SNM Horror - Purple Haze

SNM Horror - Purple Haze

Status: Finished

Genre: Horror


Status: Finished

Genre: Horror


Vampire; Erotica; Blood


Vampire; Erotica; Blood


Submitted: April 05, 2012

A A A | A A A


Submitted: April 05, 2012



Purple Haze


Declan J Connaughton

*Published SNM Horror Magazine November 2011



Jeffrey hoped he wasn’t being too obvious.

She was sitting a few feet away, almost on a diagonal, staring out the coffee shop window, face lost in contemplation. His own intense focus was such that it was certain to draw her gaze in his direction—but not yet. He was enjoying the cerebral fantasies of this uneventful afternoon and wanted them to last just a little bit longer.

The woman was about thirty: dark hair with dramatic red highlights dancing their way through it; the natural light through the window radiating off them, augmenting their effect like tiny pin pricks of passion.

Her makeup was pale—anaemic-but he suspected this was her natural hue underneath, giving those maroon lips an exciting and exotic promise. Even from the vantage point of a few feet away he was drawn into those eyes, sucked into them, where he could easily disappear forever in total surrender.  The daylight seemed to exaggerate them, glinting off the sclerae, bringing out multi-dimensions of mystery.

In his imagination she was blowing cigarette smoke, filtering it with those moist, puckered lips; the way she might exhale after a night of wild and untamed intercourse. She wasn’t a creature you made love to. Those slim thighs, painted into her tight jeans as to be almost symbiotic, screamed of fucking, with all the force and brutality of that primal verb. She would never be conquered. It wasn’t about that with her.

Her face turned from the window, as he speculated on these blue musings, drawing the coffee cup to her mouth and then taking a slow sip, before placing it down delicately. 

She looked straight at him.

He expected her to turn away, momentary appraisal noted, and then just as casually forgotten, reaching her full glorious height upon standing to leave, while she put on the long black coat smothering the back of the restaurant chair.  Finally she would disappear through the exit; a forbidden confection never tasted, its carnal centre withheld. All of life’s inequities and injustices would, once more, conspire to cheat Jeffrey of what he most desired. She simply wasn’t for him, he thought. Someone else, always somebody else.

She didn’t look away.

His arousal was immediate. Where it had percolated, it now was boiling, threatening sudden climax, his heartbeat increasing from zero to a hundred, bringing him full throttle with hands shaking from the force of an instant adrenalin rush.

He ventured what felt like a pathetic smile, the meekness of the gesture hanging off his face saying: ‘Please like me’, but with all the conviction of the veteran geek. He was destined to fail, but still the reality of the impending rejection disappointed him; thee were times when this constant thwarting became unbearable, and this one of them. She was an omnipotent despot, dismissing him with the briefest of acknowledgment, as she began buttoning her coat.

She was still watching him, hands threading through the holes without looking, still showing interest and suddenly on the move, gravely, towards his seat. Jeffrey expected her to brush passed, savouring the small gift of her scent as she went to the counter, perhaps to leave a tip or give the waiter her phone number. He was foreign and had the looks, Jeffrey concluded bitterly.

As her footsteps tapped the floor, and her body enlarged in front of him, his face felt too flush: perspiration dribbling from the temples, slick sweat dribbling down his spine; heat encircling his groin like a tsunami over a drowning man’s head.

“Do I know you?” she asked ardently, like a punch in the face.

Any minute now she’ll cry rape, he thought.

“You seemed familiar, for a second”, was all he could come up with.

“Ophelia.  Ophelia Trent. Know me now?”

There was a challenge in the remark, leaving him grappling with something else to say.

She was daring him to try and succeed. She wanted him to.

“Don’t’ know the name, but it suits you”

She smiled at the cliché, her reaction beginning to untie the tension in his stomach.

“I see you’re leaving?”

“Don’t have to”, was her response, running the sharp point of a nail over the table surface, either looking for dust or trying to inflict damage on it.

Those nails could rip through flesh with razor precision, he thought, as a vision of deep bloody cuts running down his back went through his mind.

“You could have another coffee?  On me, of course.”

There was a pause as she considered his offer.

“I’d like that”, her coat opened and came off with the same dexterity with which it had been put on.

His ego made a triumphant leap, as Jeffrey signalled to the waiter for two more beverages.

Ophelia seated herself, her body just within reach by a few inches.

“Don’t hear the name Ophelia every day”, he said.

“My father was a great admirer of Shakespeare.”

“I love the bard myself”, he lied, as the waiter placed their order in front of them.

“Working today?” he said, dreading the answer.

“Actually, no.  Just came in for a sit down.  I usually work nights.”

