Rochelle met Brandy a month ago at a fundraiser concert for a woman’s shelter. Despite dropping out of college, Rochelle had made enough of an impression on her roommate Mary to be counted as a friend. That was how she routinely found herself paying ten dollars to lean against the wall and drink beer she had brought with her, waiting for Mary to be look alone long enough for Rochelle share some fleeting contact. Rochelle was in for a surprise when she caught Mary pointing her out to another woman. Rochelle’s first impression of Brandy was that she was the hottest person who had ever spoken to Rochelle of their own free will.
    Brandy’s first words were, “Hey, you’re that ghost hunter? Cool. I’d love to pick your brain about it.”

---

Rochelle processed in silence. She sat in the dirt, leaning against the car’s tire, as she regarded the dark shape of the Singapore Flats. She had spent the last hour walking every inch of the run-down structure. She hadn’t found any evidence of what had happened to her and Brandy or where Brandy had gone or whether what Rochelle remembered seeing and feeling had been real. Not that she had many ways to prove it was real to herself either, Rochelle reflected. The only proof of her sanity would be to make it happen again.
    So Rochelle sat by herself in the dark, trying to wrap her head around the possibility of throwing herself back into that madhouse on purpose.
    It hadn’t felt like being drugged, and it hadn’t felt like being violated. It had felt like going to sleep and having a very erotic dream. She had been completely submerged in the idea that she was the hapless, cheerful employee of a long-dead madam. Even now, it was hard not to rationalize it as harmless fun. Rochelle had only realized she had been in danger when Brandy hit her. If she fell prey to whatever the ghosts had done again, there might be no coming back until she was used up and broken by whatever forces were at work… and that meant that without intervention, Brandy would be, too.
    Her stomach felt hollow. Brandy wouldn’t be here tonight if not for her, Rochelle reflected.
    Rochelle stood up and pulled her coat tight around her body. Flinging open the car trunk, she found her luggage and emptied it out on the ground. Two plastic spray bottles sat on the bottom of her suitcase. They were labeled “Gast-be-Gone” in ludicrous font. The sprays contained essential oils from sage. According to several traditions, burning sage leaves would help protect yourself and your home from evil spirits. But for the exorcist who didn’t want to stain the paint of their finished kitchen, aerosols made for a modern solution. Rochelle twisted the top off the first bottle and dumped it over her head.
    The concentrated astringent stench made Rochelle gag and nearly brought her to her knees. She grabbed the frame of the car, choking and desperately fanning the fumes away from her face. Squeezing back tears, Rochelle fumbled for the other bottle. This time, she took off her glasses, pulled out her tie, and opened his collar. She up-ended the bottle over her chest, her stomach, her lap, and her legs. It soaked straight through her shirt and made it cling to her abs and exposed bra. An obscene-looking dark stain covered her pants. The wind kicked up and Rochelle shivered.
    The encounter with Whitner hadn’t disturbed any of Rochelle’s radio equipment on the floor of the derelict saloon. Still on, the receiver bipped and clicked with background noise. Rochelle activated the generator. She listened to the burst of white noise and waited. It faded to sterile silence. She sent out the signal again. The receiver didn’t pick up a sliver of the previous response. Rochelle curled her upper lip in frustration. Kneeling down, she fiddled with the signal generator and then let it rip. An ear-blistering screech shook the receiver to its mechanical limit. 
    The screech echoed through the rotten hotel’s halls. Rochelle stared at the burnt-out bar expectantly. Ripples of heat swirled over the black wood, before to burst into a tower of flames. Fire raced out over fallen timbers. Sparks fluttered through the room and instantly became blazes on whatever surface they touched – walls, tables, and even rocks. Rochelle braced herself as hot wind forced her eyes shut.
    “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…”
    “It’s about as real as that awful racket you’re playing.” A drawling voice answered from behind Rochelle’s back. “That nonsense is enough to wake the dead.”
    Rochelle opened her eyes. Madam Whitner sat behind the bar with a look of irritation. There wasn’t any fire. There was polished wood and fashionable wallpaper. The saloon was lit low, with chairs stacked up on tables, and none of Whitner’s girls were around. Rochelle braced her shoulders and tried to be commanding.
    “I’ve come for Brandy Thompson.”
