Chapter 11: The Swingers
The kitchen felt too crowded now, thrumming with the new, solid reality of Mary and the smug, satisfied energy radiating from Jezebel. Elias needed space that wasn’t filled with the ghosts of other people’s longing. He muttered something about checking his email and escaped down the hall, the memory of Mary’s warm, grateful hand and Jezebel’s predatory smile chasing him like a draft.
The grand salon was a cathedral of neglect. Dust motes danced in the few slants of weak afternoon light that cut through the grime on the tall windows. He sank into the cracked leather of his uncle’s old armchair, the springs groaning in protest. Every muscle in his back and shoulders was a tightly wound knot of pain. The wrecking bar had left a deep, throbbing ache along his spine.
He flipped open his laptop, the glow of the screen a tiny, defiant campfire in the vast, dark room. The house, of course, had no Wi-Fi. But he remembered his phone getting a flicker of signal here. He pulled it out. One bar. Then two. A shaky but serviceable 5G connection.
“Small victories,” he whispered to the dust-filled air.
He opened the browser, the familiar interface a comfort. His first instinct was to check his bank account, but he closed the tab immediately. The number there was a punchline to a joke he wasn’t laughing at. Instead, he navigated to the grocery delivery site, the one Rachel had set up with the estate account to keep him from starving. The login was saved. He was in.
The cart was already populated with the usual weekly essentials: bread, coffee, cheap pasta. His uncle’s money, or what was left of it, funneled into keeping the caretaker alive. A weird, bureaucratic life support system.
He started adding to the cart. Icy Hot patches. A larger bottle of ibuprofen. Then, thinking of the task ahead, he added work gloves, a pack of cheap T-shirts he wouldn’t mind ruining, and a case of energy drinks. It felt transgressive, like stealing, even though it was technically his inheritance paying for it. He hovered over the ‘Place Order’ button, a part of him expecting the site to crash, the money to be gone, for the house to find a way to stop this small act of self-preservation.
He clicked it.
The confirmation screen loaded. Delivery scheduled for tomorrow. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
The air in the room changed. It wasn't a temperature drop, not exactly. It was a thickening, a coalescing of intention. Two figures flickered into existence in the middle of the faded Persian rug, their forms struggling to hold like a bad television signal.
A man and a woman. They were dressed in garish 1970s attire: the man in a brown polyester suit with a wide, flared collar, the woman in a psychedelic print maxi dress, her hair a helmet of feathered blonde curls. They looked like they’d walked out of a time capsule, their faces etched with a peculiar mix of entitlement and profound weakness.
“You,” the man said, his voice thin and reedy, as if coming from a great distance. He pointed a wavering finger at Elias. “We saw what you did. With the flapper.”
The woman nodded, her expression pinched. “It’s an abomination. A rejection of the gift.”
Elias just stared, too tired for this. “What gift would that be?”
“The connection!” the man snapped, his form buzzing with static. “The energy! You think we don’t feel it? You think we don’t know what you’re withholding?” He gestured between himself and the woman. “Carol and I… we haven’t been able to properly manifest in months. The house is starving. And you… you have the audacity to refuse its sustenance.”
Carol took a step forward, her feet making no sound on the floorboards. “You kissed that… that Jezebel. You gave form to the farm girl. But you hold yourself back from the true union. The sacred act.”
It clicked then. They were part of this desperate economy of energy, and they saw his celibacy not as a personal choice, but as a hoarding of resources.
“Look,” Elias said, closing his laptop slowly. “I get it. You’re hungry. This place… it runs on a kind of fuel I don’t fully understand. But you can’t just demand that from someone.”
“We can,” the man insisted, his face contorting. “My name is Richard. This is my wife Carol. And we are not asking.” He tried to loom, but his translucent body had minimal physical presence to back it up. The threat was pathetic, and terrifying because of it. This was what desperation looked like here. A faded photocopy of menace.
Elias felt a sudden, unexpected wave of pity for them. They were trapped in this awful cycle, their identities reduced to this single, primal need. They weren't demons; they were addicts.
“I’m sorry,” Elias said, and he meant it. “I’m sorry you’re stuck. I’m sorry it’s been so long. That sounds… really lonely.”
Richard and Carol faltered. His empathy was a weapon they had no defense against. Confusion clouded their features. They were prepared for fear, for anger, for lust. Not for kindness.
“Don’t you patronize us,” Richard whispered, but the force was gone from his voice.
“I’m not. I’m trying to understand. You need energy. I assume the… the act itself would generate a lot of it, right?”
Carol nodded, almost imperceptibly. “It is the most potent offering. The most direct transfer.”
“But it’s not the only one,” Elias said, thinking fast, the writer part of his brain scrambling for a counter-proposal. “Strong emotion. Connection. That works too, doesn’t it? I felt it with Moonbeam. I saw it with Jezebel and Mary.”
Richard’s form solidified slightly, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying maybe we can work out a different kind of deal. I can’t give you what you’re asking for. Not like that. Not yet. It’s not who I am.” He took a breath, the idea forming as he spoke it.
