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Ten Before Midnight on All Hallows Eve...(*/f)

stacyshippen

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Nov 12, 2001
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Please bear with me as I spin my rather lengthy yarn...enjoy

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As a shy, quiet co-ed at a sleepy midwestern university, I was rather circumspect with my secret tickling fetish. Alone, I'd comb libraries for anything I could find about tickling...from medical references to fiction. In the dark ages of card catalogues and microfiche, as well as the rather tepid collections available in the Bible Belt, this could be a time-consuming hobby -- a treasure hunt, if you will. One evening in the waning days of October, I was on such a treasure quest when I encountered an index with at least five pages describing stories of tickle torture by supernatural forces. Eagerly and with a thrill of anticipation, I turned to these pages, only to discover...they were GONE.

I sighed in disappointment as I regarded the torn pages. But then I noticed what initially looked like the ragged edge. I tugged it and discovered that it was, in fact, another piece of paper, tucked in the space where my treasure of tickly tales should be. I opened the paper and feel its ancient texture...it almost appeared to be as old as the book itself. Written in beautiful Edwardian script, an address, one I recognized from the oldest part of town and not far away from campus. Below, the simple words:

"10 before midnight on All Hallows Eve"

I froze, a thrill of curiosity and dread coursing through me. Of course such things are nonsense, and it must have been an old prank, or decades old tryst, passing messages in books only known by secret lovers. Why, then, did I slip the paper into my pocket?

That last glorious week of October, the days waned and the golden leaves twinkled in the wind. And that paper burned my pockets and my dreams. Halloween eve finally dawned, and brought with it a last burst of summery warmth. Shy as I was at the time, I found myself alone with little to do as last October sun sank into the bean fields beyond my campus. Does it not surprise you that in that warm evening, I don shorts and halter top and slip the burning paper into my pocket? Does it not surprise you that I slipped the safety of my dormitory and wandered to the old section of town, seeking this house out of curiosity?

A street of stately Victorians greets me as I enter the street written on the page and burned into my mind. In those years, before artists and gay couples transformed this "quaint" neighborhood into galleries and B&Bs, these houses were old, decrepit, and creaking with age. I pass one house after another, waving away the drying bushes, brushing away falling leaves. Finally, in the waning minutes of Halloween, I stand before an ancient house that stands further from the street than the others. It's curving arches and turrets are charming, and I am attracted to the great amounts of stained glass that surround the door.

But what's this? The door is open? I make my way up to the porch and peer through the windows, but nothing is visible through the curtains. Yet the door beckons to me...the house calls to me, and throwing caution and sense to the wind, I pass through the doorway.

Would I have changed my mind if I'd noticed that the stained glass panes were a design of intricately entwined feathers?

I pass through and the first thing I notice is the silence...the sounds from the street disappear and even the wind cannot be heard. I call, "hello?" but receive no reply. But in a room down the hall, I see shadows and flickers...and faintly...the sound of a woman's laughter. Oddly enough, the voice is familiar but I cannot place it, and the laughter seems forced, crazed, almost agonized...for a moment I consider fleeing, but my curiosity and a twinge of excitement draws me forward, down the hall and towards the sound and light...

I push open a heavy door to see an empty room. The walls are panelled in a rich, dark wood, with winding patterns carved deeply into the woodwork. A fireplace to the left radiates warmth and dancing flames, and the air is heavy and tinged with spice. Ah, but the room is not entirely empty...a single chair sits in the middle, heavy, ornate, but with legs that twist and curve at odd angles. The sounds are as faint as they were at the doorway, and I am still puzzled at the strange sounds of merriment. I step across the threshhold and notice that the floor is springy, almost sticky in nature. I take a few strides and find each step becomes more difficult, the floor stickier, my sneakers barely able to pull themselves up. I try to turn but find I cannot...I feel heavy, listless, and a sudden need to rest. I drag myself forward to the chair and settle into its wooden curves, beginning to feel a twinge of genuine fear. I then discover that the chair itself is sticky, that I'm unable to move my arms or legs. I'm trapped like a fly on paper and completely, utterly unable to move. Even my hair is caught and I'm unable to move anything but my eyes. I yelp! I shout but despite the emptiness in the room, my voice doesn't even echo...I'm caught, and muffled, and terrified of what will happen. My damned curiosity...