She blew on the coffee, the condensation against her breath conjuring up the form of a nude Goddess materialising from a magic mist.

“What do you do?” was Jeffrey’s next question, not really interested.

“This and that”, came her cryptic reply.

“Working tonight?”

The question was designed to be off hand and flippant, an actor with a throw a way line.

“I’m not a prostitute, if that’s what you think.”

Blown it, his inner voice screamed.

“Didn’t mean that.” he replied, flustered, confidence ebbing away like water down a sink, even as he clinched his hands and feet to hold it in.

“I can do my own hours, that’s all.”

She remained where she was, showing no sign of bolting, offended, into the arms of the city, and he relaxed slightly, realising this was a game, but not one of charades, he hoped.

“Lucky you” he said, quietly.

Ophelia took another sip. 

“You haven’t told me your name” she said, after a moment.

“If I were to guess, I’d say you were a John”.

He laughed.  “Nearly.  It’s Jeffrey with a J.”

“Was on the right track” Ophelia countered good humouredly.  “You were watching me.”

He felt the betrayal of a blush again.

“Any guy would watch you, Ophelia.”

The game of cards had been raised another notch, and the wrong remark now would send the deck scattering into the air.

“What thoughts were going through your mind?”

“What do you think?” Jeffrey replied, wanting to reach out and touch her hand, but resisting it.

“You shouldn’t answer a question with a question” she said, draining the last few drops from her cup.

“If I had been a hooker, would it have mattered?”

He was silent for a moment.

“No.  I’d have paid you anything you want”.

The clatter of plates and trays being cleared away seemed very distinct. She looked down into the empty depths of her cup, before setting it down firmly, leaning forward.

“I don’t live very far from here.  We can walk.”

Ophelia took his sweaty hand, the potent electricity flowing down his arm and igniting every sinew of his being. The nails were as sharp as surmised, and she dug them into his palm, just enough to avoid drawing blood.  He belonged to her.

“I can read your mind, Jeffrey.”

He didn’t doubt it for a second, as she placed her hand on his leg, holding it there, feeling what it was doing to him, before withdrawing those fingers with a delicate sweep.

He wanted her—now—this exact instant; wouldn’t care if the whole world was watching; a throng of onlookers standing over them as Jeffrey pounded her on the dirty linoleum floor; witnessing their turgid surrender to instinct; the crowd salivating like a pack of wild dogs howling at the baleful moon at the midnight hour.

Ophelia reclined back in her chair, allowing her legs to part in a manly pose.

She ran her tongue over her lower lip, and he could see her pristine teeth were just as pointed as her nails.

“You ready to go, then?” she said, standing up.

“Lead on”, his voice returned, condemned to a bare whisper.

Jeffrey pulled himself up, feeling his manhood encased in molten balls of searing flesh, threatening to explode, spilling the contents of his libido onto the ground like hot, steaming fish guts, then disintegrating into a deep infinite coma.

Ophelia was walking out ahead of him, with every male—and a few female—eyes glued to the movement of her sharply etched denim. He hung back a moment and then followed.


The journey to her domicile went by in a blur; such was his need to get there. He ached to hold her, leaving his prints on that tremulous skin like a crazed burglar in a balaclava. He was an insomniac crying out for even two minutes of sleep, with every fibre kept awake in its torment of expectation, nerves fitting as if dowsed with a strong and overpowering whiskey.

It was more than lust—it was the abyss: that unspeakable and indescribable constellation of taboo, which had led illicit lovers to commit their orgies of wanton depravity and murders throughout history.

They didn’t speak, walking along by an unhealthy river which snaked its way towards their destination, keeping faith with them. The terrain was alien; flat and lifeless, as if colour itself had abandoned it, punctuated by sharp grey gravel and even darker rock; an indefinable depression, making the water mourn their passing.

This was Dead Man’s Land: images of dereliction and decay turning away from them in shame. Jeffrey couldn’t imagine the sun ever casting her optimism here.

“This is it”, Ophelia said, as they were confronted with a three storey building, which insinuated itself upon the landscape as though dropped from the sky, or grown from the ground like a gigantic weed. Jeffrey surveyed its rise towards the angry sky, the windows shunned against the world.

“Big place.”

“All mine”, she replied, taking a key from her coat and opening the stout door which she pushed inward effortlessly.

Her coat was off as he stepped over the threshold, and hung on a stand just as quickly.

“Make yourself comfortable in the sitting room.  There’s a drinks cabinet.  Take what you want.”

Ophelia disappeared down the hall in the blink of an eye. Jeffrey went to her coat, still warm, then held the lining to his face, smelling it, letting the fabric smother him with her residue.  He let go of it after a second, and went through the aperture into the room. 

