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“Batchelor Mathiston II did sleep upstairs in that room.”

Dolores was holding one of the letters in her hand, scanning it. “Is that where you found these?”

The twins nodded. They had all gathered together with the four Killinsworth sisters in the kitchen. Daddy had called Sofie to let her know of the situation. Sofie had, in turn, alerted her sisters, bringing them all together a couple of hours later.

“Behind the wall,” Percy explained. “There was a crack behind the bed board, and I could see something poking out.”

“Do any of you know who ‘Husband’ is?” Morgan asked gently.

Sofie and Rosalind each shook their heads. Dolores looked thoughtful, but it was Beatrice who broke the silence with, “Well, there simply must be some mistake,” she scoffed, fanning herself with one hand.

Dolores and the others turned together to stare at Beatrice. “How so?” Dolores asked, her eyes already narrowing shrewdly.

“Well...” Beatrice sputtered. “Well, I mean… look at what these letters are!” Her voice grew progressively more flustered “Well, they’re implying that Mathison’s son was havin’… I mean, you don’t seriously think...”

Dolores turned away, shaking her head sadly. “You’ll have to forgive my sister,” she told the Clydesdale men. “She hasn’t quite gotten around to the idea yet that being gay is a thing that the cool kids are doin’.”

The sarcasm was evident, yet despite living alongside her sister all her life, Beatrice appeared immune to it. “Dolores, watch your tongue,” she scolded, giving Dolores a smack on the shoulder. “There’s young people present.”

“Ah, Beatrice?” Rosalind looked over all four of Daddy’s sons. “I think it might be too late to shield their ears, sweetie.”

Sofie made a show of leaning toward Bren, who was standing closest to her. “Best not mention the Pride march in Jackson to her,” she said in a none-too-quiet whisper. “She might crack.”

Beatrice folded both arms in front of her. She was wearing the look of a woman who had just bitten into a lemon. Rosalind picked up one of the letters and read to herself. Sofie peeked over her shoulder.

“It sounds very sweet,” said Rosalind after a brief bit. “Some of the stuff described in here isn’t too great, though.”

Beatrice unfolded her arms with a snap. “Well, of course it isn’t!” she declared, as if the rest of the room’s occupants were taking their sweet time catching up to her.

The whine in her voice came out right through her nasal passages. The other sisters had been immunized to the noise by now, judging by their lack of a reaction. For Daddy, however, it made the inside of his sinus cavities ring.

His boys weren’t doing so great, either.

“She’s talkin’ about the kid’s father, dipshit,” Sofie snapped, having had enough.

“They do get pretty graphic at times,” Daddy admitted, touching the edge of one letter on the counter. “Sounds like neither of them had the happiest childhood.”

“What about Mathiston junior?” Morgan asked next.

Dolores frowned. “What about him?” she asked, her sharp eyes looking from one Clydesdale son to the next.

“We can’t find him anywhere,” Morgan explained, brushing a lock out of his eyes.

“There’s nothing online,” Percy added, folding both arms in front of him.

“We’ve checked,” Dutch finished, shrugging. “There’s a birth certificate that says he was born, but aside from that...”

The implication was clear. An awkward air filled the kitchen. Each sister turned to look at one another. Interestingly, it was Dolores who appeared the most apprehensive of the bunch.

“Well, I mean… that could be any number of reasons,” she said, flustered. “People back then didn’t always keep the most meticulous records.”

“They kept a birth certificate,” Dutch pointed out.

“An’ there were records about Batch’s older brothers,” Morgan added. “Saying they all died during the Civil War.”

“Nuthin’ on Mathiston’s youngest son, though,” said Percy, keeping his arms folded. “Not even a newspaper clipping saying that he’d died.”

Daddy decided then to make his move. One hand reached over to open a drawer. From inside, he pulled out a leather-bound book, one that the sisters instantly recognized.

“I hope none of you mind too much,” he said, laying the sketchbook down. “But I took the liberty of retrieving this from the hutch Mrs. Sofie showed me yesterday.”

“What for?” wondered Rosalind, though she didn’t sound upset.

“That’s Batchelor Mathiston’s sketchbook,” Sofie said, her eyes widening with excitement. “The young one, I mean. We found that thing in the attic ages ago. While we were movin’ stuff out.”

“I had a quick glance through it.” Daddy opened the book to a page about a third of the way through. “Have a looksee.”

Dolores looked down at the sketch Daddy had indicated. “I recognize her,” she said quietly while her sisters stared. “That’s Mathiston’s wife. She was the family matriarch.”

“Anything interesting in the history books where she’s concerned?” asked Morgan.

Rosalind was the one who answered. “She died. It was way before the war. They say she had a rough pregnancy with her last child. Tuberculosis was what did it, but—”

Rosalind trailed off, her intent clear. From the sound of it, the rough pregnancy had left the late matriarch’s body too weak to fight off the disease.

“He would’ve been around ten years old at the time,” said Dolores, who was thumbing through more pages. “Batch must’ve sketched these from memory.”

“How?” Beatrice wondered, caught up in the mystery. “Dolores, nobody back then had family photographs.”

Daddy had thought of the same thing. “He would have had to possess incredible talent,” said the father of four, eyeing the book with a sad sort of fondness.

Dutch and Bren, meanwhile, were pouring over the letters. Dutch’s eyes drifted toward the book, but Bren ignored it for now.

“These letters,’ Dutch spoke, holding one up. “They talk about the two. Batch and Husband, like they knew each other for a long time.”

“Like they were friends first,” Bren added, holding one letter close to his face. “There’s a part in this one about Husband saying that it wasn’t Batch’s fault.”

Daddy turned to his middle son. “About?” he asked, concerned etched into the one word.

Bren set the letter down. “It don’t say,” he said, eyeing the letter like he found it unsettling. “Something t’ do with Batch’s father. It happened after Husband left here, though.”

“Look at these.” Dutch pointed to a sketch near the back of the leather book. His eyes drifted to the faces of the four sisters, silently asking permission. Dolores nodded, which was enough for Dutch.

“Look here,” he said, sliding it over so that Bren could see. “There’s sketches of this same guy, over and over.”

The sketches were of a handsome Black male. He looked to be of a young age, maybe in his twenties. Most of the sketches were drawn outdoors. Quite a lot of them depicted the young man without a shirt on. The artist had taken a great deal of care capturing the taught muscle hidden beneath his dark skin.

“I’d say we’ve located our Husband,” said a satisfied Bren, flipping the page over. “There’s more sketches of this guy in here than anyone else. ‘Cept maybe the mother.”

Wordlessly, Beatrice turned away from the sketchbook, banishing it from her own sight. Rosalind and Sofie looked around at the expressions of the others. Dolores eyed the last page, a nude sketch of the young black man standing in the upstairs door leading out onto the balcony.

“Seriously?” Dutch asked, looking from one sister to another. “Nobody looked through this thing before?”

“Beatrice did,” Rosalind revealed, to Beatrice’s utter horror. “All the time, back when we were lil’ girls.”

“Rosalind!” Beatrice cried out, with one hand over her mouth.

“Our mother had t’ pry it outta her fingertips once,” Sofie added, snickering. “Right before bedtime, as I recall.”

Beatrice turned red in the face and dashed out of the kitchen. Sofie’s laughter followed after her, which was then preceded by Sofie herself. The two could be heard shouting from the other room before a door slammed shut.

“That went well,” Bren noted.

“Mr. Clydesdale,” Dolores said, acting like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, “I hope you don’t mind, but I have connections through the historical society. It might be possible for us to get to the bottom of this mystery.”

Daddy raised an eyebrow. “You don’t mind?” he asked.

Bren, ever quick to chime in, added, “I mean, it is coming to you from a fraud.”

The others, including Daddy, glared. Dolores, however, had the grace to lower her head ever so slightly. “I did some research on you, Mr. Clydesdale,” she said, her voice suddenly lacking its typical acerbic quality.

“Not hard t’ do,” Daddy replied easily. “Most folks are online these days.”

“Most people don’t help locate a missing girl in Texas,” Dolores came back with, a knowing glint in her eye. “Or find conclusive proof that a daughter was, in fact, murdered so that the child’s mother could have closure.”

The other Clydesdale men turned to face her. “You watched the show,” Dutch stated, unable to keep the pride out of his voice.

“A couple of episodes,” she admitted. “Mostly, I think it’s utter tripe. Staged scares to frighten and entertain. Nothing more.”

Dolores turned her gaze back to Daddy. “But there were some interesting things about you as well,” she continued. “You might make your bread and butter on showmanship, Mr. Clydesdale, but there is a decent human being under that redneck facade.”

Daddy glanced to the side at his boys. “I look like a redneck?” he asked.

Each and every one of them nodded.

“The Mathiston family isn’t connected to mine,” said Dolores, moving on. “My family will suffer no disgrace if this gets out. I’m willing to help so that we can solve a mystery because this interests me.”

“Fair enough.” Daddy bowed humbly. “I’d appreciate any help you could send our way.”

Dolores nodded and started to leave. Her eyes landed on the open sketchbook as she was turning to go. It was the sketch of the young black male standing in the frame of the balcony doorway. Her gaze held on to the image for a bit longer than what might be considered proper for a Southern woman.

“He certain did have an eye for detail,” she said, giving each member of the Clydesdale family a smile. “That young Batch Mathiston.”

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It was late. The sun had long since set in the distance. Per his father’s orders, Dutch made sure that all the cameras and motion sensors for the upstairs were switched on. He made one last check of the systems before climbing into bed.

The room Dutch had been given was sparse, but there was a bedside table big enough for the wi-fi camera to rest upon. Dutch pulled the soft bed covers up over his naked body. Like his brothers, Dutch preferred to sleep in the raw. Daddy did the same, long before they had ever started their family business.

Through the walls, he could hear the sounds of the twins sleeping. Dutch’s older brothers had lost consciousness almost an hour ago. Putting on a show of investigating the house had evidently tired them both out. They were sawing on logs, loud enough for Dutch to hear without the aid of the equipment.

Bren was asleep as well. He’d gone to bed a few minutes ago. Dutch learned this when he flicked on all of the bedroom cameras. There had been Bren, curled up under his own covers, dead to the world.

And then, there was Daddy. The image of his father came to Dutch’s mind unbidden. He could remember watching through the camera while Daddy stripped down. Guilt seized him even as Dutch felt his mouth salivate with lust. He had wanted to reach through the screen, to run his fingers through the carpet of hair coating his father’s chest.

Even now, Dutch could practically feel the sensation of Daddy’s skin under his fingertips. It made his cock swell at attention. Dutch felt his hand snake down the length of his stomach, heading south to grasp the thickness of his engorged cock.

It hurt, but Dutch forced himself to let go. The last thing he needed was for his brothers to find a video of him jerking his meat off. Worse, if something should slip out from his lips, Daddy would know. Dutch cringed at the thought and forced himself to push the lustful thoughts away.

With his eyes shut so tightly, Dutch did not see his bedroom door slowly crack. The portal moved silently until it hung wide open. Outside, in the dark corridor beyond, the lights flickered on and off momentarily. On Dutch’s laptop across the room, static interrupted the feed.