    “And you’ve arrived in fine form, too. Smelling like snake oil that fell off the wagon.” Whitner sniffed for effect. “Are you looking for a bath? Because that’s an extra charge.”
    Rochelle just stared back at her in icy silence. Whitner finally broke the impasse. 
    “You do know what sort of establishment I run here, yeah?”
    “I’ve come for Brandy Thompson.” Rochelle repeated. A weight formed in her stomach. The plan she had hoped would crystallize out of adrenaline wasn’t coming. She clenched her fists and barreled ahead with the only course she could think of. “You have no right to hold Brandy Thompson under your power. You will release her immediately.”
    “Don’t you have more important things to worry about, anyway? Last I checked, you’re a genius. You’re gonna be famous. Why are you coming in here shivering in fear and making demands when your life is worth something now?”
    Rochelle controlled her breathing. “You have to give me Brandy Thompson.”
    Whitner cackled. “Says who? Honey, that’s not how any of this works. Ms. Thompson works for me and that’s final. But I’ll tell you what. If you’re so worried about your friend Brandy, then you go up to her and have a visit. She’s in Room 204, on the left.”
    Whitner tossed a room key at Rochelle’s feet. Rochelle stared at it like it might bite, gave Whitner the same glare, then finally picked it up cautiously. 
    “What will it cost?”
    “Don’t worry about that. I’ll add it to your tab.” Whitner’s smile stretched too far. “You can work it off.”
    Rochelle turned the key over her hand. The pit in her stomach grew colder and heavier. She squeezed the key until the metal bit into her palm. Rochelle took a deep breath and headed for the stairs. Whitner, humming, poured herself a drink.
    Even though she got out of Whitner’s sight, Rochelle didn’t relax. She heard whispers behind the hotel’s doors. They were the same breathy, coquettish voices that had kissed her all over before, told her how beautiful she was, and welcomed her to paradise. Now they gossiped cruelly. Rochelle overheard that she was an ugly, rancid presumptuous bitch, who deserved a lash and an eternity of laundry duty. Rochelle came to Brandy’s door and knocked. The whispers vanished.
    “Let yourself in, cowboy.” Brandy purred.
    Rochelle swallowed, trying to restrain her blush, and opened the door. The room was neat and cozy. Against one corner sat a brass-frame queen-sized bed with absurdly fluffy pillows. In the opposite corner sat an old-fashioned bathtub with fish stenciled on the side. A vanity sat next to the bed and Brandy sat on a chair in front of the vanity, leaning back. She wore a satin nightgown parted to either side and with Brandy’s leg propped up on the bed, her dark bush starred Rochelle in the face. The room smelled of dried herbs hung in bundles from the ceilings.
    Are you just gonna gawk?” Brandy widened her legs a little more. “Or are you gonna come over and say ‘hi?’”
    “We have to go.” Rochelle’s voice squeaked with embarrassment.
    “Aw, but you just got here.”
    “Brandy, listen to me.” Rochelle advanced on the sitting woman but froze when Brandy leaned forward and stood up. She folded her arms defiantly.
    “Miss Maggie warned me that you might be the sort to bully a girl. I had hoped that weren’t the case, for a handsome ride like yourself.” Brady took a step forward. Rochelle stepped back. Brandy smirked derisively. “C’mon. What have I got to listen to you about?”
    “You need to wake up. This isn’t real. None of this is real. I know it’s feels like a wonderful dream, but whatever is controlling you is not a person and you can’t trust it.”
    Brandy laughed.
    “Brandy! Listen to me!” Rochelle begged. “Focus! Try and ask yourself why you’re doing this - how did you get here – where any of this came from.”
    “How are you spouting nonsense with a fine, ready lady right in front of you?” Brandy lowered an arm to show one of her small breasts. She massaged it until her nipple was good and stiff, then tweaked the pink nub for Rochelle’s benefit. “If you shut your mouth and wash that stink off, I can promise you a good time.”
    Rochelle bumped into the door. She didn’t realize she had been backing away. Rochelle steeled herself, walked forward, and raised her hand to slap Brandy. “This is for your own go-“
    Her jaw snapped closed like a spring-loaded trap and her neck jerked back like rubber. Rochelle slammed headfirst into wood and losing her footing, she crumbled against the door. Rochelle dimly realized that Brandy had punched her square on the jaw. The boyish, nearly-naked Brandy pulled the wobblily Rochelle up by her collar and delivered a right hook that sounded like a deer hitting a car bumper.
