Round 4.1: Write a story of max 2.5K words that is both LGBTQIAP+ and paranormal. The story must contain the following three words: Cackle (verb), ominous (adjective), microwave (noun).

(*Note: This story contains scenes of violence)

A gust of wind has me pulling my sweater collar tighter to my throat. Normally I love October, how it ushers in the change of seasons. But the deepening fire of fall colours doesn't warm me as usual. There's an ominous feel to the air today.

The screen door creaks open behind me.

"Thanks, Rachel. Not many people let me use their bathroom but you're as nice as your place is."

"Not a problem, Drew." The pharmacy's new delivery person is a tall man so I have to crane my neck to meet his eye. He has a rather intense stare but is always quick to smile whenever I see him here or in town. "Do you have a lot more deliveries to make?"

"TGIF! Just two more then I'm done." He grins over his shoulder as he heads down the porch steps. "Hoping to get some night fishing in this weekend at the lake. How about you? Got any plans?"

"Nope. Got nothing exciting except microwave popcorn, Netflix and chill."

From inside the kitchen, the microwave timer pings. I can't help but grimace.

Drew laughs. "Snuck a packet in while I was in the john?"

"Uh, yeah." Not true. I hadn't touched the microwave.

I run my hand across the back of my neck. At least my hairs don't stand on end anymore when things like this happen.

"Popcorn for supper." Drew shrugs. "Been there, done that. I live alone too and I suck at cooking."

From the porch, I watch him place his delivery bag in the trunk of his car then get behind the wheel. I wave as the vehicle crunches its way down the dirt road.

"Popcorn for dinner does sound good," I murmur to myself.

There's a loud bang behind me and I whirl around. Through the screen door I spy the box of popcorn I keep on the kitchen counter upturned onto the floor. Individual packets scattered everywhere.

I close my eyes and clench my fists. "Damn it, Witchy!" I call out with wishful thinking.

No such luck. A stuttering, high-pitched warble answers me, from the other side of the lane. Sure enough, the stray feline whom I named after his meow that sounds like a witch cackling slinks out from beneath some bushes.

The black stray is the unexpected tenant I acquired when I got the cottage last winter. Rent is paid on occasion in the form of a dead mouse or bird left at my doorstop. The cat stays outdoors for the most part but sneaks inside (ok fine, I let him in) when the weather's bad. Then I find him curled up on my bed or on my sofa.

Witchy parks his butt on the grass and gives me the look, the ones cats give 'stoopid hoomans'. Guess he's calling bullshit on how I could think he'd be both outside and in the kitchen knocking things over at the same time.

Whatever. I must've bumped into the box with my elbow earlier and hadn't noticed it was off kilter and about to tip over.

Same thing with my hairbrush last week after I spent several minutes pulling out the curls I despise only to hear it fall off the dresser when I turned away. Or how my asthma puffer–which I'm always misplacing–keeps turning up in whatever pocket of what I'm wearing that day.

Or finding my favourite books and magazines open on my bookmarked pages when I know I'd put them away. Or the happy humming I hear from the other side of the door whenever I'm in the bath. Or the way my place at the table sets itself the times I do bother to cook a meal. Or...

I shake my head when the gentle tug on the back of my sweater comes, urging me back inside and away from the chill. I force myself to ignore how Witchy meows and hops onto the porch, his stare fixed not on me but on something behind me.

Maybe I'm just overly tired. Not getting enough hours of sleep as I keep waking from those dreams. The ones that leave me desirous, yet warm and cherished.

Leave me feeling buoyant, yet spent... sated.

Leave me wanting more.

The scent of bergamot and lemon has me closing my eyes. The gentle tug comes again. But it's the phone ringing inside that has me going in.

