Rose Witmore trudged up a large flight of stairs in her family's home. "Dammit," she said as she struggled to negotiate the stairs in a set of shiny black high heels her parents had bought for her, "If I break these things I swear to god I'm making daddy buy me another pair," Rose said sternly as she huffed and puffed to the top of the tall, narrow staircase and stood before an old wooden door. She opened the door, which gave way only with a loud creek, and she stepped into the room, flipping on a light switch as she did. Dusty lamps scattered about the room hummed slowly to life.
The room Rose stood in was one of many in her family's home--Witmore Manor, a large, even castle-like edifice situated upon Witmore Point--an impressive rock formation jutting out over the ocean. The whole estate was in Winchester Cove, a small fishing village in New England right on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. Several generations of Rose's family had lived in the manor, and it was without doubt the biggest house in town, complete with its own gates, its own security, several luxury cars, a pool, and all the bells and whistles of a lifestyle fit for those who never had to worry about money because they'd always had plenty of it.
The Witmore family's fortune had not been lost on Rose; in fact, it had been lavished upon her, and that much showed. Rose was a beautiful young woman of seventeen years who stepped into the room at the top of the stairs in $500 high-heeled dress shoes. The glimmering of the lights revealed a young woman who was self-assured to a fault. Rose stood at about five feet eight inches tall with a body to die for. Long, fiery red hair cascaded down from her head and framed a beautiful, fair-skinned face with a smile that could light up a room. Upon Rose's chest there sat a beautiful set of large, jiggle-prone breasts jutting out from her and jiggling just ever so little with each step. These wondrous orbs defied gravity, being large and jiggly and yet somehow firm at the same time.
Rose's figure as a whole was--well--full. She wasn't fat, not at all, but she certainly had curves, curves like real, full-bodied women are supposed to have. Her belly had around it a slight bit of flab. It wasn't enough to be sloppy, but it was there. Her ass jutted out behind her and was on display as her wide, child-bearing hips swayed from side to side as she walked. She had muscular and meaty legs that seemed to go on forever. Today, this sexy, voluptuous physique was encased in a set of form-fitting black pants that hugged her luscious curves and a white silk blouse that, while not intended to be form-fitting, struggled to contain the wonderful globes protruding from Rose's chest as she walked.
Rose trudged into the large room at the top of the stairs. The lights she had turned on revealed a quite large library, but one that no one had been in in ages. Dust covered the many rows of books that filled the book cases along the walls. There was plenty of furniture in the room for any would-be reader to plop himself down in, but the furniture was old and dusty too. "What a dump," Rose commented as she made her way into the room. Her mother had sent her up here to find an old family photo album that had been shoved up here among the other dusty tomes, but Rose couldn't even figure out where to start in a room of this size. The place was nearly the size of a basketball court, lined with more books than anybody could ever read. "This place could be nice if Daddy would tell Mona to get her ass up here and clean," Rose said, referring to the family's housekeeper who apparently had not visited the library in some time.
Rose walked about in the room, her heels echoing on the floor of the big empty place as her hips swayed sexily about. She glanced at a few of the books in the hope of seeing one that didn't look quite as old as the others, but, alas, nothing. As Rose stood in the corner of the room farthest from the door, she saw something that caught her eye. It was behind a big couch, seemingly shoved back there in a rush. "What is that . . . " Rose began to ask herself as she walked in the direction of the mysterious thing, her heels clicking about on the wooden floor. Rose reached the wall and peered behind the couch. What she saw was a great big package wrapped up in what seemed to be plain brown paper covered with dust. "What the hell is this . . . " Rose mused as she reached behind the couch, grabbed the top of the dusty old thing, and pulled it out.