    Brandy shook out of her sore hand. “Looks like I gotta clean up your act.”

---

Brandy poured a pitcher of hot water on Rochelle’s head. Gagged with a stocking, Rochelle growled indignantly, trying to shake the water from her eyes as it rolled down her dreads and her bare neck and shoulders. Rochelle sat in the bathtub with both her ankles and wrists tied and her arms behind her back. Brandy grabbed Rochelle’s hair and pulled her head back, in order to pour water over her face, breasts, and stomach. She patted Rochelle’s cheek and smiled triumphantly. 
    “See? A bath won’t kill you.”
    Brandy went to the vanity and carefully picked through the bottles on it. Rochelle thrashed about, trying to tip the heavy tub to the side. She only managed to get the floor wet. Returning with a bottle of oil and wrapped bar of soap, Brandy tutted at the puddle. She opened the bottle of the oil and rained a generous amount onto the bathroom, while Rochelle fought to scream.
    Rochelle stared in terror at the oil swirling in the water. Before her eyes, the oil patterns congealed into translucent alien flowers whose soap-bubble leaves unfurled like hungry teeth and whose nearly invisible roots hunted for her skin. Brandy poured fresh hot water into the bath, and a cloud of soporific vapors rolled over Rochelle. She couldn’t pick out the scents; Rochelle could only feel a cloying numbness in her nose and on her tongue as her brain tipped backwards and spun in her head. 
    Rochelle snapped back to wakefulness with a hypnic jerk. The rush quickly subsided, and Rochelle slid back in warm, steamy comfort. She didn’t have the strength to get up. Brand cradled Rochelle’s head and whispered sweet inaudibles, as Brandy’s other hand caressed Rochelle’s chest and shoulders with soapy washcloth. The ache of Rochelle’s skin was second, though, to the cloying fog of scents that Rochelle could not identify – sweet, earthy, and heavy on the brain. Brandy kissed Rochelle on the cheek, and Rochelle dropped back into insensibility without a worry.
    When the world next came into focus, Rochelle shivered next to the tub, standing on a towel. Brandy stood naked in front of Rochelle with a towel. Rochelle tried to ask what was happening, but Brandy shushed the taller, hunched-over woman and wrapped Rochelle in another towel. Her lips said kneel. Rochelle sank to her knees. She stared up at Brandy in mute confusion while the other woman vigorously toweled Rochelle off, working the towel under Rochelle’s hair, around her neck, and down her shoulders. Brandy got down on her knees herself to run the towel over Rochelle’s ass and calves. She smiled knowingly at Rochelle’s confusion.
    “I’m so glad to get my hands on you.”
    “Why am I letting you do this?” Rochelle’s voice had so strength. She barely heard herself.
    “Because it’s a lovely idea.” Brandy kissed Rochelle. Something more than Brandy slid between Rochelle’s lips. It tasted like an amalgam of whiskey, weed, greasy food, and the juncture of a woman’s thighs. It pushed down Rochelle’s throat like a thick serpent and pushed her insides wide apart in a peculiar, satisfying way. Brandy broke the kiss and the presence inside Rochelle thinned away. She whimpered at her emptiness. Rochelle slouched against Brandy, who caressed Rochelle’s hair.
    They moved to the bed. Rochelle sank into the perfumed covers – tired from heat, tired from stimulation, and tired from trying to think. Brandy climbed into bed next to Rochelle with a bottle. She picked up Rochelle’s hand and after peppering it with kisses, pressed it to the bottle.
    “Drink.”
    “I don’t want to… I shouldn’t…”
    “Why not, honey?”
    “Because she… she’s… Whitner is…” Rochelle struggled to say the words. “She’s in control.”
    Brandy laughed softly. She opened the bottle and pushed it to Rochelle’s lips. Liquor tumbled out. Rochelle tried to turn her face away. Brandy grabbed Rochelle by the jaw and with all the effort of someone subduing a kitten, forced her to drink. It burned. Rochelle groaned. Fire twisted through her nerves. She grabbed the sheets, curled her toes, and squeezed her thighs together protectively around her trembling cunt.
    Brandy took the bottle away. She straddled Rochelle, rubbing herself in anticipation. Brandy pressed her crotch to Rochelle’s mouth and grabbed her scalp to force their lips together. “Suck.”