The air is heavy but not without movement...I can feel the warmth of the fire radiating across my arms and legs and face...as I sit and ponder my fate. I observe a tiny feather, separated from its duster and dislodged from a corner, float through the air a few inches above me. It seems to hover above...I blow it and it twirls again before me. Before it can float away, a crackling branch sends a gentle push of air, and the feather finally nestles at my collarbone. Frozen, I can only twitch...as its delicate strands brush against my skin, tickling gently as it dances to the air that surrounds me. Without recourse and without response, my sensations focus on that one, maddening tickle...down my neck and across my collarbone, dropping down my chest and thighs. The tickly sensation is driving me crazy! I can do nothing but twitch skin, unable to defend against this one tiny feather as it slides down my legs and, unbelievably, settles into a gap between my sneakers and bare feet (why oh why did I skip socks???) The miniscule, hard quill scrapes the side of my sole, and I grunt and grit my teeth against the ticklish sensation. But, the movement stops and I sigh in relief and consider my predicament.

Eyes closed, I think for a few minutes, then am startled by a tickly sensation on my nose. I open my eyes to a horrifying sight! Hundreds, if not thousands of feathers are drifting in the air from an unseen source...swirling about the room, buoyed by the heavy air and floating around me. One tickle, then another, as feathers drift and swirl across my skin. As ticklish as the first feather was, it was no comparison to these hundreds of sensitive brushes and scrapes, quills and feathers. Completely unable to move, to react, I yell, muted, for help but to no avail. The feathers swirl across thighs, under arms, across my belly, tucking under my shirt to nestle into my belly button...and at that moment I release an unwanted, undesired chuckle. HA! is all I let out, but trapped so, with tickling feathers dancing across sensitive skin, I let out a giggle, then another, then another...it's not open laughter, just giggle after giggle from the maddening trails of feathers.

BONG...BONG...

Again, I am startled, but this time from the deep chimes of a clock somewhere in the house. Again, I renew my screams and pleas for help, but the house is empty and unsymathetic to my ticklish plight. Suddenly, however, I start as the chair moves...rolling backwards to the rear wall, freeing me of the maddening feathers but not of the substance that traps me. I'm also freed of my sneakers, which remain stuck to the floor. The last of the midnight bells ring as my captive chair comes to a stop at the end of the room. A bump, and I can feel the back of it "lock" onto the wall. And then unfold itself! The arms move down and out, the seat and legs straighten, and instead of being seated, I'm now "glued" to a wall, still unable to move. I realize that the carvings in the wood now hold my chair, and my imprisoned body.

I yell again, and scream for help, but unable to move, my voice is quickly absorbed by the thick, spicy air and the darkening room. The fire is burning low...and shadows creep from the corners.

The wall panels begin to vibrate and doors slide around me. Hands, encased in rubber and feather-studded gloves, but with tips of fingers and fingernails free, appear all about the perimeter of my limbs. For a moment they hover, and the first, at my neck, begins to scratch gently under my chin...

Oh my god! The ticklish sensation is horrible, terrible...just five fingers tickling. I barely last a few seconds before I start to giggle and plead for it to stop. Then two more hands settle underneath arms...feathers this time, stiffer than the earlier ones. God it tickles beyond belief! And two more hands, now at ribs, gentle squeezing and pokes. I succumb to out and out laughter...with a desperation that is impossible to describe because I cannot move...cannot defend myself...all I can do is laugh and laugh.

Two more hands at waist, crawling with spidery efficiency across my tummy and belly button, sticking a feather in the slit to my agonized cries...sensations so much worse than my ticklish daydreams...

Two more hands stroke behind my thighs and goose my rear...sending shockwaves throughout my body. Each hand works in concert, stepping up and lessening the tickle in patternless waves. A rest gives me a false sense of security, as I catch my breath and hope that the ordeal is over. As my heartbeat calms down, the hands begin anew...

