Page 30 of Haunting Goats

It’s going to be a lot of trial and error to get her to trust me and let me lead. She doesn’t always need to be in control. Lyr is strong, but I want her to see that with me, she doesn’t always have to be. There is someone to carry the load with her. I could be that someone.

I slip two fingers into her tight hole, curling them upwards when I enter. I slowly pump my fingers in and out, earning me moans that grow louder. She reaches beneath her head to grab the pillow and places it over her eyes. Her right hand cups her mouth and her left grips the sheets in a satisfying hold.

Wrong move, Lyr.

How dare she hide herself from me and muffle the most perfect sounds I’ve ever heard. I’m all in at this point. I halt my ministrations.

Lyr removes her hand from her mouth, and the pillow whips across the room; “Hey! Why’d you stop?”

She looks outraged, but so am I.

“See these hands? They’re mine now.”

I place her wrists together and hold them above her head. She cocks her head at me, unamused.

“Really?” the tone in her voice confirms she’s unimpressed by my antics.

I kiss her cheeks, and she stops whining, failing in her attempt not to smile. I peck each dimple with my lips and stop mid-kiss as I realize what she’s done.

“Lyr.” I say excitedly.

“Are you okay?” she questions.

Her smile is gone, and concern clouds her eyes.

Of course I’m okay. I’m more than okay.

“Yeah, I’m good. Uh, you just moved the pillow without touching it.”

I’m thrilled. This is good news, and just in time.

“Wait. I did?” she asks.

I chuckle, “Yeah. You did. What else can you do?”

I eagerly roll off her. We only have a few hours until we have to go, and I need to see if I can get her to tap into more.

Being able to physically move objects with our hands is the harder task, but it makes sense to me why Lyr could accomplish that first. It requires a lot of energy, and she has plenty of it; she runs on spite and resentment.

Paranormal abilities aren’t achievable without acceptance of death.

She must be getting there.

I can get her there.

Lyric climbs off the bed.

“What are you doing?” I probe.

As she reaches the door, she sing-songs, “One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, Attie’s gonna teach me how to walk through a door!”

I love this silly side of her. It’s not something I’ve seen from her before. I wish we could hold on to this moment of lightheartedness and laughter, but just like time, it’s forever fleeting.

A seriousness cloaks the room, and we stare at the exit with nothing but angst and determination. This is it—the door that could lead to Lyr’s way out.

CHAPTER 18

LYRIC