Dutch saw none of it, just like he didn’t see the motion detector on the second floor go off next to their father’s bedroom.

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Daddy couldn’t sleep.

Imagines ran through his mind, causing his heart to race. They were strange, emotionally driven visions. He could see himself doing horrible things—things that made his stomach churn.

His boys were cowering from him. They had such terrible looks of fear on their faces. Each one stared up at him, recoiling like they were preparing for him to strike.

And yet, that was precisely what Daddy found himself doing. He couldn’t remember having the belt, yet it was there in his hand. One end coiled around his fist like it was there to serve as a buffer. The other swung the buckle side forward, bringing it down hard across one of his son’s faces.

The blow left a bleeding gash there. Daddy did it again and again. Each of his son’s faces bore the fruits of his labors. They were all screaming, begging for him to stop.

The scene shifted. He was tanning the hide of one of his boys. The poor kid was tiny, easily fitting into his lap despite having a face of someone much older. The whole of his back bore scars from where he had been lashed. Daddy’s hand came down of its own volition. There were red marks everywhere on the child’s buttocks, yet his hand added more.

He was hard. The thick tube of flesh burned white-hot against his thigh. Daddy realized he was getting aroused from beating his own son. The single thought was enough. It galvanized Daddy into action.

Mustering his will, he compelled the hand to stop. Something slivered around the attached arm as he resisted—cold, wet, and reeking of decay. It stung against his flesh, as if there were tiny barbs inside.

The thing tried to push his hand down again. Daddy grit his teeth, forcing his arm up.

Do it. The boy is spoiled. Ruined. He needs discipline.

The words were like acid in his brain. Daddy shook his head, intent on throwing them off. The words came again, more insistent this time.

Do it. Punish him.

“No.”

It was a weak, feeble cry. Daddy mustered his strength as the laughter from the thing that compelled him rang in his ears. He would not let this thing best him, though.

“No!” His voice was much stronger now, though raspy. “I won’t. I won’t!”

The stench of death was suddenly everywhere. Daddy gagged from it. Bile rose up in his throat. The boy that had been in his lap was gone.

The thing that gripped him coiled its tendrils all over his body. They snaked down his tree trunk thighs and over his chest. Those same barbs he had felt earlier dug in deeper, leaving red welts.

“Give me...” The voice was deep and sinister now, ringing louder and more clearly than ever. “Give me… yourself.”

Daddy spat the vomit that had risen into his mouth over his shoulder. The creature was primarily behind him, and it did the trick. The thing had not been expecting that. This act was enough to momentarily surprise it.

Daddy was no stranger to a scrap. The best advantage a fighter had was to take his opponent off their guard. Ultimately, this was no different.

Using both hands, Daddy dug his fingers into the tendrils holding him. At the same time, he threw his body forward onto the floor. There was no sensation when he made contact. Not one to waste an opportunity, Daddy turned over onto his back, smashing the thing that held him against the floor.

The thing let out a sharp squeal. The pain had stunned it.

Daddy tore at the tendrils holding him. Bits and pieces came away, revealing his flesh underneath to be a blotchy red mess. Daddy kept tearing, roaring as he did so. His body thrashed about the floor.

And then, without warning, it was over.

Daddy raised up, blinking tears out of his eyes. He was in the master bedroom of the Mathiston mansion. Judging by the state of the bed, he had rolled off during a nightmare.

It was a simple enough solution. Daddy would have been content enough to believe it all a dream. Unfortunately, as he was prone to doing when he slept alone, Daddy had gone to sleep naked that night. Red marks covered his body from head to toe. They snaked along his arms and legs like lashes from a belt.

As Daddy stared, the red marks began to fade from sight.

“The boys!” he gasped, remembering the events of the dream.

Thankfully, his pants were nearby, left in a pile on the floor. Daddy snatched them up and hopped inside each leg, one after the other. He didn’t bother doing up his belt or snapping shut the button at the top. After the dream he’d had, Daddy cringed at the thought of touching the thing.

Semi-decent, Daddy raced out the bedroom door into the hallway. “Boys!” he called out, the frantic note in his voice enhanced by the darkness.

The twins’ bedroom was next to his. Daddy stopped outside, but hesitated. Something made him pause and listen. There were sounds coming from inside.

They sounded like moans.

“I’m coming!” said Daddy fiercely.

The door was unlocked. Daddy turned the knob and burst through, intent on giving whatever monster was attacking his sons the beating of its life.

What he saw made him stop dead in his tracks.

“Dad!”

It was Morgan who cried out. The twins looked up from their bed, wrapped in one another’s arms. The covers had fallen back, revealing them to be naked.

“Oh, shit!” Percy cried out, pushing away from his brother.

Morgan had on a crestfallen expression. He stared across the room at his father as though his heart were breaking. Daddy felt a pang in his chest from it.

“Sons,” he began, reaching out to them.

Morgan leaped off the bed, starkers as the day he was born. Percy was still watching his father. His face betrayed what he was feeling.

It was as if he were looking at the Grim Reaper, and not the man who had sired him.

“No,” Morgan screamed.

Daddy’s face wrinkled in confusion. Morgan had a wild look about him. It was as if, for an instant, he was looking at a stranger. Behind his retreating son, the balcony door was left wide open. Morgan moved backward toward it at a panicked pace.

“Son, wait!” Daddy called out.

Daddy sprinted forward and took a flying leap across the bed. Percy let out a cry before rolling off to the side. Ignoring him for the moment, as he was the twin not in immediate danger, Daddy bounced off the edge of the mattress and kept going.

The momentum of the bed springs helped propel him a little. Thanks to them, he had an extra spring to his step when he reached the door. Morgan had walked backward out and was almost to the ledge. His eyes were still wide with fright.

“Don’t!” Morgan screamed.

Morgan’s back touched the iron railing. In his panicked state, the sensation startled him. His arms began to windmill. Daddy watched as his son lost balance and fell backward.

Gravity took over.

“Dad!” Morgan screamed into the night as his body flew backward over the side.

Daddy moved.

He didn’t think.

He didn’t even breathe.

Morgan fell maybe a foot or so before Daddy’s hand closed around his calf. “I got you, son,” his father said in a strangely calm tone.

With one pull, Daddy brought Morgan back over to the balcony. It was a hard enough yank that Morgan fell forward into his father’s awaiting arms. The extra weight pushed Daddy into the wall.

Together, the two slid down onto the floor, wrapped in each other’s arms. Morgan was sobbing quietly as his father held him.

“Daddy?” said his son in a meek voice, one he hadn’t heard in years.

“You okay, son?” he asked tenderly, stroking Morgan’s face. “You took a nasty tumble there. Had me scared for a second.”

“I...” Morgan stammered. “I...”

Daddy put a hand gently to the back of Morgan’s head. A nudge was all it took to get his son to rest against his father’s chest. The steady beating of Daddy’s heart, though faster than usual, calmed him.

“Shh,” whispered Daddy as he gently stroked his son’s hair with one hand. “Daddy’s here, son. I’m… I’m right here. Just lay back and relax, okay?”

Morgan heeded his father. For a moment, anyway.

“Percy!”

Morgan tried to raise off his father, but Daddy held him fast. “It’s all right, son,” his father promised. “Percy’s back there in the room. He was lying on the bed.”

Morgan blinked. It seemed as though reason was coming back to his son now.

“I was...” He looked around at the balcony, seeing it for the first time. “Was I dreaming? I remember falling asleep, and then—”

Daddy silenced his son by holding him tightly in a hug. “Let’s go back inside,” he said softly. “I think there’s a couple things we need t’ discuss still.”

Morgan was not quite lucid, but he nodded in acquiescence. The two helped each other off the balcony floor. The room was as they had left it, safe for two modifications.

One, Percy was no longer present. The second thing was that Bren and Dutch stood together inside the door frame side by side. The youngest boys were shirtless, looking slightly frazzled.

“Where’s Percy?” Morgan wondered.

“He ran out the door and downstairs,” Dutch said, pointing back behind them.

“Naked as a jaybird,” Bren added.

Both of them seemed confused, which was understandable.

“What happened?” Dutch pressed.

“Yeah, we heard people yelling in here,” Bren added, eyes roaming around the room. “Then Percy runs out looking like he’s just seen a ghost.”

“Or something we don’t see almost every other month,” Dutch finished dryly.

Daddy touched Morgan on the back. Morgan flinched at the contact, but relaxed once he saw his father’s face.

“Get dressed,” said Daddy. “I’m gonna go look for Percy.”

Bren and Dutch stepped aside to let their father pass. “Daddy,” Dutch said before his father was out the door. “There’s something weird here.”

“No shit,” muttered Bren, though he was serious when he looked into his father’s eyes. “I’m thinking this house might be haunted after all.”

Daddy steeled his nerves. Right now, the boys needed him to be strong and take command. There would be time for panic after this was all over with.

“If it is, we’ll deal with it,” he decided. “We’ve dealt with this sorta shit before.”

Dutch smirked as his father exited the room. “Language!” he called out, watching Daddy descend the stairs.

“Huh. Cute,” Daddy called back, “Right now, I don’t give a fuck!”

Daddy could hear Bren muttering as he walked away. “It’s called ‘situational awareness,’” Bren chided. “You’re supposed to be the smart one!”

It wasn’t very hard for Daddy to work out which way Percy had run. The doorway out onto the lanai was wide open. Daddy spotted it before his foot touched the bottom step. Outside, it was pitch black save for peripheral lights coming from the neighborhood. Either there were no security lights in the backyard, or they had mysteriously gone out.

Daddy had a suspicion as to which it was.

“Percy?” he called out, stepping out into the cool spring air.

Something moved out at the edge of the property. An old oak tree stood tall and proud at the corner of the fence. Daddy broke into a run. He could make out someone thrashing on the ground.

Percy!” he called out again.

Percy did not react as if he had heard his father. The boy was holding both of his hands near his chest, trying to keep his face covered. It was almost like—

—he was being beaten!

Daddy saw them once he had gotten close enough. Their bodies faded in and out of the surrounding darkness. It was as if they were shadows, leftover imprints on an old photograph.

There were three of them in total. They circled Percy, kicking their legs into his sides and against his head. Their laughter drifted along the night breeze, tainting it.

Fury flared through Daddy. “Hey, fuckers!” he screamed. “Get the hell away from my son!”

Something shattered. Daddy felt it all around him, as if the thick humidity of the Mississippi night had broken. The air was less dense, and the distant smell of swamp faded away. The clean air of a spring night filtered through the backyard.

Percy lay still and alone on the ground now. His body was still curled up in a fetal position. Both arms covered his head. A whimper escaped at the sound of Daddy’s footsteps over the grass.

“I’m here, son,” his father whispered.

Percy did not resist when Daddy reached down. Tenderly, he lifted his naked son up off of the grass, dusting away the stray wet blades. Together, the two marched back inside the house. Dutch was waiting in the living area alongside Bren. Morgan hung back on the staircase, still nervous about being close to his father.