"Hello? Oh, hi mom. Huh? The pharmacy delivery guy just delivered my asthma meds since my car's in the shop. Yeah, uh-huh. What? No, mom. I'm not interested in looking for a new place closer to the city. The firm has no problem with my working remotely. Besides, the fresh air here is good for my lungs and it's peaceful...when things stay where they are. Uh-huh. Yeah. Wait, when's the party again? Hmm, yeah. I should make it. But tell Aunty Mavis not to get her panties in a wad if I'm not interested in meeting eligible bachelors. Yes, I know she thinks I'm going to be a spinster if I don't hook up with a man. She doesn't get it. Luckily you're my mom, not her. Uh-huh, yeah. Look mom, I need to get supper started. What am I eating? Uh... corn chowder. Look, let me call you this weekend? Right, ok. What? No, mom. I'm not going to bring a girlfriend to the party. I haven't dated anyone since Judith and I broke up last year. I'm not interested in Aunt Mavis throwing an aneurysm either and us having to call 911 for an emergency. What? God no! I'm not lonely all by myself out here...because I'm not alone."

After saying goodbye I find myself walking through the hallway to the living room. I stop before the fireplace and look up.

I had come looking for a place in the countryside for a fresh start and had fallen in love at first sight with the lake cottage for sale, a heritage listing on the edge of an old farmhouse property. The real estate agent couldn't stop going on about the condition of most of the antiques inside, original pieces from when the place was built in 1911. But it was the painting I'm staring at now that had captured my attention. I'd found myself unable to tear my gaze away from the pair of green eyes set in a delicate feminine face of the woman in a black, lace-collared dress that looked to be my age.

"Quite a history behind that portrait." The agent, who'd taken note of my fixation, clasped her hands. "Adelaide Harris. Young widow. Never remarried. Suitors galore but she turned them all down. There were rumours at the time."

"Rumours?"

"Mmm, that Adelaide was "one of those women." The agent had actually wagged her eyebrows.

"Born in 1892. Died in 1927. She married Thomas Harris in 1913 and the cottage was a gift from her wealthy father to the newlyweds. Thomas Harris was a hard man. And Adelaide a free spirit who liked to dress in men's breeches and hunt using his rifle. She was quite the marksman supposedly."

I remember rolling my eyes which the agent didn't see as I'd kept my gaze upon the portrait the whole time.

"Harris left to fight in the war where he was killed in battle. Upon Adelaide's death from influenza thirteen years later, her father maintained the cottage she loved in her honour. When he died, it was eventually sold by the estate."

Adelaide...

A soft bump against my ankle jerks me back to the present. I look down to find Witchy's yellow eyes blinking up at me. He followed me inside somehow. Purring at volume 11, he starts licking his paw and washing his face.

Good idea. After eating, I'll take a bath then go to bed, where the dreams await me.

_____

A man dressed in old-fashioned clothes, his face in a rage, is standing on the second floor landing, confronting Adelaide. I am both frightened, and furious, as I listen to him yelling how he is shamed by her secret. How can he not be man enough for her? Adelaide pleads for him to understand that it's not him and I watch in horror as he raises a fist. And as I cry out on her behalf, I feel arms wrap around my waist, a warm curving body rocking me. Lemon and bergamot fill the air and–

I jolt awake in bed. The curtains flutter above me. Why...oh, that's right. I'd left the window open a crack to catch the night breeze.

I glance at my bedside clock. 3:14 AM.

The sound of a car driving up the lane has me frowning. Peeking out the curtains, I see a familiar vehicle. Drew?

Sharp knocking echoes from downstairs.

I pull on my housecoat and head down to the entrance.

"Rachel?" Drew's voice is muffled through the door. I open it. "Oh, hey. I hope I didn't scare you. Damn, I'm so sorry to wake you in the night. I had a bit of an accident with my boat on the lake nearby and lost my phone. Can I use yours to call my buddy for a boat tow?"

"Oh no, are you hurt?" I step back to let him in, only to catch the smell of liquor wafting about him.

A growl rises from the hallway beyond. Witchy appears, hackles raised, hissing and spitting. But the sharp click of the front lock has me whipping my head back to Drew.

He smiles as he eases back against the door.

"Hurt? I'm only hurt that you never considered something exciting with me this weekend."

And now the hairs on the back of my neck do stand on end. My heart begins to race and my chest goes tight.

"Get out. Right now, Drew."