The décor was minimal. The wooden floor showed years of wear, with vestiges of long scuffed polish still clinging hopefully to it. A large white rug sprang to life as the very centre, with a red and orange serpent engraved in an attack pose, the tongue protruding in a grimace of power and menace.  The antique cabinet, now faded from its former glory, was set in an alcove beside the mantle piece, where the bottles and glasses within refused to shine. No television stood sentry.

The mantelpiece itself was ornate, old fashioned, of white marble with black specks scattered through it, which contrasted conspicuously with the red sofa, stretched out by the window. Two equally crimson chairs were placed at either end, but they, like the couch, were an imposition of modernity and seemed casual, if not careless.

Jeffrey scanned the two pictures which rested in frames on the mantle top: the first was an elderly couple, the second being Ophelia and a small boy. Both turned out to be oil paintings, but he couldn’t locate an artist’s signature. As an amateur painter himself, he was drawn to the compositions: the lighting and shading, depth of the faces and backgrounds, envisioning how the brush had been guided to achieve the ultimate effect.

 The old couple’s eyes were surreal, staring at him with such life that he expected them to perhaps wink back mischievously, but their aspect wasn’t one that engendered levity. The technique is what interested him and which he had striven to perfect, but had not, as yet mastered. The image of Ophelia could only be described as brilliant. The small boy merited a passing glance, but her dazzling essence escaped the canvas, pulling in his breath. He expected her to speak. Squinting, Jeffrey held it up to the gloomy daylight.

“That’s my brother, Martin and me.”

She was standing behind him and he jumped at her voice.

“These paintings are amazing.  Especially of you.”

He replaced her frame on the mantelpiece.

“Thank you”, Ophelia went to the cabinet, taking two glasses out.

“The others are my parents. Had them done several years ago”, she went on. “What’s your poison?”

“Anything will do”, he replied sitting on the couch.

Ophelia came to him, with drink outstretched, straightening the frames to their former, and precise, resting places.

“Where are your family now?” he asked, taking the glass.

“They live near here.  See them most days”, was her response, tasting alcohol.

“I have one brother.  In New York.  We don’t talk much”, he said.


“Does it matter, Ophelia?”

She stroked his hand with her finger tip.

“No.  Doesn’t matter……”

The kinetic surge spiked his emotions as their lips tasted each other for the first time. It was as delicious as he knew it would be: hands on the hot contours of her denim imprisoned legs, winding over them and through them, the feel of her scorching and corroding his soul. She knew how to caress and invoke a certain response, how to elicit just what she wanted, holding back and driving forward again. His hands were in her hair, entangled in those red highlights, then stroking the top of her breasts which poked, like an unbearable tease, just over her purple blouse. 

Jeffrey wanted to swear obscenely, but his breath was stolen away as soon as it was born. She kissed, ripping the buttons of his shirt, hands on a downward slope, but not yet….not yet. She bit his lobe, tasting him.

“Fill me, Jeffrey……now, right now.”

He strained under the pressure of his own uncontrollable mechanics.

“The bedroom would be better, much better”, her voice intoned.

She rose, like the Phoenix, releasing his burning agony; the loss of her touch—even for an instant—an unendurable withdrawal. Worse than heroin.

Ophelia, with one graceful movement, had the purple blouse up over her head and cast aside, falling in a useless, discarded heap. Standing out of her shoes, she unbuttoned her jeans. Jeffrey knelt before her, heart in overdrive, clasping her hips and peeling the denim off, leaving her naked, except for the black panties which clung beneath her waist. His hands tried feverishly to remove them, but she turned away and began climbing the staircase, the dark and lacy fabric a talisman.

He began to move after her, the dead weight of his arousal almost crippling him now; cursed him for the unmentionable acts he was about to perform, casting him to damnation upon an eternal sea; he was carrion for hideous sea creatures.

At the stop of the stairs were three doors:  one left and two to the right. He glanced towards the immediate one on the right, which was open and could see a double bed. A large mirror gazed down over it, taking in the whole room from the doorway.  It was empty.

The other door was shut and Jeffrey went to the one on the left, turning the knob. This area was tiny, and proved completely bare. There were markings on the floorboards where a toilet, sink and bathtub had once resided. Old rusted pipes protruded along the wall. He shrugged, stepping out of it again.

Must be the far door, he thought, going to it, but stopping. There was breathing, clear and alive, which was increasing in urgency. He turned back to where the bed ensconced invitingly. Without stepping in, he could see his own image peering back from the doorway.

Something on the bed shifted itself, the bare mattress indenting as if under a person’s form. She was there. He entered.