A kick with the heel of his foot closed the door. Daddy took stock of his other three sons. Percy was trembling in his arms, but held on tightly.

“We need t’ talk,” he said.

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Author’s Notes:

Hey, boys!

We’re getting deeper and deeper into the mystery surrounding the sinister presence at the mansion. And, we’re getting deeper and deeper into an explosive climax! Don’t forget to hit those Like, Restack, and Subscribe buttons!

Also, if you like this story, become a Paid Subscriber. Daddy’s extra-special boys get access to all of Daddy’s smut library. Trust me, for only $8 a month, it’s worth it!

Plus, there’s also Daddy’s taboo stories on Smashwords, available through Indie Erotica!

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The next day was a busy one for the Clydesdale men.

All five stumbled down the stairs the following morning. Daddy noticed how tired they all were. Each one of his sons looked as if they hadn’t slept well. Percy and Morgan hobbled like they were zombie extras in a “Living Dead” movie. Dutch and Bren kept yawning, one after the other.

Daddy wondered what was going on there, and how long it would be before the situation reached critical mass. It was far too early for his sons to spring trouble on him, especially before he drank any coffee. Not for the first time, Daddy reminded himself that his boys were grown men. They knew better—he sincerely hoped—than to stay up all night horsing around.

Therefore, Daddy decided to allow the issue to settle for the time being. He had learned that there came a point where he had to refrain from interfering when it wasn’t necessary. That, and he really didn’t feel like it. So long as his sons didn’t murder one another before noon, it would be fine.

That was what Daddy kept telling himself, at least.

None of the Killinsworth sisters actually lived in the mansion. Sofie only stopped by a couple of times a week to check the mail while Rosalind maintained the monthly upkeep. They were both married and had their own places. Dolores was a widow, still living in the home she and her husband once shared.

Beatrice had evidently moved several times.

They all piled into the Bust Rucket to go out for breakfast. It was a quick affair—just a stop off at the local greasy spoon. Percy spoke to a waitress and got several of them to shout out ‘Praeternaturals’ for a promotional bumper. Bren sweet-talked the management into a slice of pie in exchange for a free recommendation.

A waitress, blonde with nice tits and a friendly smile, waited on Daddy the whole time. His coffee cup barely reached the halfway mark before she was back to give him another refill. The way she bent over slightly each time made his pants tighten.

Despite this, Daddy’s eyes kept going back to each of his boys. It was hard for him—in more ways than one—to keep his mind on business. The simple truth was, he needed to get laid soon. It had been far too long.

“Hey, Daddy,” Dutch said after their food arrived. “I wanna get some preliminary shots of the city while we’re out. That okay?”

Daddy’s fork paused halfway up to his mouth. The bit of biscuits and gravy he’d been on the verge of taking fell back down to his plate. Sighing, Daddy glanced out the window across from where they sat.

“May as well,” he decided, noting the gorgeous sunny day. “Shame t’ let such a good morning go t’ waste.”

Dutch nodded, pleased that his father agreed, and took a bite of his smothered hashbrowns. His brothers were already digging in. Percy and Morgan were, as usual, in a race to see who could eat more.

“Slow down, boys,” Daddy scolded, to which they ignored. “You’re gonna need the Heimlich maneuver before the check comes!”

“How long’s it gonna take?” wondered Bren. “Is it gonna be like when we were in Atlanta and the Bust Rucket ran outta gas?”

“No,” Daddy said emphatically. “We’ve all learned our lesson. I’ll be sure to fill up once we’re done here.”

True to his word, Daddy stopped at the first available Exxon. The Bust Rucket could be particular about what brand of diesel it took. His sons went inside to pay—and in Bren’s case, to grab snacks for later. Dutch lingered outside with Daddy, keeping a close watch on the man.

“Think you’ll get some good footage today?” Daddy asked him while the others climbed inside the RV.

“Hope so,” said Dutch, holding on to his camera.

While Daddy’s attention was directed elsewhere, Dutch discreetly turned the camera on. He took some footage of Daddy standing at the pump, then putting the nozzle back in place. It would have been a waste of footage—except for the fact that it was what he thought of as a ‘Daddy shot’.

These were very popular, particularly among their female fans. Women loved watching Daddy go about doing mundane tasks. It amused Dutch, but the truth was, he understood. Daddy could make just about anything look sexy.

“We’re all filled up,” said Daddy as he twisted the gas top back on. “Let’s roll out!”

Dutch turned the camera off and followed after in his father’s footsteps. His eyes never quite left Daddy’s ass. Dutch felt his pulse climb and his temperature rise. Sadly, the family business came first. Still, he managed to switch the camera back on long enough to get a shot of Daddy’s derriere as he climbed up the steps into the Bust Rucket.

“Right behind you, Daddy,” Dutch said, chuckling to himself. That would make their fans happy for a while, and Dutch along with them!

Dutch claimed the front passenger seat. It was unofficially ‘his’ space whenever they filmed exterior shots from the Bust Rucket. This spot offered the best view of whichever city they visited. Daddy drove while Dutch filmed footage of the town, making sure that they took in as much of the local color as possible.

Daddy also drove past several landmarks of Vicksburg. In the past, there were some nasty Internet trolls posting stupid comments about how they didn’t really visit any of the places they claimed to be in. It was idiotic, but Dutch took the comments a bit personally. Thus, from then on, they always made sure to put exterior shots of each city in their videos.

“We done?” an impatient Bren asked approximately one hour later.

“Just about,” said Daddy. “Let’s get one more from the bridge. Then we’ll roll on back t’ the mansion and shoot some face-time footage.”

The bridge was much more crowded than Daddy expected. They ended up sandwiched between a log truck lumbering ahead of them at a snail’s pace while an SUV trailed impatiently on the Bust Rucket’s bumper. Daddy had to yell at Bren so that he didn’t stick his hand out and flip the family in the SUV off.

“We got ourselves an image t’ maintain, son,” he scolded. “You can’t just go ‘round flipping folks the bird.”

“I think we’re good,” Dutch announced. “I just need some shots of the outside of the house. We already got a little bit from yesterday when Sofie was giving a tour.”

Percy had been fiddling with something on his phone. As Dutch strode past, carrying the camera in his hands over to the laptop on the table, Percy raised up sharply. Daddy saw through the rearview mirror, which he had installed specifically for spying on his sons while he drove.

“You’ve still got that, right?” Percy pressed.

“Of course.” Dutch rolled his eyes and gave the laptop on the table in front of him a friendly pat. “I ain’t stupid.”

“Can I see it?” asked Morgan. “I wanna have another look at the living room.”

Dutch pulled the laptop away from Morgan in response. “Not yet,” he said, sounding rather anxious for some reason. “There’s some other stuff I’ve got t’ go through first.”

“It’s just raw footage,” Morgan insisted. “What, you got porn playing on there that you don’t want us t’ see?”

It was meant as a joke, but Daddy could see how uncomfortable Dutch was. “We’re nearly back t’ the mansion,” he said, loud enough that his sons knew he meant business.

“I can give you the file later on,” said Dutch, relaxing some.

Percy frowned, looking from Dutch over to his twin brother. “Why d’ you wanna see the living room anyhow?” he asked.

Morgan held up his phone in answer. “I’ve been doing research,” he said, swiping the screen so that it fast-scrolled down. “On the mansion and its history.”

“Great, more homework,” grumbled Bren from over in a corner. “This is just like college.” However, a moment later, Bren looked up from his phone. “Anything good?”

“Kinda,” said Morgan, pleased to have the group’s attention. “The place was built by Mathiston’s grandfather the year Vicksburg became a town.”

“Mm!” muttered Daddy, still listening in while he drove. “That explains how it got marked as a historic residency.”

“There’s more,” Morgan went on, scrolling more slowly. “The grandfather was a slave-owner. He opened up a bank for himself once Vicksburg became an official town. The whole family made a fortune from it.”

Daddy scowled at the mention of slavery. The sour look deepened when Morgan reached the part about owning a bank.

“Asshat,” he grumbled, hopefully low enough so the boys wouldn’t hear.

“The last Mathiston to own the place was Batchelor Mathiston, the grandson. He took over at his grandfather’s bank. Had four sons, according to the official town records.”

Something within Daddy’s gut twitched. “Yeah?” he called out over his shoulder. “What happened to ‘em?”

“Uhh...” Morgan paused, checking his phone. “Three of ‘em died during the Civil War. The youngest one—”

Morgan went quiet again. For some reason, it made Daddy uncomfortable. His hands gripped the steering wheel without meaning to.

“Funny,” said Morgan at last. “There’s nothing here.”

“At all?” Percy asked, and there was the sound of him shifting closer to his twin brother.

“That don’t make any sense,” said Bren, and it sounded as though he were frowning.

Dutch was the last one to speak. “If he was alive before the Civil War, then there oughta be something about him,” he insisted, though not unkindly. “Even a death certificate.”

Morgan continued to check his phone. Daddy watched every so often when he could take his eye off the road.

“There’s a birth certificate,” Morgan declared, holding his phone up for the other brothers to see. “Seems he shared the same name as his father, Batchelor Mathiston II.”

“But no death certificate?” Dutch pressed.

Morgan shook his head, and the other brothers moved in to sit around him in a circle. Through the rearview mirror, Daddy saw Percy’s arm snake around his younger brother’s waist.

“It’s like he was born, and then vanished off the face of the Earth.” Morgan’s body leaned closer to Percy’s, ostensibly because Daddy was making a turn. Their father made note of the gesture regardless.

It looked… intimate.

Percy’s face broke into a grin. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a mystery,” he announced gleefully.

Dutch and Morgan were both smiling too. “Guess maybe this trip won’t be so boring after all,” said Morgan, looking toward the youngest. “Huh, lil’ brother?”

“Wonderful,” said Bren in a voice that would have soured milk.

The excitement within the Bust Rucket was catching. By the time Daddy brought the RV back to the front of the mansion, he was anxious to get to work. The touches between Percy and Morgan lingered in his mind, though, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them.

Dutch insisted on taking the exterior shots of the mansion as soon as they all piled out. A few clouds had drifted over the sun, casting shade across the town. It had an eerie effect on the house, which was just the sort of thing Dutch was looking for.

Daddy grabbed another camera and helped his youngest son. Bren came along as well, bringing the tripod with him. Bren once said that this was his way of being supporting of the family business while also avoiding any actual work at the same time.

Daddy let it pass for the time being. Curiosity had taken hold of him. The twins were acting suspiciously as of late. They touched each other while Daddy drove the RV. More than once, he recalled heated looks between them. Daddy’s instincts told him that something odd was happening between his two oldest boys.

The question was, what exactly?

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“How long?”

Dutch hesitated, having been adjusting the camera’s focus for a view of the mansion from the corner. “How long, what?” he asked, turning around to find Bren fiddling with the tripod in his hands.

Bren didn’t answer. His eyes were narrowed, glaring irritably at the shortest of the three legs. It looked as though the tripod was stuck again. Dutch watched as Bren struggled, trying to push the leg all the way back in. His older brother managed to move it a couple of inches before it stuck fast.

