoping that sleeping would cure my itchy chest.

 

Morning came and I unconsciously scratched my chest as I arose.

What the hell?

My nipples were seriously swollen. This was not good, I was going to have to find a doctor sometime soon. The roofers would be here any minute, so that would have to wait. A quick shave and I opened my dresser drawer to find… panties. Not a single pair of my new underwear remained. Dammit! I had locked the door before going to sleep. Nobody could have gotten in without waking me up. Putting your weight on the RV makes it bob up and down on the springs. Even in my sleep I couldn't miss that.

I reached in and flung the offending garments across the room, where they fluttered to the floor in a silken rainbow. Could I have put the underwear in the wrong drawer? Sure - that must be it. I hauled it open and …

Bras.

Bras in an array of styles and colors to match the panties and blow my mind. While I've never been married I am not a virgin. I am familiar with how bras are sized from various lovers. I had to look: 36A - the band size would go around my chest just fine. I looked down and realized my swollen pecs just might fill the cups.

Nooooo…..

A screech of brakes announced the arrival of the roofers and snapped me out of it. Reluctantly I put on the yellow panties that lay on the top of the pile, covered them with shorts and found the softest and largest T-shirt I owned. Was it my imagination or were they a bit too loose at the waist and binding just a bit at the hips? As I opened the door I noticed the bag of panties I had left there for the charity shops was still there and still full.

This was getting too damn weird!