Ophelia was opened out on the bed, her head at its foot, with her feet facing both the headboard and the mirror, like an inverted human crucifix. Her hair cascaded down, almost touching the floor and she smiled at him from her upside down position. The mirror had simply refused her image, and Jeffrey was transfixed for several minutes, before turning his back out towards the landing.

“Your choice, baby” she said, the voice and words hypnotic, pulling at him with an invisible irresistibility, insisting that he stay with her and give her what she wanted.

He held onto the door, swaying, a single step either side of it deciding his everlasting place in the firmament. Jeffrey shut the door, banging it against the world, standing in her unholy vestibule, where her arms outstretched in demonic tribute.

“Draw the curtains first”, she said, indicating to the window and the harsh, grey sky, acting as a witness to the ritual to be played out.

He moved stiffly, unable to defy her now, pulling them across in a stupor.

“Light the candles.”

Through the gloom, he went to one of the dressers, which adorned either side of the bed, and lit the pitch black wicks with a lighter laid beside one of them.

“Take your clothes off.”

He cast each garment to the floor, the orbs of the beast coveting something else within him; the prize over which two Kingdoms had waged war since the time of Eden. Jeffrey raised his hands in defence, as if to shield that thing which no mortal man could see, but it was too late, and he was too weak.

Her pupils were now that of the wolf, staring at the baleful moon after midnight, glowing with its eerie serenity.

He climbed on top of her blasphemy, taking her legs in both hands and running his fingers along until they reached the black nylon. He wrenched them off, ripping them, then entered the pit between her thighs, prostrating like never before.

They came, but still she demanded more—crying out again and again. Making him do things that even in fantasy, Jeffrey could never have conceived of.  He climaxed many times, but still she screamed, insisting one more time. As she emptied him of every drop, Ophelia refused to wait until he could refill, so intent was she in carrying on with the sacrilegious benediction.

 Then—it was over.

He remained, spread-eagled, over her and in her, the lipstick smeared across their faces like grotesque whores. Her hair was now a limp and languid mess, lying across her forehead like rotting black orchids.

Ophelia’s eyes were closed, her breast still heaving, as she continued taking pleasure from his invisible destruction and desecration. She moaned.

“Bitch!” he spat, blood from his lips turning the spittle pink.

The smell of their filth hung, putrescent, in the atmosphere as he rolled painfully off her, feeling a sharp sting as she pricked his ruined spine with a fingernail. Sleep drifted into his brain with the speed of morphine as the deadly narcotic she had injected into him took his consciousness into nocturnal oblivion.


Jeffrey’s eyes opened.

 The room was as before, the candles maintaining their vigil, the burning smell of grease heavy in the air. He was alone, the blackness of night beating at the covered windows to be let in. 

He tried to raise his arm, but could only move it barely an inch. Jeffrey tried again, but it held fast, refusing to budge.

Ophelia appeared in the doorway, a dark silken slip draping the contours of her body, no ravages of their unhallowed Trieste visible on her face; makeup applied as before. She didn’t say anything for a moment, before moving further into the room.

“How do you feel?”

“I can’t move”, he replied, feeling numbness invading his tongue and lips, taking speech away from him.

She stood at the foot of the bed.

“I know.  It takes a while.”

Ophelia manoeuvred herself back onto the bed and then on top of him, straddling him.

“Poor darling.  Just relax.”

Jeffrey couldn’t feel her sitting on his middle and tried to bounce her off with his legs, which refused to yield.  He was totally paralyzed.

She stroked his hair, but her touch held no sensation. 

“You were good, you know?  One of the best I’ve had.  But it’s nearly over.  Don’t struggle against it.”

Ophelia leaned over and kissed him gently, lovingly, massaging his dying chest.

“It’s the blood we need. My family and I. My parents sleep under the floor in what used to be the bathroom, under those floorboards.  My brother lies next door, and should be waking soon.  That’s why I had them done in oil paintings.  We’re not exactly photogenic.” 

She laughed and it seemed such a normal, genuine sound.

She brought her head down, with their mouths almost touching again.

He tried to struggle, but it was futile.

“No good, sweetness.  There are tubes in your veins. I gave you something so that there’d be no pain. Just go with it. Don’t spoil the day we’ve had.”


Ophelia kept kissing and stroking him, even for a time after death, but, once Jeffrey began to stiffen and grow cold, it lost any appeal.

The bottles by the bed were full, and she checked them, satisfied. A banging came from the wall, next door and she knew Mark would start throwing a tantrum at any moment.

“Coming!” she said.  “Don’t be so impatient.” 



© Copyright 2019 Declan J Connaughton. All rights reserved.

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