“How long before you give up?” Dutch teased. “From the looks of things, I’d say any second now.”

Bren’s response was to chuck the tripod on the grass. “Piece of shit,” he growled.

Dutch opened his mouth to remind Bren about watching his language. Then, he got a closer look at the dejected expression on Bren’s face. Dutch felt a pang of sympathy.

“How about we not trash any of the equipment?” he advised instead. “Not until we can replace it, anyway?”

“Damn thing’s always giving me grief,” replied Bren, scowling.

The sympathy inside of Dutch grew. Slowly, he lowered his camera and switched it off so as to save battery power. He made sure to close the shutters as well. Dutch had forgotten once and ruined a shot because dirt had gotten on the lens.

Bren, meanwhile, looked downright miserable. “You okay?” asked Dutch tentatively. “I mean, even for you, the tantrum is a bit much.”

“Ha, ha,” said Bren in response.

Dutch waited while Bren took a deep breath. “I really don’t wanna be here,” Bren admitted after several minutes.

Dutch blinked. “Wait, that’s it? This is why you’re in such a foul mood? I thought you had blue balls, or had gotten into a bad breakup with one of your ex’s.”

“I don’t do relationships, remember?” Bren corrected. “We’re always on the road. I flirt and get pussy, but dating is out.”

Dutch shook his head. “So, is this because the last lady you hit on shot you down, then?” he asked, genuinely bewildered.

“No,” Bren said. “I’m just… feeling burned out, I guess.” Bren gave the house they stood beside a sharp glare. “I don’t much like these ‘haunted house’ gigs.”

“I remember,” Dutch said. “But at least we know this one is already a hoax in advance. They’re paying us to make a scene. Not clean up after ghosts.”

“Yeah,” Bren admitted. “And if we wasn’t getting paid, I’d say screw all four of them ol’ bitties.”

Dutch laughed. “They’re quite the cast of weirdos. People who say our family is fucked up oughta come out here.”

Wholeheartedly, Bren agreed. “Hell, yes! We could give tours of this nuthouse instead of talking about ghosts and shit.

Silence fell between the two brothers, briefly. “When was the last time we took a vacation?” Bren asked suddenly. “Or went up t’ Tennessee and visited Mom.”

Dutch frowned. “Damn, I think it was back when I was a junior, I think.”

“Exactly.” Bren’s face scowled. “If we didn’t have Discord or Facetime, none of us would know what Mom even looked like now.”

“She’s busy too, you know,” Dutch reminded. “Being a bounty hunter isn’t easy. The last time Mom took a vacation—”

“—was right before the divorce,” Bren finished. “I remember. My point, though, is that this whole… ghost business? It’s taken over our lives. People act like they’re entitled to know when we take shit breaks or jerk off.”

“Well…” said Dutch hesitantly. “They mostly wanna know when Percy or Morgan are doing that.”

Unexpectedly, Bren burst out laughing. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It’s pretty fucked up.”

Dutch gave Bren a long look. “You should know,” he stated, savoring the opportunity to give his older brother grief. “You’re the one who reads that shit online,” he said between giggles, “just so you can get their goat.”

“Okay, fair!” Bren agreed, though he was blushing. “I mean, some of it is funny. The stuff girls think we get up to when we’re not on camera? It can get weird.”

“Tell me about it,” Dutch said, looking thoughtful. “You know, back when we were touring Alabama, I met this girl who thought I was into wearing panties?”

Bren made a face. “Why?” he wondered. “What gave her that idea?”

Dutch waved a hand. “She’d read about it on a fansite. Some dumbass started a rumor.” Dutch shrugged. “I guess it must’ve snowballed from there. Anyway, she tried t’ convince me to try hers on.”

Bren didn’t hesitate in asking. “Did you?” he wondered.

Reluctantly, Dutch nodded. “They were kind of a cream color,” he told Bren, lowering his voice. “Real frilly too. And, if you wanna know the truth, it wasn’t… awful.”

Bren bit his lower lip, but the snickering slipped out. Pretty soon, he and Bren were both giggling like schoolgirls. It was, perhaps inevitably, at that moment when Daddy came around the house. The sight that greeted him was his two younger sons holding on to one another in an attempt to not fall over.

“Do I even wanna know?” he asked dryly.

“No sir,” said Bren quickly.

“Probably,” Dutch answered, by contrast. “Maybe later, though. We’re just about finished shooting the outside shots of the house.”

Daddy nodded. “Either one of you two seen your brothers?”

Dutch pointed up at the house in front of them, specifically at the second floor. “They went inside t’ have a look around. Something about searching upstairs.

Daddy turned around to follow Dutch’s pointing finger. His eyes landed on a window above them. It looked as if there was movement behind the curtain.

Their father sighed. “They’d best be working, then. We got ourselves a job t’ do, wedding charade or not.”

Dutch nodded. “Yes sir.”

“You want me t’ go get ‘em?” Bren asked, pointing up to the window Daddy had been looking at.

Daddy shook his head. “Nah, I’ll go. You two keep at it. Nice t’ know I’ve got at least two who’ll help me get the job done.”

Dutch and Bren smiled at the compliment. Daddy was joking, mostly, but it still felt good to hear. The moment their father gave his back to them, though, their faces went slack. Dutch seized hold of Bren’s arm, gripping it tightly in case he tried to run off.

“Breathe a word of what I told you,” he warned. “To Daddy or anyone else, and I will not be held accountable for my actions. Got it?”

Bren narrowed his eyes at his older brother. Jerking his arm away, he scowled and opened his mouth—

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“Fuck me!”

Morgan rode his brother’s cock as though his very life were depending on it. Percy could feel the whole bed moving beneath him. The bed springs sounded as if they could give out at any moment.

“Not so loud,” he warned, and not for the first time. “We gotta keep quiet.”

Morgan couldn’t hear him. He seemed determined to feel his brother’s cock push past the second sphincter inside him. Morgan could feel his prostate being flattened with each thrust. It caused his own hard cock to spew precum everywhere.

The clear liquid went flying, hitting Percy in the face. Desperate, he grabbed hold of Morgan’s hips, flipping his brother over onto his back. Percy clung to Morgan while he drove himself inside over and over. Sweat made it hard for both of them to keep a steady grip on one another. Morgan solved this by wrapped both arms and legs around Percy, locking them in place.

“Fuck me!”

It was less of a command and more of a desperate plea. Percy couldn’t guess what had come over his twin, but he was too close to care. Morgan’s ass gripped at his brother’s cock each time he slammed home. Having Morgan milk him with such feverish need made Percy’s head swim.

“I’m cumming,” he revealed, before Percy kissed him.

Morgan moaned into Percy’s mouth, lunging his hips up off the bed to meet Percy halfway whenever his brother plunged down into him. The two met one another in the middle, their flesh connecting like sweaty claps of thunder. The room was filled with the sound of their bodies colliding.

“Oh, breed me!” Morgan pleaded, letting go of his brother’s mouth long enough to speak. “Please, make me yours!”

This was the only encouragement Perct needed. Stars exploded behind his eyeballs. He could feel his balls draw up and empty their load inside of his brother. Morgan’s hole kept milking away at Percy’s thick cock, eager to have every last drop of his brother’s seed.

The last of his strength left Percy. He could feel himself starting to sink. It was like Morgan had drained him of more than his cum. Percy tried to roll off, worried he might be too heavy, but Morgan held on.

“Lemme go,” muttered Percy, but Morgan’s hold on him was solid.

“C’mon,” Morgan moaned insistently, moving his hips once more. “Let’s do it again.”

Percy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They’d just ridden one another to an earth-shaking orgasm. He could still feel the aftershocks from it.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!” Percy gasped, though it was clear by his brother’s movements that Morgan was utterly serious.

“One more,” Morgan begged, still forcing his brother’s cock to move inside of him.

Percy shook his head, sending droplets of sweat from his forehead flying. “My tank’s dry,” he protested, wiping the rest of the sweat out of his face. “And besides that, we’re supposed t’ be working. Remember?”

Morgan moving his body was doing the trick, even as Percy tried to break his brother’s hold on him. He could feel his cock swelling harder still. It felt like he had cum a whole bucket inside of Morgan’s ass. Nevertheless, his own body responded. He felt his cock slide in much easier this time. Percy was getting aroused from how wet his brother’s well-fucked cunt was.

“Fuck.” Percy growled, picking up the pace. “Fine, one more. But keep it down.”

There was no finesse or style this time around—not that there had been much before either. Percy had one goal in mind: to bring his brother off so they could get back to work.

“Harder,” grunted Morgan. “Please, fuck me harder!”

In spite of the pleasure he was feeling, Percy frowned. “The hell is wrong with you today?” he asked, looking down at his brother’s exquisite face. It was the same face that Percy had. And yet, he could stare into it all day long.

“Fuck me! Fuck me! I need your cock in me. Please, fuck my hole and cum in me again. It’s been so fuckin’ long!”

Percy nearly stopped moving, but Morgan’s timely intervention kept him buried inside. Percy found himself trapped again, this time by Morgan moving his legs to a spot just below Morgan’s ass. One quick squeeze buried Percy to the hilt and held him there.

“What’re you talking about?” Percy demanded between deep, heavy breaths. “You’re acting like we haven’t seen each other in years? We just fucked last night, and earlier yesterday.”

Morgan didn’t seem to hear him. As strange as it all sounded, Percy was having a hard time keeping his mind focused. Whatever was wrong with Morgan could wait until after he had blown his last load.

So, with that in mind, Percy gave his brother’s ass a true, hardcore fucking. Their mouths locked together again. Morgan wrapped both of his arms around Percy’s neck, holding him in place. The two bucked and rutted until the head board banged against the wall.

“Cumming,” Percy gasped, still trying to keep some semblance of secrecy in place. “Fuck, Morgan! Your hole feels so hot and so wet.”

“Gimme more, brother!” Morgan cooed in Percy’s ear. “Fuck me! Fuck me forever and ever.”

A moment later, Percy gave his brother exactly what he was begging for. His final load exploded inside, painting the inner walls white with his rich Clydesdale seed. This time, Morgan did release Percy from his tight grip. Fearful that Morgan would change his mind, Percy rolled over at once.

“Goddamn,” he groaned. “Feels like my balls are about dried out.”

Morgan stared hard up at the ceiling, as if he were dazed. Percy left him to lie there while he rolled off the bed and began picking up his clothes. He was halfway into his jeans when something caught his eye.

“Shit.”

Morgan forced his head to turn toward Percy. “What?” he asked breathlessly.

Percy finished zipping up, taking care to tuck his cock away so that it didn’t catch in the fly, and knelt down. One hand traced along a spot on the wall beside the headboard. Percy’s mouth turned downward into a scowl.

“We cracked the wall,” he said grimly.

Morgan rolled sideways until he reached the end of the bed where his brother knelt. The crack in the wall was visible, but only just barely.

“It don’t look all that bad,” he said.