    The mix of liquor and quim filled Rochelle’s mouth and nose. The combination was a prayer to a tiny clockwork god whirling in the invisible filaments of the world. That god was stamped with the stubbornness and selfishness and impertinence of Magdellin Whitner, who would not be denied anything, let alone fireworks on her birthday. That little god demanded what Whitner always turned to for survival in her cruel world – booze and cunt.
    All of this flowed through Brandy and through her mons, it flowed through Rochelle, building up, demanding to the make the connection and flow back like a current, making a magnetic, driven by a magnet, and in love with itself. Her nerves buzzed, and her muscles clenched. Her core roiled with heat. Her pussy clenched. Her thoughts snowballed together into a screaming demand. Eyes rolled back, Rochelle cried out in a voice of a hundred entwined sferics.
    “Fuck you, bitch, make me cum!”
    Brandy reared backed and laughed. She scrambled around Rochelle until they were anti-parallel and dove lips first into the roaring woman’s sex. She pulled Rochelle’s legs apart and smooched her vag over and over. Rochelle’s labia was puffy and hot to the touch. Brandy nibbled it playfully, pausing here and there to taste the building secretions. When Rochelle grew slick, Brandy adjusted herself and slipped her fingers in, one pushing the labia to the side and the other pushing down the passage. Brandy send her tongue in after it.
    Rochelle clawed at Brandy’s ass in raw need. Brandy furious worked one part tongue to one part finger, giggling and shouting encouragement. Rochelle panted and gasped. Her body tightened painfully, before the orgasm broke through. Rochelle was emptied and filled all at once, feeling the inhuman forces of the Singapore Flats flow through her. Rochelle screamed, and the doors and windows of the Singapore Flats hotel rattled in place of her voice.

---

“Yeeaaa’hup, looks I was right.” Officer Lahoya drove up on the car she had seen the day before, the rental being driven by those two wannabe ghost busters. It was parked on the main street of the old ghost town. After years of chasing off the stupid and the crazy, Officer Lahoya had a nose for the folks who couldn’t follow simple instructions. “You couldn’t help yourselves, could you?”
    Her smirk faded as she pulled up behind the car. It sat abandoned. The back hatch had been left open and luggage had been scattered on the ground. Lahoya parked and got out. Walking around it, nothing in the dust caught Lahoya’s attention coming or going.
    “Hello?” Lahoya belted out. Her voice rang out through the ghost town. It blew unimpeded through the hollow buildings and thinned away on the dust. Lahoya seemed alone on the thin, yellow plain. “Is anybody there? Does anybody need assistance?”
    A pair of women giggled next to Lahoya’s ear. She spun around and found no one. The old Singapore Flats hotel loom in front of the officer. Shadows stretched down its worn façade as the sun shifted over the edge of the roof. They had come to check out the hotel, Lahoya reminded herself. The idiots might be injured and unconscious in a pile of splinters.
    Lahoya grabbed the flashlight from her cruiser and headed into the condemned building. “This is the police! Is anybody inside? If you’re injured, I’m here to help! Hello? Hello?”
    She cast a beam over the dark saloon of the hotel. Radio equipment sat on the floor, managing a faint whine on its last scraps of battery life. Lahoya took in the shattered furniture, the fallen timbers from the roof, and the blackened walls. She wasn’t sure herself where to start.
    “Hello?”
    “Why, hello, officer!” A pair of teeny-bopper voices replied in unison. Officer Lahoya jumped and swung her light over to illuminate two women – the ghost hunters from yesterday – standing shoulder to shoulder in frilly maid’s outfits, that hung off the shoulder and tightly wrapped the bust, barely decent thanks to the ruffles spilling over the top, with stiff petticoats holding up the short skirts. The two of them smiled vacantly.
    “You two! What the hell are you doing back here? And what the hell are you wearing? This is… jesus… your eyes!”
    Both smiling women had their eyes rolled back so Lahoya could only see the whites. They didn’t blink in the glare of the flashlight. 
    “We’re so glad you-
    “-came along, there’s such a mess-“
    “-that needs sorting, we’ll need-“
    “-all the help we can get.”
    “-all the help we can get.”
    Feet rising from the floor, the smiling women sliced through the air and bore down on Officer Lahoya in unison.