"Maybe we start smaller. We talk. We get to know each other. I’m sure there are other ways to—"
"Why don't you want to fuck me?"
Carol’s question cut through the dusty air, sharp and stripped bare. She took another step, her feathered hair swaying. She was objectively stunning, a perfect artifact of seventies sensuality, but her voice was thin and pleading. It was the sound of a starlet asking why the camera turned away.
Elias’s mind flashed with a dozen explicit images, a sudden, unwelcome slide show of what they could be doing on the faded rug. Her body under that psychedelic print, his hands in that blonde hair. The fantasies were vivid and technically impressive. But they were just sterile images, divorced from the desperate, hungry people in front of him. Doing it like this would feel like performing surgery on himself.
"It's not about want," he said, his voice low and careful. He held her gaze, refusing to look away from her pain. "It's about the why. And the who. I don't know you. You don't know me. That matters."
He saw the confusion in Richard's face, the raw hurt in Carol's. They were from a different time, a different world. The concept was alien to them.
"So what, then?" Richard demanded, his form flickering with frustration. "We just fade away while you get to know us? That's your grand plan?"
"No," Elias said. He stood up, his body protesting the movement. He walked toward them slowly, until he was close enough to see the faint, shimmering edges of their forms. "My plan is to give you a bump. Right now. Something that doesn't require me to... perform."
He looked from Richard's skeptical face to Carol's lost one. He remembered the chaotic surge from Jezebel, the gentle warmth from Moonbeam. He thought about what else made people feel alive.
"Music," he said suddenly, the idea clicking into place. "You're from the seventies. You must have danced."
He pulled his phone from his pocket, his fingers moving quickly across the screen before the signal could die. He searched for a disco playlist, something with a driving, undeniable beat. He turned the volume all the way up.
A tinny, but potent, rhythm erupted from the phone's small speaker. The opening bars of a Bee Gees song filled the grand salon, the syncopated guitar and falsetto vocals a shocking intrusion of life into the tomb-like space.
Richard and Carol stared at the device as if it were magic. A flicker of recognition, then longing, passed over their faces. It was the sound of their world.
"Dance with her," Elias said to Richard, his voice firm over the music. "Remember what it felt like. The two of you. Just for a song."
He looked at Carol. "Remember being wanted. Not for a transaction. Just because you were you."
He took a step back, giving them space. For a moment, nothing happened. They were statues of fading light and polyester. Then, slowly, Richard turned to Carol. His hand, translucent and trembling, reached for hers.
Their fingers intertwined, and a spark of solidity jumped between them. A slow smile spread on Carol's face, real and uncalculated. Richard pulled her close, his other hand finding the small of her back. Their forms began to stabilize, the colors of their clothes deepening, the details of their faces sharpening.
They started to move, a slow, hesitant sway at first, then falling into the familiar rhythm. They weren't looking at Elias anymore. They were looking at each other. A low hum of energy began to build in the room, a warm, golden resonance that felt nothing like the desperate hunger of before. It felt like joy.
Elias watched, his own breath caught in his chest. He saw the way Richard looked at Carol, a genuine, possessive affection in his eyes. He saw the way Carol laughed, a real sound this time, as he spun her. They were solidifying with every beat, drawing strength from the memory of being alive together.
The song swelled toward its chorus. Their bodies were almost completely real now, the fabric of Richard's suit rustling, the swirl of Carol's dress kicking up little puffs of dust from the floor. The energy radiating from them was palpable, a warm pressure against Elias's skin.
He had given them a bump. It was working.
As the final notes played, Richard dipped Carol low, her hair brushing the floor. They held the pose, breathing heavily, fully corporeal and utterly stunned. Their eyes were wide, shining with something other than need. They looked... remembered.
The music ended. The sudden silence was profound. Carol, still in Richard's arms, turned her head to look at Elias. Her expression was completely transformed, clear and complex and human.
"Thank you," she whispered, the words filled with a depth of feeling that shook him.
Then Richard, his voice now rich and full, echoed her. "Yeah. Thank you."
They didn't fade. They stood there, holding each other, solid and present in the fading light. The transaction was complete. Elias had paid his debt, not with his body, but with a piece of their past. He slid his phone back into his pocket, the ghost of the bassline still thumping in his veins.
He slid his phone back into his pocket, the ghost of the bassline still thumping in his veins. Richard and Carol remained solid, holding each other, but the vibrant energy from the dance was already beginning to fade at the edges. Their forms subtly lost definition, like a photograph left in the sun. The house was already pulling the borrowed life back into its own foundations.
Carol’s eyes, clear and blue just a moment ago, were fixed on him with a silent, piercing intensity. He saw the plea in them, a raw and unspoken understanding. She had seen him revive Mary with a kiss. She wanted that same direct current, that undeniable proof of being.
“It’s not enough, is it?” Elias said, his voice flat with exhaustion.