Percy shook his head. “Get up, put on pants, and come see it from this angle,” he ordered his brother. “It’s a lot worse than you think.”

Morgan groaned, but did as Percy insisted. Percy waited while his brother put eans on, taking the same care Percy had with his cock. Once all nine inches were carefully tucked away, he moved over to crouch down beside Percy.

“Damn,” said Morgan, once he saw the crack. “How’re we gonna explain this?”

Percy’s mouth thinned out. “Not so sure we can,” he replied. “I mean, even if we lie t’ cover up what we were doing, we still gotta explain how it happened.”

Morgan let that thought sink in. “Yeah,” he agreed. “And find an excuse that’ll explain this so we won’t get into trouble. Or leave Daddy footin’ the bill.”

The two finished dressing in a hurry. Morgan got his shirt on first, then knelt back down in front of the crack to examine it once again. Something inside caught his eye.

“Hey, Percy,” he said, waving his twin over. “Come see this.”

Percy finished pulling his shirt down before responding. He refrained from getting back down onto the floor. Instead, Percy used Morgan’s shoulders for arm rests and leaned forward.

“What ‘m I lookin’ at?” he asked. “’Sides a mess we gotta somehow clean up before Daddy or anybody else finds it.”

“See that?” Morgan pointed at a point in the crack where a piece of plaster had fallen out. “There’s something behind the wall.”

Percy could already see where this was going and he didn’t like it. “It’s an old house, Morgan,” Percy said, sounding slightly exasperated. “Remember the time you kept saying there was a hidden passage behind that bookcase in Tupelo?”

Morgan’s face blushed red like a tomato. “It was an accident!” he all but cried out. “How was I supposed t’ know a sledgehammer would do that kinda damage in one swing?”

“You’re supposed t’ know,” replied Percy through clenched teeth, “because it’s a dang sledgehammer.”

Morgan ignored his brother and began picking at the crack. “Shit, the fuck’s wrong with you, bro?” Percy blurted out, which only encouraged Morgan to pick more pieces of the wall plaster away. “Leave that alone!”

“There’s paper in here,” Morgan revealed, not bothered in the slightest by his brother’s outburst.

Against his better judgment, Percy hesitated. “You sure?” he asked, almost hoping that Morgan was simply mistaken this time.

“Looks like some kinda envelope,” Morgan said, digging his finger further in.

The plaster gave way easily, a silent testament to how old the house was. Morgan kept going until he had made a hole big enough to fit his hand through. Percy watched, afraid that his brother was making their problem worse. At the same time, however, he was curious enough to keep quiet.

“They are envelopes,” Morgan exclaimed as he drew back. “See for yourself!”

Percy could indeed see that they were envelopes. A thick stack of them had been tied together with an old piece of string. Time had dried it out to the point that it was holding the shape of the envelope stack on its own. The string snapped when Percy lightly picked at it, sending the stack scattering to the hardwood floor.

“Shit,” Percy cussed, angry at himself.

“On it,” said Morgan, retrieving the falling letters at once.

Once the letters were collected, the two gathered back on the bed. The crack in the wall had been forgotten, along with the hole that Morgan made. Their attention was far too focused on the discovery their antics had led to.

“Yeesh, look at the postmark on these,” said Morgan, holding one up. “They’re from the eighteen hundreds.”

“The mid-eighteen hundreds,” Percy added, noticing the date. “Just a couple of years before the Civil War broke out.”

Carefully, Percy and Morgan opened a letter each. Inside, the printed paper was just as old and thick as the envelope it had been sealed inside of, signifying that they came from the same time period. The handwriting on Percy’s was meticulously neat, as if it had been scrawled by a student.

“Who is ‘Husband’ supposed t’ be?” Morgan wondered, looking over at Percy for an answer. “What kind of a name is that?”

Percy considered the question while he read a bit further. “Could’ve been a slave name,” he offered. “Except, the problem there is Confederate law forbade slaves from learning to read or write.”

The two were going over the puzzle when their father’s footsteps came up the stairs. The boys froze, then began to check themselves over.

“You look fine,” Morgan assured Percy. “Get the bed covers.”

“We’ve been sitting on ‘em,” Percy reminded, seconds before Daddy entered the room.

One look at their father and the twins knew that Daddy was not pleased. “Do I have t’ tie a collar on t’ both of you so you’ll do one thing I ask?” he demanded, glaring from one son to the other furiously.

Percy was closer to the edge of the bed, so he got to his feet first. Morgan was quick to follow. Both stood at attention as Daddy strode into the room.

“What’ve you got there, anyhow?” Daddy spat, noticing what they were clutching in their hands.

The boys waited until the bedroom door closed to answer. “Letters,” Percy explained.

“We found ‘em behind a crack in the wall,” Morgan added.

“They’re from somebody named Husband,” Percy went on, holding the letter in his hand up so he could point to the bottom of the page. “See?”

“An’ they’re addressed to…” Morgan double-checked. “Batch? Why does that name sound—”

The answer came to all three men at once. “Batchelor Mathiston!” they all shouted at the same time.

Morgan held a hand up right after, killing the excitement in the room. “Wait,” he said, checking his letter over again. “These sound like they were written by a dude. ‘Husband’ wouldn’t be a woman’s name.”

“It wouldn’t matter anyhow,” Daddy said as he walked slowly across the space. “This ain’t the senior Mathiston’s bedroom.”

There was a door on the far wall leading out to the balcony. Daddy tried the door and, upon finding it unlocked, flung it open. A fresh summer breeze blew in, rattling the letters. Percy and Morgan moved to gather them up so the wind didn’t carry any away.

“Smells like a fucking whorehouse on payday in here,” their father muttered.

Percy and Morgan each went still as their father turned back around to face them. “Like I said,” he went on, “this ain’t the master bedroom. That’s down the hall where I sleep.”

Morgan wasn’t sure what had happened, or why they were being granted a reprieve, but he seized it. “Whose room was this, then?” he asked.

Daddy reached over to pluck one of the envelopes out of Percy’s hand. Without preamble, he tore it open to read. Together, they watched their father’s eyes while he scanned the page.

“Most likely,” he declared, “this was written t’ Mathiston’s youngest son.”

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Author’s Notes:

Hey, boys! Daddy hopes you enjoyed this latest chapter. Things are really getting intense. What do those envelopes mean? You’ll just have to find out next time!

Nothing makes Daddy happier than when good boys become one of Daddy’s paid subscribers. You’ll get access to a special story that’s exclusive just for you. Also, don’t forget to Like, Restack, and comment. And, remember to check out Daddy’s taboo stories on Smashwords available from Indie Erotica.

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“Are we there yet?” Dutch called out, his eyes fixated on the laptop.

“Just about,” answered Daddy, his hands gripping the steering wheel of the RV tightly as sweat rolled down the back of his neck from the hot summer day.

The Bust Rucket rumbled across H.R. Henry bridge. Steel girders hung above the RV, rumbling slightly at the shift in weight. The bridge crossed over the Big Black River, leading right into Vicksburg.

Dutch had claimed the table for himself, setting his equipment on the surface so he could edit their latest episode. On the floor in front of him, Percy counted methodically to himself, doing push-ups. Facing the other way was Morgan, who refused to let his older brother win at anything.

Bren had retreated to the back room with his own laptop for some privacy. Apparently, the twins were grunting too much for him to concentrate. He returned as the Bust Rucket reached the other side of the bridge, carrying his laptop carefully in both hands.

“Sheesh, open a damn window,” Bren complained, making a face. “Smells like a locker room after Homecoming!”

“Language,” Dutch teased dryly, glancing up from his makeshift workspace.

Bren’s interruption didn’t break the twins’ stride. “How goes?” Percy asked between breaths.

“It’s going,” said Dutch absentmindedly. “Might get it posted tonight. It’ll be something for the big donors.”

“How’s...” Morgan paused, huffing. “...the Patreon going?”

“Same as ever,” Bren said, struggling to walk around his competing older brothers. “Hasn’t gone up or down.”

“That’s for the best,,” Daddy called out from the front. “Better we have steady donations than none at all.”

At Bren’s insistence, the Clydesdale family set up a Patreon sponsorship. Patreon was a donation site set up for artists and creators to recruit patrons who donated cash. In return for financial assistance, the Clydesdale men gave their fans behind-the-scenes footage of their lives. There was also the live stream that Dutch set up when they battled McBride’s ghost.

Higher tier donors got their names posted in the video credits. There were also slots for people to donate so they could watch episodes ahead of the crowd. It chaffed Daddy to ask for help, but Bren—along with Dutch’s help—convinced their father to see reason.

Maintaining a web series was expensive, even with a steady viewership. Praeternaturals was a modest success, overall. They sold T-shirts, caps, and other paraphernalia from a subsidiary press company. They had good numbers on YouTube. People sometimes ordered supplies for them.

And yet, money was still tight. RVs were not the most ecologically efficient vehicles on the road and the Bust Rucket in particular consumed gas like the petrol industry was on its last legs. There was also the matter of them all having cell phones. Daddy was shrewd enough to claim their phone bill as a business expense on the company taxes each year, but that didn’t cover the monthly payments required.

Even with a family plan, it was a strain to keep themselves online and in touch with one another from day to day. The one bright spot was that Wi-Fi was finally more accessible in the Deep South. There were still dead zones, like in Winston County, but Dutch’s computer skills meant they rarely went long without a signal.

“Can’t you guys...” groaned an off-balance Bren, who was struggling to keep his own laptop steady in his hands, “...do this somewhere else?”

“Where?” Percy challenged.

“Yeah,” Morgan said, still keeping pace with his older brother. “Bedroom’s too small.”

“They could do it on the roof,” Dutch offered jokingly. “People might stop and let us pass if they took off their shirts.”

Everyone got a good laugh at that, except for Bren. “I’m about t’ fall over here,” he complained. “Yeesh. Can’t you two just get along?”

Percy burst out laughing, which resulted in him landing face-first on the floor. Morgan picked up the speed, increasing his number of push-ups.

“One hundred!” crowed Morgan, bouncing back onto his knees. “I am the winner!”

“Thank you,” Bren praised sarcastically, squeezing through the small gap this created. “I’m going up to my bunk. If the apocalypse comes, don’t bother interrupting me.”

“Hey, no fair!” Percy crawled up off the floor, resting on his legs. “Daddy, Bren helped Morgan cheat.”

“I didn’t cheat,” Morgan insisted, sticking his tongue out. “You fell on your own.”

Dutch rolled his eyes at the immaturity of his oldest brothers. “You two oughta both grow up,” he said disdainfully. “I can’t believe either one of you is older than I am.”

“Thank you,” Bren said for a second time, having just crawled up into the canopy. “Like I said, don’t bother me if the end of the world happens. I’ll let you all make the sacrifice for me.”

“Worst case scenario,” Daddy said, chiming in, “I wind up crashing the Bust Rucket. Which means you’ll fly out onto the road first, Bren.”

Bren thought this through. “Totally worth it,” he declared, before closing the curtain shut.

