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An interrupted match resumes.

After examining one in the light, he removed the stopper and sniffed. Eyes lighting up, he took a sip. Oh, fuck yeah -- scotch. Good shit too.

He took a long pull, just enough to warm him and give him a little buzz when it kicked in. After a few seconds of experimentation, he found that the decanter fit within the deep pocket of his jacket. Seeing a wooden cigar box, he opened it and examined one of the cigars within. Cubans. I'd bet my left nut on it. Crazy bitch has somebody smuggling for her. Three cigars went into each of the two breast pockets of his jacket.

A glitter at the end of the room caught his eye, drawing him toward it. Oh, hell yeah -- jackpot, he thought as he beheld the display case full of coins. These will sell just as well as any of those paintings. A pirate's booty to go with my blonde booty for the evening.

Finding that the case wasn't even locked, he swung open the doors and let his makeshift bag fall open. He plucked the coins from their places, depositing them within the pillowcase one-by-one, whistling a song he'd heard in a pirate movie once.

Help me, someone. Let me out of here.

Morgan whirled toward the faint voice, drawing a gun and aiming. Though the words might very well match the plight of the woman down the hall, the voice sounded masculine. Though he saw nothing, he didn't think he could have imagined the voice.

Dropping into a crouch, hoping to utilize the furniture as cover, he moved back through the room, his gun held before him at the ready.

Sit down.

As before, the voice was quiet and had a quality like wind howling through trees. As best as he could determine, the voice had emerged from somewhere near the doorway through which he had entered the room. Training his weapon on the doorway, he moved more carefully, his eyes and ears straining against the gloom.

Sit down.

The voice sounded like that of an old man this time, croaking and more insistent.

Three more times Morgan heard the words, always coming from the doorway toward which he slowly moved.

Sit down!

This time, the voice had the timbre of a shouted command, but the volume of a whisper -- inches away from his ear.

Morgan whirled, backing away from the voice and nearly firing his weapon at nothing, for that is all he saw as he stumbled, falling into a chair.

Breathing heavily and unsure whether to be pissed off beyond words or scared shitless, Morgan looked and listened. Only silence greeted him, the unnatural silence of the old house. Goddamn, what was in that fucking scotch -- LSD? Fucking spooky old shithole has me imagining ghosts.

Levering up from the chair, he waited for the voice to protest again. After a minute or so, he shook his head with a snort and defiantly crossed the room back to the display case. Despite his adamant refusal to accept anything supernatural, he couldn't help but glance up at the huge boar head above the case frequently as he deposited coins in his bag. The disembodied head appeared to be staring down at him in accusation.

He kept his gun in hand.

Giving the bag a twist to secure it, he extended his middle finger to the leering boar and spun on his heel. Tucking the gun back in its holster, he defied the weird hallucination with another pull from the decanter of scotch. "Here's to you, spooks. Fuck you and the headless horseman you rode in on," he sneered under his breath.

The satisfying jingle of the bag in his hand chased away any thoughts of ghosts and disembodied voices. He stepped back out into the hall, his manhood twitching with the first signs of awakening as he thought about riding the blonde one more time before leaving with his haul. Bend her over and grudge fuck that cunt this time, he thought as his cock stiffened.

He threw open the bolts, and had just pulled the doors open when something moved in his peripheral vision.

Morgan turned and froze in terror.

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