Two more hands cover my knees, squeezing gently and feathering the sensitive skin in the back...

Two more hands...and another two...caress my twitching feet (the only part of me that can move), then start their assault. Two hands with feathers, two with fingernails. Dragging nails across heels and soles, feathering top and bottom of toes, and with deliberate intent pulling them back to cruelly reach their base...

Can one person stand such stimulation? Can a human being, one born in ticklish flesh, bear the merciless caresses of thirteen hands? Oh, how a young woman's idle fantasy cannot even begin to match the reality! Every phrase, tickled to death, tickled pink, tickled insane, is made manifest by the hands that make forced merriment of my soul. Evil 13...65 fingers and untold feathers dancing across skin, leaving no inch untickled, unexplored, save one...

A final hand appears between my knees, bearing nothing but a very long, stiff feather. It snakes up the leg of my shorts, tickling my inner thighs as it wanders its way upward. Stimulated, I'm now afraid...not wanting this, terrified of what that tickling feather's possibilities are. Upward, inch by slow inch, the other hands barely caressing me so I may focus on its tickly intent. Its feathertip reaches my panties, and begins a deliberate, gentle tickle of the flesh within. THIS tickles to my very soul...and gives rise to wave after wave of arousal. All hands are tickling again, and my mind is overloaded with sensation -- tickle, turn-on, terror. The 14th feather tickles and tickles, and I'm brought closer to the edge of sanity...and then I recognize, in horror, that it was MY crazed laughter that drew me into this house...

Then it happens! The maddening, tickly feather flicks against my skin and I feel my body crash into orgasm...then another, then another. The hands and feathers fail to stop, however...and I crash again, peaks of agony, ecstasy and ticklish madness...and I slip into blessed darkness...

I'd come to with the taste of ashes in my mouth. Early morning has arrived, and the sun streams into an empty room. I sit up and rub my eyes...and stare about me, puzzled. I'm in an empty, abandoned house. The room which was so warm and inviting, is dusty and dreary...no fire has touched the grate in decades, and the air is heavy and choked with dust. There's no sign of anything I remember of the night -- no chair, no hands, no feathers. The floor is wooden and there's no glue there or along my skin. My sneakers are on my feet and the paneling shows no sign of hidden doors. I don't take time to think...I make my escape, sneaking out of the house, through the tangled weeds and into a crisp November morning. Did it happen, I wonder to myself as I wander back to my dormitory. I'm shaken and moved by what I remember...and lost in thought as I get to my room, shuck my shorts and go for a quick shower.

It's only when I return that I would go through my pockets and remove the slip of paper with the original address. As I draw it out, I feel another sensation, something else caught on the paper. When I pull the slip out, a tiny white feather floats into the air, dancing in the morning sun. I catch it, and its tiny feathers tickle my palm. On the sheet of paper, the address and message, but I catch my breath as I read new words on the back:

"you will come back"

And I can hardly wait...
 
wow i loved this story i hope other writers have halloween stories
 
An elegant piece of work. Thank you for sharing it with us.
 
excellent and such an original idea. great halloween tale. loved it. and love your siggy its so cute. creatively done great story

isabeau :cat:
 
I loved it quite a bit as well- cute, imaginative, and the 1st person perspective really put you in the characters shoes... for as long as she was in them at least...

Bravo Stacy on this excellent work.
 
A mere toe in deep, foreboding waters?

'Loved your evocative All Hallows tickle reverie, which induced gleeful shivers in more than one way in THIS reader! You efficiently set the stage beautifully: I'm a sucker for tales taking place in old college towns (no surprise considering mine own humble contribs to the Forum) and in tricky old mansions. The tangy air of mystery made your heroine's plight (?) all the more goose pimply.<br>
Oh, but tell me this is but a foretaste of more adventures with your shy tickle explorer. She seems one too good to let get away...
 
Thank you everyone for the kind feedback...I do have a few more in mind but thought I'd try this one to see if anyone liked the premise or the writing :)

Stacy
 
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