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It was tradition among the Clydesdale men to get a lay of the land and a feel for each town that they visited. Daddy drove around for a bit, giving the boys a tour of the famous Vicksburg cemeteries. They rode past the Lady Luck casino, alongside several historic battlefields, and visited the fountain downtown.

Dutch leaped out of the Bust Rucket while they were waiting at a stop light. The others watched while their youngest brother took a snapshot of himself posing next to one of the red posts surrounding the fountain.

“You get out at the fountain,” Daddy said as Dutch hopped back in, “t’ take a photo of yourself beside a red pole? But stay inside while we’re driving through famous cemeteries?”

“That could be any ol’ red pole,” Percy added.

“And he’s posting it online,” Morgan finished, which Dutch was presently doing.

Daddy shook his head. Gratefully, the light turned green and the traffic ahead of them moved along before a fire hydrant could catch Dutch’s eye. It was this that prompted him to start moving toward their target.

Mathiston Hill Mansion was located on the west end of Vicksburg near the Yazoo River. The neighborhood was nice enough, though the other houses were certainly smaller by comparison. A set of train tracks ran down through the area, passing by the mansion’s front property.

Mathiston Hill was listed as a historic residence. This was confirmed once the Bust Rucket pulled up alongside the front gates. A sign declaring the home under the protection of the city treasury stood next to a set of brick steps running up. They stopped at a pair of double doors surrounded by french pillars.

A porch covered the front steps, above which hung a terrace. The whole place was painted an odd, off-white color. Trees stood in almost every available space on the lawn. On the whole, it painted a slightly Gothic antebellum picture.

Daddy observed the scenery as he stepped out of the RV. The door on the other side of the Bust Rucket slammed shut, signifying that he would be joined by his sons shortly. Sure enough, Percy and Morgan came around the rear, followed by Dutch. Bren, it seemed, had opted to take advantage of the solitude inside for a bit.

“Bren said he wouldn’t come,” Percy reported, presenting himself straight and proud in front of his father.

“Still on his ‘I hate haunted houses’ kick,” Morgan added, mimicking his brother. “I think he’s still sore after what happened last time. Do we drag him out?”

“Let ‘im stay,” Daddy decided, remembering the need for privacy from his time in the shower that morning.

It was becoming less quiet in the neighborhood. The Bust Rucket had a way of drawing out crowds of onlookers, and not just because of the large, painted logo boasting the word ‘Preternaturals’ on the side. The RV had seen better days, though it had been kept in decent condition. Currently, some of the neighbors were stepping out onto their own lawns for a better look.

“Let ‘em gawk,” Daddy said, motioning for his sons to follow him. “Get inside. We got ourselves an appointment, supposedly.”

The front door opened before any of them reached it. From inside, three ladies of a slightly advanced age stepped out. One of them, the men realized, was Sofie Killinsworth.

“How’d she beat us here?” Dutch squeaked out loud from behind Daddy.

“Shh,” Morgan hushed, elbowing his youngest brother.

“She probably drove to the RV park in her car,” Percy explained. “We were in the Bust Rucket. It ain’t exactly a NASCAR registered vehicle, you know.”

Chuckling, Daddy ascended the rest of the steps, hand extended in greeting. “Mrs. Killinsworth,” he said smoothly. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Howdy,” Sofie Killingsworth greeted, waving his outreached hand away toward the two women standing next to her. “This is my sister, Beatrice Killinsworth and our older sister, Dolores.”

Dolores was eyeing Daddy with intense suspicion. Daddy had seen this kind of reaction before. People who heard of the family’s reputation responded in one of two ways. They would either spend several minutes gushing about how much they loved the web series or they scowled. In the case of the latter, the people who scowled turned out to be skeptics.

Beatrice, on the other hand, had a fixed sort of grin on her face. It was the look of a woman who didn’t quite know what to make of him. Daddy guessed that she had been informed of his visit, but wasn’t aware of the show.

The polite approach was always the best way to handle tough customers, skeptical or otherwise. “Very nice t’ meet all of you,” he said, turning his hand toward the sisters without missing a beat. “Name’s Jason Clydesdale. I used t’ be a county sheriff. These days, my boys and I run an online series.”

“Oh, my!” Beatrice’s voice had a slight lift to it, like she was trying to hide her age. “How excitin’. You simply must come inside and tell us all about it, Mr. Clydesdale.”

Her older sister, Dolores, switched expressions like she was shifting gears. “Beatrice, please put it in park,” she grumbled irritably in a tired tone that suggested this happened a lot. “You’re the one who is supposed to get married soon.”

“I’m not married yet,” came Beatrice’s sharp reply in response to her sister’s cutting remark.

Beatrice slid her cool, moisturized hand into Daddy’s rough, calloused one. Daddy shook hands with her once, then offered the same to Dolores. Dolores Killinsworth did not return the gesture.

“Lemonade and sandwiches are out back on the lanai,” Sofie interjected before the situation could turn awkward. “Right through here, boys.”

The inside of the mansion was cool, kept that way by the presence of central air. It was true to its namesake otherwise, though, in that it looked like a mansion built during the heyday of the Deep South. Polished hardwood floors stretched out in front of them through a massive foyer. Evenly spaced large windows, stretching nearly from floor-to-ceiling, flooded the rooms with natural lighting.

“Wipe your feet, boys,” he instructed, doing the same on the mat before going deeper through the foyer.

Each of the three stomped their feet noisily on the mat, leaving behind dirt and debris. This earned them a nasty look from Dolores. Beatrice, on the other hand, kept close to Daddy’s side as he followed after Sofie.

“You must tell me all about yourself, Mr. Clydesdale,” she trawled cheerfully, attaching herself to his arm as they rounded a corner. “Why, the life of a county sheriff must have been all kinds of excitin’.”

“A pity he didn’t stay employed by the state,” Dolores commented in the far back, behind the boys. “I suppose the government doesn’t write checks out to Mystery Incorporated.”

“Not when they’re under eighteen,” Daddy bit back gently.

The boys snickered at their father’s wit, though more for how Dolores Killinsworth reacted. Her face seemed to grow even more sour, like she had already drunk the lemonade. Sofie, meanwhile, was directing traffic through the living room and out a set of French doors onto a patio.

“The view from here is amazing,” Sofie said, gesturing for all present to take a seat at the patio table. A large pitcher of lemonade stood at the center, surrounded by margarita glasses.

“This is one of my favorite places to sit,” Beatrice informed, guiding Daddy to a seat before stealing the one next to him. “Has been since I was a lil’ thing.”

“Before the Great Depression,” Dolores snarked, claiming a seat beside Sofie. “After the Civil War was over, however.”

Daddy started to speak, but was cut off by the sound of a loud “thud” from farther back inside the house. A shrill squeak followed, which was then followed by another, much louder “thud”. Sofie’s mouth went thin. Beatrice’s smile became fixed once more, whereas Dolores shook her head.

“For the last time, Rosalind,” she shouted at the opened french doors. “Turn right at the end of the hallway.”

“Eh, it’s been almost forty-five years,” said Sofie nonchalantly. “Pretty soon, she’s bound to get it right.”

The boys tried hard not to laugh. The effort was appreciated on Daddy’s part. A moment later, a blond woman––looking dazed like she had walked into a door––stepped out.

“Sorry about that,” she said, slightly cross-eyed. “Oh, we’ve got guests! Here, lemme serve everyone lemonade.”

The tight, thin way that Sofie held her mouth remained. “Like there’s another reason we would have called her,” she muttered while Rosalind busied herself.

“This is our other sister, Rosalind,” Beatrice explained. “She’s the youngest of the four a’ us, though I’m sure none of you boys can tell.”

Beatrice waited, but no one at the table was willing to step on that particular landmine. “Am I right?” she pressed, her eyes darting around anxiously at everyone seated.

“Beatrice, give it up,” snapped Dolores. “There comes a point when a woman should stop lying about her age. It looks pathetic.”

“It does not,” Beatrice bit back viciously. “Sister, you take that back this instant.”

“You’re on your fifth marriage,” Dolores roared while Rosalind quietly poured lemonade into her glass. “There’s only so many days left on the calendar.”

“Pretty soon, we’ll have it down just by process of elimination,” Rosalind added, which caused everyone at the table––including Daddy––to laugh out loud.

It took several minutes for everyone to calm down. The boys had tears in their eyes and were still giggling. Beatrice scowled at everyone who dared make eye contact. Rosalind calmly seated herself in the only available chair left. She had successfully broken the ice.

Going by the small smile she wore, the jab at Beatrice had been deliberate. Daddy made a mental note not to underestimate her.

“Okay,” Sofie said, after taking a sip from her glass. “I suppose everyone here who doesn’t know is wondering why I invited you boys and your father around.”

“And some of us are wondering that,” chimed in Dolores, “despite knowing.”

“Eh, learn to relax a little, sis.” Sofie set her glass down and stretched. “Picture it. A wedding in these grand hallways. Guests riding in, loved ones wishing the bride and groom good luck on their journey––” Sofie paused. “Some of them, not for the first time. It depends on whether or not they bothered to show up for the bride’s first four weddings.”

Sofie seemed to think the boys needed to laugh a little more. Percy and Morgan lowered their heads to conceal the smirks they wore. Dutch didn’t bother.

“My sister here,” Sofie went on, gesturing at Beatrice, “wants a lil’ excitement for her fifth march down the aisle.”

“I told her we ought to hire a circus,” Rosalind revealed, touching the neck of her glass idly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rosalind,” Dolores chided. “This is Beatrice Killinsworth’s wedding day.”

“Thank you, Dolores,” Beatrice said immediately.

“It’s already going to be a circus,” Dolores went on. “Why pay good money to hire another one?”

It took a bit longer this time for the laughter to die down.

“No kiddin’,” Sofie agreed, while Beatrice continued to sulk. “I figure, a lil’ ghost story will get the blood flowing over some of the older bones. It’ll stir up the gossip, get the press interested, and Beatrice over there can stand in the limelight for a bit.”

Beatrice positively glowed. It was uncanny how quickly her moods shifted, like watching someone switch masks.

“Oh, thank you, Sofie,” Beatrice cooed demurely as she struck a pose. “That’s the most wonderful thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Sofie was not one for letting an opportunity go by, it seemed. “I mean, look at her,” Sofie added, smirking. “They’ll have to soft focus the heck outta her wedding pictures.”

Beatrice’s scowl was back. Daddy slid away in case anything happened to get thrown. It looked as though Beatrice Killinsworth was considering that.

However, her demeanor calmed. “Well,” she said, adjusting herself in the patio chair, “it’s still a wonderful gesture.”

Sofie smiled, perhaps genuinely for the first time since the Clydesdale men had arrived. Her attention turned to Daddy next.

“So, how ‘bout it?” she asked the eldest Clydesdale. “I mean, this whole ghost nonsense is a load a’ hooey. You’ll investigate, find nothing, an’ then we’ll all move on with our lives. Fair deal?”

Percy looked as though he wanted to speak, and what he had to say wasn’t terribly friendly. Daddy silenced his oldest with a calm shake of the head.