Richard shook his head, his wide collar seeming to wilt. “A memory is a sip of water. We need a river.”
Elias looked at Carol, who hadn’t broken her gaze. He understood. The dance was a beautiful distraction, but it was just a primer. The real ignition needed a spark. He pushed himself up from the armchair, his muscles protesting the movement.
“Okay,” he said, the word tasting like surrender and strategy all at once. “Both of you. Take my hands.”
Richard’s eyes lit up with a sudden, lascivious hope. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face as he looked from Elias to his wife. “Well now. Getting into the spirit of things, are we? Sharing is caring.”
He reached for Elias’s hand with a greasy eagerness.
Elias pulled his hand back slightly, not quite making contact. He shook his head, a firm, final negation. “No. That’s not what this is.” He looked at Carol, who was watching him with a terrifying, focused hunger. “I’m going to give her a kiss. A brief one. The energy will flow into her, and because you’re connected to her, it will flow into you, too. That’s the deal.”
Carol nodded her head eagerly, a quick, bird-like motion. “Yes. Please.”
She stepped forward, leaving Richard’s side. Her form was already growing faint again, the psychedelic patterns of her dress blurring. Elias met her halfway. He didn’t think about it. He just leaned in and pressed his lips to hers.
Her mouth was cool and tasted faintly of stale lipstick and the peculiar, metallic tang of the house itself. There was no passion in it, only a desperate transaction. He focused, imagining the circuit closing, and pushed.
It wasn't the wild, chaotic surge Jezebel had provided. This was different, a slower, warmer current that felt like the last embers of a neglected fire. He felt it leave him, a tangible drain of his own vitality, flowing into her. A soft gasp escaped her, and her body solidified against his, suddenly warm and real and shockingly present.
A soft gasp escaped her, and her body solidified against his, suddenly warm and real and shockingly present. For a moment, it was just pressure, a transaction of warmth. Then Carol pressed into the kiss. Her mouth became urgent, searching, and a cascade of sensory information flooded through the connection—the thrum of a bassline, the sticky sweetness of cheap wine, the dizzying swirl of colored lights and anonymous, grinning faces in dark rooms. Memories of wild swinger parties, of a time when pleasure was a currency she spent freely, ignited within her.
Elias gave in for a few seconds, too. The sheer, raw life force pouring into her was a feedback loop, a dizzying current that threatened to pull him under. He felt the temptation to do more, to slide his hands from her shoulders down the curve of her back, to lose himself in the easy oblivion she represented. His own loneliness reached for it like a plant straining for the sun.
But he pulled back. He broke the contact, his breath coming in a short, sharp gasp. Carol tried to lean towards him, her eyes still clouded with the ghost of a forgotten high, seeking to reclaim the connection. Then she stopped. She blinked, the haze clearing, and looked at him not with hunger, but with a dawning, profound respect. He had given her a gift, not taken a prize.
“Well, hot damn,” Richard boomed, his voice now a solid, resonant thing. He clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and real in the quiet room. He looked himself over, patting his chest and his thighs, his polyester suit now crisp and fully formed. “That’s more like it! You’re a regular generator, kid. A real live wire.”
Elias stepped back, putting a foot of space between himself and the fully corporeal couple. He saw them properly for the first time—not as flickering shades, but as people. The vibrant, almost aggressive colors of their clothes, the fine lines around Carol’s eyes, the slight sheen of sweat on Richard’s brow. They were here.
“I can’t promise how long it will last,” Elias said, his own energy levels feeling noticeably drained. The cost was becoming terrifyingly clear.
Seeing Carol standing there, fully in the flesh, her feathered hair perfect and her dress clinging to a living, breathing body, made the decision a little easier. This was his role. He was the battery. The alternative was watching them fade back into whispers.
“Thank you,” Richard said again, his crude gratitude underpinned by a genuine awe. He grabbed Carol’s hand, his grip possessive. “Come on, baby. We’re long overdue for some husband/wife alone time.”
He winked at Elias, then pulled a laughing Carol toward the grand staircase. Their footsteps, heavy and real, echoed through the hall as they disappeared upstairs, leaving Elias alone in the sudden silence.
He stood there for a long moment, listening to the absence they left behind. The tools were still piled in the kitchen, the concrete waited in the basement, but all he could think about was the lingering taste of lipstick and the exhausting weight of being a power source. He walked back to his laptop, the screen dark and reflective. He opened it, not to shop, but to a blank document. The cursor blinked, a silent, demanding pupil. He had to write this down. He had to make sense of the economy of kisses before it consumed him entirely.
He stared at the blinking cursor, the memory of Carol’s lips still a cold brand on his own. His fingers hovered over the keys, but the words felt like ash in his mind, stolen by the drain of each transaction. Then the air in the room shifted, growing still and heavy, and Seraphina materialized before his chair, her Victorian gown a silent rustle of silk. “Your struggle is with the narrative,” she said, her voice a low, clear stream in the dusty silence. “Allow me to assist you with the telling; I require nothing in exchange.”