Guest Blog with Jean Roberta Author of Obsession

This is the season when a writer’s thoughts turn to the afterlife and to uncanny coincidences. Strangely enough, I never find ghost stories completely depressing, possibly because the ones that are supposedly true suggest that human life doesn’t end with the death of the body.

History fascinates me, especially the kind that hasn’t been widely written about. When I read the call-for-submissions for an anthology of lesbian ghost stories, I thought about the independent wife of the first Lieutenant-Governor (local representative of the British crown) of Saskatchewan, the Canadian prairie province where I live. The Lieutenant-Governor’s wife was a supporter of votes for women when she came to live here in 1905. As far as I know, she wasn’t a lesbian, but fiction-writers are allowed to make things up.

Here is a passage from my story, “Authentic,” which was published in Haunted Hearths and Sapphic Shades: Lesbian Ghost Stories, edited by Catherine Lundoff (Lethe Press, 2008).

The story is told by Matt, lonely lesbian historian who moved west to accept a job as historical consultant for Government House, the Lieutenant-Governor’s old residence, now the site of guided tours with guides in period costumes.
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The last tour had finished, and the place seemed empty. Steve the security guard must be somewhere on the premises, but Matt still felt alone. She spread her supper on a simple pine table covered with a cotton cloth, filled the tea kettle and lit the gas stove to make herself a pot of tea.

The sound of the piano in the music room almost caused her to drop her teacup on the floor. She recognized a sentimental tune which was popular before 1910. Matt knew that melody because the wife of Lieutenant-Governor Ferrier had made up her own words to it.

Someone has done their homework, but playing the piano at this time borders on vandalism and is definitely trespassing. Eating in the kitchen wasn’t the same kind of offense. After all, it had been the room where the servants prepared meals for their betters. On a deeper level, Matt felt she had squatters’ rights to Government House.

She followed the tinkling notes until she stood facing the back of the woman in evening dress who sat gracefully on the piano bench, lit by the soft glow of electric lights dimmed to look like gaslight. Her blonde hair was loosely piled on her head in a chignon that left artless wisps hanging down her bare neck and upper back. The royal-blue crepe de chine of her bodice led to a tiny, cinched waist that made her look like a life-sized doll.

"Excuse me," said Matt. "I'm sorry, but you can't - why are you here?"

The woman turned to smile at Matt. Her face looked young but shrewd, with large blue eyes and a determined chin. "Does my playing offend you?"

"It's after hours," mumbled Matt, "and no one is supposed to be here. Are you a new tour guide?"

The woman laughed. "I'm Ravenheart, Prairie Dog. You may call me by my name, Diana."

Matt felt faint. She didn't see how Ravenheart could have done herself up so elaborately and then come to the building (from where?) and found a way in since she had left Matt hanging in the chat-room. It didn't seem possible, but it had to be. Another explanation suggested itself, but she refused to believe that she had completely lost track of time or that she was conversing with a hallucination or a disembodied spirit.
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Stories about supernatural beings also interest me, and the characters in ancient Greek and Roman mythology never seem to grow stale. All the shapeshifters in current paranormal fiction seem to me to be descendants of the satyrs, centaurs, mermaids and echidnas in the ancient stories.

In another of my lesbian stories, “Slippery when Wet,” a university student meets a classmate who might not be human. Her day begins with a haunting dream:
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Cory Seeker, third-year biology major at Lifeprep University, had a dream about
snakes. She was fond of all the animals she knew personally, and she often dreamed
about creatures in all shapes and species, but this dream was unusually troubling.

The snakes in Cory’s mind emerged from dark holes to slide familiarly over and under eachother as they swarmed up her solid curves, from her thighs to her quivering belly to herhardening nipples and on to her neck, seeking warmth as she tried not to breathe. When she opened her mouth to scream, no sound came out.

Dim light, as though from candles, glowed on scales in various patterns and colors,
from the black of an oil slick on a midnight ocean to metallic silver and gold to the deep red of rubies and fresh blood. Cory couldn’t distinguish the poisonous or hostile from what might be relatively friendly and harmless snakes. A constant hissing reminded her of flowing water and rising steam. The snakes tempted her with suggestions in a language she could almost understand. She couldn’t close her slippery thighs to keep out unwelcome visitors.

This story is in my single-author collection of fourteen erotic stories, Obsession, available from Eternal Press in various formats.