“We’ll take the offer,” he said, surprising his sons. “On deals like this, we usually charge by the day. There’s equipment we’ll have to set up, and a few forms that whomever owns the house has to sign––”

“I figured,” Sofie interjected. “It’s a four-way deal with us, as far as this house goes. Our parents bought it, an’ left the wreck to us. That’s why all four a’ us are here, so you can get the signatures outta the way.”

Dolores took a long sip of her lemonade. “At least I won’t have to be a part of this charade again after today,” she said, sounding relieved.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Sofie, eyeing Beatrice again. “The wedding’s weeks away. There’s still plenty more of this charade for you t’ take part in.”

The laughter was loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Daddy was sure of it. As he wiped tears out of his eyes, however, something caught his attention. Percy’s arm was resting idly on the table. Morgan held his hand sideways next to it. Every few minutes, the fingers would brush against Percy’s arm lightly.

It was a simple, affectionate gesture. Neither twin looked anywhere near each other. Daddy shook his head, clearing away any thoughts about the implications.

It was good enough when his boys got along. Why jeopardize it with his own lustful perversions?

“There’s one thing I feel I oughta ask, though,” he went on, turning his attention back toward Sofie. “The Vicksburg historical society ain’t actually involved with this. Are they?”

Dolores raised an eyebrow at this bit of news, while Beatrice frowned. Sofie had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Not as such, no,” she said sheepishly, having been caught. “But, hey! I had t’ think of some way to get you all out here, an’ I am with the historical society.”

“But they ain’t involved,” Morgan correctly surmised.

Again, Sofie looked embarrassed at having been found out. “Not so much,” she conceded. “Try t’ find it in your heart to forgive an old woman. An’ old woman who was just lookin’ to do sumthin’ nice for her sister.”

“Oh, we can forgive,” Dutch spoke up, grinning from ear to ear. “But, lying to us is gonna cost you extra.”

Daddy smirked. “That’s my boy,” he praised, his eyes twinkling, which made Bren frown hard. “Like he said, Mrs. Killinsworth, the price has just gone up.”

Dolores scowled. “Nice goin’, Sofie.” She was giving her oldest sister a look of absolute loathing. “What next, hiring mobsters to do the catering?”

Sofie snapped in response, “Don’t be ridiculous! …they won’t come near a Beatrice Killinsworth wedding. Not after that incident at the bus terminal.”

No one asked, because no one wanted to know.

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“Why are we doing this?”

It was much later in the evening, almost dark. Bren peeked out through the bedroom door into the hallway. Dutch was sitting on the bed, tapping away at the keys on his laptop.

“We always do setup and a basic camera test,” Dutch reminded, unbothered by his older sibling’s apparent absent-mindedness. “Nothing new about that.”

Bren had been dragged out of the Bust Rucket under threat of a severe scolding by his father. He reluctantly shut down his own laptop, hiding it away in the canopy bunk, before leaving the RV. Since then, the boys had spent the remainder of the day placing cameras and motion detectors at strategic points throughout the house.

It was all for show this time, of course. However, there were always the fans who could spot when something was being faked. The point was to convince those watching—in this case, at least—that the events were real.

“I mean,” Bren clarified, stepping back inside the room and shutting the door. “Why are we bothering with this.” Bren gestured erratically with both hands before brushing his fingers through his short hair. “There’s no ghost here for us t’ hunt.”

“Daddy says we need the money,” answered Dutch, biting a thumbnail while he studied one of the many visual feeds on the laptop. “And, we all like money.” Dutch tore his attention away from the screen long enough to shoot an aside glance at Bren. “You like money.”

“Eh, that’s fair.” Bren paused, recognizing the look on Dutch’s face. “What’s wrong? One of the cameras ain’t working right?” Bren moved closer to his younger brother to get a peek at the laptop. “You accidentally splice into the neighbor’s porn subscription again?”

“That only happened twice! It’s this one.” Dutch highlighted and maximized the fifth camera feed. “Right here,” he said, pointing. “The audio keeps glitching. It may just be––”

Dutch made a couple of keystrokes and adjusted the volume output. “There we go,” he said happily, tossing his waist-length hair to the side.

Bren looked on at what was happening. Sofie had been giving a guided tour of the Mathiston Hill Mansion while Morgan recorded her. Dutch would splice the footage together so that this part appeared to have happened later on. Things did not always get recorded in a convenient, linear package. Some establishing shots of the house would get taken later, as well as footage of Vicksburg.

“This house was built by the Mathiston family during the slavery years of the South,” Sofie was saying, leading their father and Percy over to a hutch in a corner. “The ol’ coot sold the place just before he died. My family eventually came into possession of it, an’ we’ve had the place restored as best we could.” Sofie paused, gesturing to several objects contained within the hutch. “Even found a couple a’ Mathiston’s old junk here an’ there.”

“Do you keep these things because of the house’s historical value?” their father asked, his voice coming through into the bedroom via the camera feed.

“Nah!” Sofie laughed, loud enough that there was an echo effect through the laptop. “It’s just ol’ junk. But it helps sometimes for people who’re into that kinda thing.”

A quick squeak came through from downstairs and the laptop, one after the other. Sofie had just opened the hutch to show off the old items. Bren watched as Dutch zoomed the camera in close so they could see.

“The glasses belonged to the Mathiston patriarch himself,” Sofie explained. “There’s also a journal of illustrations kept by his youngest son, and a pocket knife whose owner we’ve never identified.”

There came the usual loop of questions for the owner of the house. Bren and Dutch had been through this before. It was the staple fanfare about sightings, strange noises, objects disappearing, and so forth. Dutch illustrated how tedious this was for he and Bren by muting the sound.

“Looks like we’re all set up,” Dutch declared.

“Good.” Bren fell back on the bed. “When do we leave for the hotel?”

Dutch looked back at his brother languishing on the bed covers. “We’re not,” he stated flatly. “If you’d come outta the RV before now, you’d have known. We’re staying here for tonight.”

Bren opened his eyes and looked up thoughtfully at the ceiling. “This place got Wi-Fi?” he asked.

“Duh!” Dutch pointed to his laptop. “It ain’t fairy dust making all this shit work.”

“Language,” Bren reminded cheekily. “I’m good with it, then. Which one is my room?”

Dutch pointed toward the bedroom door. “The smallest one,” he said. “Way at the other end of the hallway. Daddy’s got the master bedroom, and Percy and Morgan said they’d bunk down together.”

“Good. Means we don’t gotta share.” Bren hopped off the bed and made way for the door. “I’m gonna slip outside t’ the Bust Rucket and get my laptop. I was in the middle of something when Percy pulled me out.”

“Now who’s watching porn?” Dutch teased Bren as the latter opened the door.

Bren paused and opened his mouth, most likely to fire off a retort of his own. Daddy’s voice drifted up from the first floor, however, at the same time that it came out from the speakers on Dutch’s setup. Bren hesitated, before turning to leave without a word.

This shocked Dutch, but he reasoned that a double dose of Daddy had to have been what stalled Bren. His older brother likely didn’t want to risk their father overhearing. Thinking of that, Dutch turned back to his laptop screen. Bren was making his way down the winding staircase to the first floor where Daddy was, still conversing with the Killinsworth ladies.

The cameras they had set up were stationed all over the house. Each bedroom sported at least one as well, though they weren’t currently active. Dutch would turn those on before they turned in for the night. It was family policy that they could have a little privacy at night on cases such as these.

Dutch did feel a perverse desire to snoop, but he held it in. Privacy was such a difficult thing to come by while on the road. And besides that, the last thing he wanted was for any of his brothers to spy on him.

It occurred to Dutch then that he had a rare opportunity. He was alone in the room. Bren had left the door open, but it was a simple matter to walk a few steps over and close it gently. For good measure, he locked it.

Now, Dutch was alone.

Slowly, savoring the emptiness of the room, Dutch proceeded to strip down. His shirt slid up over the smoothness of his skin, softly landing on the floor. Dutch was only eighteen, barely legal, and his body had yet to fully develop. The twins were already sprouting muscle, sporting thick chests and big guns on their arms.

It was a well-known secret that Clydesdale men began on the smaller side of the physical male spectrum. Daddy had told them all this many times in the past. There were pictures of Daddy Clydesdale too, which he had shown each of his sons. Once their twenties kicked in, though, the Clydesdale men tended to fill out, becoming walking mountains by the time they were thirty.

Dutch was looking forward to it. His hands roamed over the small frame he was still stuck in. His body was thin and tight, like a runner or a swimmer. He did possess an excellent six-pack, one which even the twins admitted to being envious of while they were drunk.

Dutch smiled at the memory of that. His oldest brothers could be very affectionate whenever they got alcohol in their bodies. As he imagined being touched by them, Dutch reached down to pull on his meat.

This was the area of his body that left no doubt as to whether or not he was a Clydesdale male. One other trademark of their clan—aside from being late bloomers—was their ample manhoods. All Clydesdale men had huge cocks.

Not just long, but incredibly thick as well.

Back in middle school, on a dare once, Dutch agreed to show off his package for a group of friends. The silence that followed him dropping his pants had been like thunder. At one’s insistence, Dutch left the room to fetch some measuring tape. His cock came out at over eight inches, with a six inch girth.

Secretly, Dutch continued to measure himself. He had a kind of perverted scientific curiosity toward how big his cock might get. It stopped growing before his senior year, capping off at eleven inches long and eight inches in girth. Dutch felt proud of himself, but even more grateful toward his Daddy for passing the Clydesdale gift along.

Thoughts of Daddy Clydesdale stirred Dutch’s cock to full mast. This was Dutch’s closely guarded secret. He wasn’t sure what his brothers would do if they learned he might be gay. They were southern boys, after all. Dutch had a gay friend in high school, before his sexuality more or less settled on one side. Neither Daddy Clydesdale nor his older brothers took issue with the fact.

And yet, Dutch saw first-hand what a gay teenager went through growing up in Mississippi. More than once, Micah had come to him crying, sporting bruises and worse. It sent a shudder through Dutch now, and not for any pleasant reasons.

He shook away the unhappy memories by focusing on his father. To Dutch, Daddy was the epitome of maleness. Every square inch of him radiated a primal virility. It sent tantalizing chills racing through Dutch’s body as he stroked himself. His cock leaked profusely, dripping down like rainfall to form a puddle on the floor.

“Daddy,” he moaned, giving one nipple a tweak.

Their father was a great man, whom Dutch would go to the ends of the Earth for, but he had no idea how to explain his sexual feelings. In the end, it wasn’t just the fact that Dutch was gay. That would have been a big enough obstacle on its own. There were certain things that Southern fathers automatically assumed their sons would grow up to be, and ‘straight’ was one of them.

“Daddy!”

On the laptop screen, Dutch caught sight of the object of his infernal lust. Daddy was ascending the stairs now, heading in the direction of his own room. The image lay burned in Dutch’s mind like a brushfire, lighting his small body aflame with carnal heat.