"C'mon Rachel. Don't be like that."

I back away, grabbing the phone off the counter. "I'm calling the poli–"

"Run Rachel!" screams in my brain.

Drew lunges at me as I tear out the kitchen. I race for the back door but Drew jumps out from the kitchen side entrance and blocks my way. Spinning on my heels, I launch myself at the stairs. If I can get to my bedroom, I can lock myself behind its heavy oak door and call for help.

I bolt up the steps. And what now feels like a knife in my chest stabs deeper with every pounding step I take. Gasping and choking, I burst onto the second floor landing but a sickening yank on my head pulls me backwards.

Drew has caught me by the hair. Grabbing my arm, he spins me around. The phone flies out my hand. Drew trips me to the floor and flips me facedown. His beefy grip clamps the back of my neck as he straddles my legs and lowers himself down.

His foetid breath blows in my face. "You'll like it, Rachel," he pants. "Promise."

There's no air. I can't scream. Black spots swim before my eyes.

I'm passing out from the pain in my chest when the scent of bergamot and lemon washes over me. Drew's body above me jerks then freezes.

"What the fuck?!" he bellows.

A gunshot rings out. Then another. So loud, so close. The weight atop me disappears and through the ringing in my ears, I hear Drew running down the stairs and out the house. The squeal of tires receding comes next.

I manage to roll on my side. I'm wheezing, unable to catch my breath. I see the phone against the wall. My fingers claw on the floorboards but I can't move to reach it.

The phone screen lights up. Three key tones sound in succession as a 9 a 1 and a 1 appear on the display.

"911," the operator says. "What is your emergency?"

My chest is in a vice. I wheeze, unable to form words.

Then a voice speaks out. The voice I've heard in my dreams. The voice whose gentle undertones whisper from soft lips which warm my ears in the night, kissing me and being kissed by me, as a gentle touch caresses my body, holds me gently.

"I've been attacked in my house. I scared the man off. But now I can't breathe. I'm asthmatic. Please hurry!"

Adelaide. Oh god, I'm not crazy.

"Ad...Adel..."

An invisible hand strokes my face. My rescue inhaler appears before my mouth.

"I won't leave, Rachel. Stay strong. Breathe for me, my love."

____

Witchy purrs at the foot of the bed, happily laying upon the bunched up duvet I kicked off of me earlier. Sweat cooling off my skin. A ghostly touch is stroking just beneath my collarbone.

"Are you all right?" Warm fingertips I can't see brush over my breasts.

"Oh, just fine. Don't worry, Addie. The kind of breathless you leave me is the good kind."

I feel her laughing then her fingers twirling through my curls which I no longer brush out.

"The detective called today?"

"Yeah, Drew Miller's trial is next week. Conviction and prison is a certainty given the guy's previous record. He's been cleared to stand trial. Apparently, his claim he was shot at by a rifle-carrying ghost didn't stand."

She doesn't reply with words this time, just a hug from behind. I've come to learn that it takes a lot of energy for her to speak aloud or manifest her appearance. That's fine. Touch can convey more than words.

And we can converse in the dreams we share now. The more time we spend together, the stronger our connection has become. One of the first things I asked her not long after what happened with Drew was why she haunts the cottage.

"I don't pretend to understand why I continued here after I died. In the past, I never paid much mind to anyone who lived here. But from the moment you arrived, I knew. You're the reason I stayed and waited. I'm grateful, and happy. And in love."

My eyes well with tears as I recall her words. Before they can fall, I grab the TV remote and open the Netflix menu.

"What movie shall we watch tonight, guys? Oh, how about Ghostbusters? A classic. Should I get us some popcorn?"

On cue, the microwave downstairs pings and I grin. Witchy cackles at us, unimpressed with our humour.

"Adelaide, are you sure you're ok with my having a family dinner here tomorrow? Even if they can't know of you, I need to reassure my mother and my great aunt that I'm ok on my own after what happened."

The press of lips to my cheek tells me yes.

I don't pretend to understand how any of this is possible, but like Adelaide, I'm grateful, and happy. And in love too.