A small cloud of dust emerged from the item's resting place as she removed it. She took it with both hands and guided it into the light. The thing appeared to be about four feet by six feet, large enough to be awkward to lift. It was covered in brown paper wrapping that looked like it had been there for a long time. Rose removed it from behind the couch and set it against the wall. “What the hell is this?” she asked herself as she poked the brown paper, making a small hole. Rose then put her hand into that hole and began to rip at the paper, kicking up still more dust as the contents of the paper were revealed. After a few seconds, Rose removed the last of the paper and looked upon an old painting seeming to depict a woman from another time, another world even.
“Wow,” Rose mused as she stepped back and looked at the picture. It depicted a woman probably in her mid-forties. The woman had long black hair and beautiful skin. She stared at the viewer of the painting with penetrating green eyes. The woman appeared to be rather curvy, with a beautiful dress and a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination about the prominence of her boobs. Farther down, the woman’s belly protruded out mightily, stretching the confines of the beautiful dress that struggled to contain her voluptuous frame. The woman was in a sitting position with a fireplace behind her in what appeared to be a small but well-appointed cabin.
“Who are you?” Rose asked the absent figure in the painting. The afternoon sun shined through the window, casting its rays upon a small plaque with some writing on it toward the bottom of the painting. Curious, Rose bent down her boobs dangling beautifully as she got on all fours to read the inscription. “Within is the soul of Lady Switham, with her reputation stained and spotty. Take care if you should find her here, for she may leap to your body,” Rose said as she read the inscription on the painting. She chuckled a bit at it; it was a weird thing to say. Rose absent-mindedly drew her fingers over the small inscription, and suddenly she recoiled as she felt a shock run through her body. “Ouch!” she said as she suddenly pulled her hand back. At the same time, the light in the room shifted as clouds darkened the sky outside. The crack of thunder roared over the water as the clouds swirled ominously. Rose looked out the window and cocked an eyebrow. “It was sunny a few seconds ago,” she said to herself.
Suddenly, the temperature in the room dropped. Rose looked before her and saw a tine cloud exit her body—she could see her very breath. The nipples on Rose’s bouncy breasts hardened as cold swept the room. Rose spun around as a gust of chilly wind blew through the cavernous room. “What the hel—“ she began.
“Beautiful . . .” came a thin, feminine voice that echoed through the room as the wind somehow continued to blow about the place. Rose cocked an eyebrow, sure she was hearing things now. Rose looked around with worry. “Who’s there?” she demanded, seeing no one. “Outta here,” she said with fear creeping into her voice as she began to walk quickly and powerfully toward the door. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew the door closed with a sound that echoed through the big room.
“Not so fast dear,” came the same voice again. Rose spun around, determined to find the source of the voice. “Who are you?!” she demanded as her eyes darted around the cavernous room.
Suddenly, she beheld something that defied all explanation. In the middle of the air, probable ten to fifteen feet off the ground, there appeared an apparition—a woman. The woman appeared as if from another world, another plane of existence, her clothes remnants of another time. She wore an old dress of the kind that might have been worn in the 1600s with a plunging neckline and frilly bodice. The figure’s hair blew about as wind continued to whirl around the room. A large bulge protruded from her belly, and her entire form was surrounded by a kind of glowing green aura.
“Oh. My. God.” Rose said as she gazed, her jaw on the floor, up at the woman. “Not quite dear,” the woman replied with a slight chuckle as she gazed down at Rose. The woman waived her hand as if too beck Rose toward her, and suddenly the curvy red-head felt her voluptuous body being lifted off the ground.
“What the—“ Rose began as she simply floated upward. She tried to kick and jerk about but somehow found her body being kept still by some unseen force. Up she went until she reached about the same level as the figure she gazed upon. “Oh my,” the woman said as Rose came to her level. The woman reached out and drew her hand across Rose’s face briefly. The woman felt cold and, in some way, wet. It was as though her body were some sort of ghostly ectoplasm, a sort of viscous fluid that was, in some sense, the body of a spirit. Rose stared straight at the woman, transfixed. “You . . . “ she began, “you’re Sw—Sw—Switham . . . the lady from the painting.”
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