Quickly, Dutch slapped a hand over his mouth, silencing himself. He could hear the heavy footfalls outside of his door. Daddy was walking past the room he stood naked in jerking his meat off. The knowledge raced through Dutch, making his body convulse. He had been stroking himself the whole time, and the sound of Daddy’s weighty footsteps only encouraged him.

“Fuck!” he moaned into his mouth.

For a moment, Dutch froze. He felt certain that Daddy had heard him. However, a second later, there came the sound of a door closing. Daddy had gone to his room, passing Dutch by while none the wiser.

Relief flooded Dutch. He could resume his fantasy in peace. Even better, his father wasn’t very far away now. The thought of Daddy being in the next room while Dutch daydreamed of having his hole violated by the bigger man put Dutch right on the edge.

“Daddy! Oh, Daddy! Cum and fuck me, Daddy!” Dutch found himself whispering the words over and over again like a mantra. “Daddy! Fuck me, please. Fuck me, Daddy!”

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“Ah! Fuck, son!”

Daddy lay back on his bed, stroking his massive organ. One hand rested on his hairy chest, lightly torturing the nipple there. The stimulation sent electric waves throughout his body, tingling him all the way down to his toes.

“Just like that, boys,” he grunted out, more quietly now to avoid being overheard.

Daddy had spent the last couple of hours keeping the Killinsworth sisters busy. Beatrice, in particular, had clung to one arm the whole time. The memory of her touch made Daddy cringe. He’d tried different images to push the sensation away. Regrettably, the only thing that worked was picturing his oldest sons naked.

Unfortunately, this left him with a raging hardon. Daddy excused himself as soon as he could, hurried upstairs, and stripped down so he could rub one out naked on the bed.

“Need t’ fuck some boypussy,” he grunted, picturing one of the twins sliding down to the base of his cudgel.

They were becoming an obsession of his. Daddy could practically feel their hands all over his body. It was as if they were both in the room with him, using their hands and mouths to drive him higher and higher to the point of sheer ecstasy.

“Cum for me, boys.” Daddy could feel his balls starting to draw up. “Cum for your Daddy!”

It was as though the twins were in the room with him. He could feel one of their tight asses sliding down on his cock. The heat from being inside them was tangible, even more than the warmth of his hand.

Daddy’s breath came in ragged gulps. “Cum for Daddy, boys!” he huffed, growling low with need. “Just for Daddy!”

Ropes of hot, virile seed exploded out from his cock, riding up through the length of his shaft to splash all over his stomach, chest, and beard. Daddy opened his mouth, hoping to catch a few flying splatters with his tongue. He imagined it was his sons cumming all over him. The desire to taste their own seed consumed him, and only the fact that there were cameras running in the house held Daddy in his bedroom.

“Can’t...” he breathed out to himself. “I can’t… I can’t...”

Sleep began to settle over his body. Daddy felt his eyes flutter closed, leaving the cum load he had just shot to dry on his carpet of fur. Naked, Daddy fell asleep atop the covers, snoring lightly.

He slept through the slight shifting of the bed. Not once did he notice the light bleed into the room from the bedroom door cracking open. The sound of it closing back did little more than cause the slumbering bear of a man to snort as he dreamed.

It did not occur to Daddy until later that he wasn’t alone in the room.

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Morgan felt the weight on the bed shift, stirring him from his sleep.

“Mm?” he mumbled, turning over. “What’s wrong?”

Percy was sliding off the side of the bed, naked as the day he was born. His flaccid cock swung back and forth in the air of the dark room. Morgan resisted the urge to reach out and touch it.

“Gotta piss,” mumbled Percy through a thick haze of sleep. “Be right back.”

Nodding, Morgan rolled over so the light from the hallway wouldn’t strike him in the eyes when Percy opened the bedroom door. There, he waited, counting the seconds that ticked by until his twin brother returned.

Morgan hated to sleep alone. He had grown so used to having the body heat of someone else keeping him warm, even during the summer. He couldn’t bear the thought of ever having to live without it.

“Was that what it was like for Daddy?” he asked himself out loud. “After the divorce?”

The sound of the door closing caught his attention. Morgan turned around again, watching as the shadowy frame of his brother walked slowly across the room.

“That was quick,” he noted.

Percy said nothing. His older brother stood by the side of the bed, staring down at Morgan as if in a trance. Morgan raised up, and waved a hand across Percy’s face.

“Anybody home?” he wondered.

Percy reached out and caught Morgan’s hand in his. Morgan felt his brother lace their fingers together. One after the other, Percy pressed his lips to Morgan’s knuckles, landing butterfly kisses on them.

“It will be okay,” Percy whispered in a slightly hoarse voice.

Morgan was stunned, unsure of why his brother would say that. It occurred to him that Percy could have been dreaming. He wasn’t the one prone to sleepwalking; that was a trait that Morgan and Bren displayed. It had been years since Morgan wandered off in his sleep, though.

“C’mere,” whispered Percy, still sounding hoarse.

Morgan did as Percy bade, letting himself be pulled into his older brother’s arms. Percy held him for a moment, rubbing his hands up and down along Morgan’s spine. Percy seemed to be searching for something there. His fingers would pause every so often. Morgan could feel them dance lightly back and forth over his flesh, moving in diagonal patterns.

“I love you,” Percy whispered. “I love you so much. I won’t ever let anyone hurt you ever again.” Tenderly, Percy brushed the back of one hand down along the length of his twin brother’s identical face. “I promise.”

Again, Morgan felt confused, yet the sentiment was too much to ignore. “I love you too,” Morgan replied, keeping his voice down. “I want us t’ always be together.” Morgan moved back enough so that he could look his brother in the eye. “Just like this,” he said, kissing Percy deeply on the mouth.

They fell back onto the bed together, with Morgan on top. The bed springs rattled from the impact. The headboard banged against the wall once. Percy seized up at the noise.

“Shh!” he hissed sharply. “Your father will hear us.”

Morgan might have asked, but Percy’s lips crushed his, silencing any questions he had concerning what Percy meant about ‘your’. Together, the twin brothers entwined their bodies together, becoming a tangle of limbs from which it was difficult to discern one from the other. Morgan drove his hips forward, rubbing their cocks together. Precum leaked like a drippy faucet from Percy’s, matching Morgan’s own liberally flowing dick.

“It’s okay,” Percy said, spreading Morgan’s legs. “If this is what you want. I won’t get angry with you.”

Morgan kissed his brother on the mouth, drawing out the contact for as long as possible. “Of course it’s what I want,” he replied, giving both of his older brother’s hands a squeeze. “I’ll always love having you inside of me.”

Percy smiled, which Morgan took as his cue. Raising up, he fished around in the dark for the lubricant that they had smuggled into the house from the RV. Morgan applied it to his hole first, then slicked up the full nine inches, hard and fat, sticking out from his brother’s crotch.

“Don’t worry,” Percy whispered as the plum-sized head of his cock connected with Morgan’s hole. “We’ve got all night. I don’t have to go fast this time.”

Despite the assurances that they were safe, Morgan had to fight the urge to yank his brother’s cock into him balls deep. His hole seemed tighter somehow, like it hadn’t just taken a pounding that morning. Morgan savored the way that Percy’s cock stretched, though. The two brothers rocked back and forth together as one, keeping rhythm with the other’s movements.

Percy grunted and moaned, while Morgan’s breathing became labored. He found himself staring through the darkness of the room into his brother’s face. It was the same face that Morgan had, the face that they both shared. It was just like the body that they both shared.

Now, they were connected together in the most intimate way possible. Percy gave himself over to Morgan time and again. In return, Morgan did everything he could to say without words how great his love for Percy was.

“Cumming,” gasped Morgan, doing his damnedest not to shout.

Percy gripped Morgan by the hips, forcing himself as far inside as he would go. The two let out low guttural moans together; raw, primal sounds that were a testament to the carnal love they shared. Percy’s balls emptied inside his brother seconds before Morgan unloaded his cum onto their stomachs.

With a sigh, Morgan pulled Percy down on top of him, squeezing his brother with both arms and legs. Percy held him tightly in the dark, whispering soft words that Morgan couldn’t quite make out. It sounded like they were French. A spark lit up in the back of Morgan’s head.

Percy didn’t speak French!

“Shh, don’t worry.” Percy’s even voice shook away any doubt that Morgan felt. “I’ll always take care of you.”

The fear subsided. Morgan let his brother’s words and the feel of his arms chase away any lingering fears. It must have just been his imagination.

They were together. It was all that was important.

No matter what.

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Author’s Notes:
Daddy’s had fun sharing this story with his boys so far. Be sure to hit those Like and Restack buttons! Extra-special boys become one of Daddy’s Paid Subscribers. There may be something special in it for you if you do!

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Morgan stared hard into the eyes of his twin brother, Percy.

“We shouldn’t—” Percy protested.

Morgan silenced him with a kiss, long and wet, right on the mouth. Their fingers laced together, slowly rising up along the length of their bodies. The wind rustled the tree that the Bust Rucket was parked under.

“If Daddy catches us—” Percy tried again against his twin brother’s insistent mouth.

“Shh.”

Morgan wrapped both arms securely around his brother’s neck. His nose touched against Percy’s, causing him to fall silent. Their eyes met once more, fire burning within the green irises they had both inherited from their father.

“He won’t,” Morgan promised fiercely.

Percy squirmed in protest, rubbing his back against the side of the RV. It was a feeble bit of protest, just to show that he didn’t completely agree with his brother. They were always fighting about something.

Tonight, however–

“I love you, Percy,” Morgan whispered, before their mouths intertwined yet again.

Percy struggled, but this made the front of his jeans rub up against that of his brother’s. Heat washed over both of them. Their pale skin was flushed.

It was like staring into a mirror, except Morgan had his eyes closed. It was the only way he could keep the sweat drizzling off his forehead from running into them. They were both sweating now, rivets of it coming off their arms and down each of their spines.

“Don’t move!” Morgan ordered, after breaking the kiss.

Percy wanted to argue, but the words froze in his throat. Morgan had taken a step back, removing his shirt in one smooth motion. Morgan often went shirtless whenever they were on camera. It had been that way since someone in a comment praised him for his body.

Those comments hurt. They were, after all, identical twins. Percy was in as good shape as his brother, if not better. Morgan loved to show off how great he looked, though, whereas Percy was a bit more shy while the web cameras were turned on.

“I need you.”

It sounded less like an order and more like a desperate plea. This helped hold Percy in place when his brother rushed forward to kiss him. Percy might have shoved him away on impulse. Now, though, their tongues wrestled wit—

“The hell are you doin’!”

Bren jerked his head away from the laptop. The sudden movement caused it to fall to the side, out of his lap. Luckily, it landed on the soft cushion of the couch, suffering nothing worse than a slight jostle.

Nevertheless, Bren reached over quickly with his free hand to make sure there was no damage. Privately, though he would never admit it aloud, Bren feared the wrath of his baby brother. A quick check revealed that the screen had gone dim, but this was due to the power cord coming out. Once he was certain there was no actual damage, Bren turned to glare at his older brother, Percy.

“I was reading,” Bren replied, using the sort of flippant tone that only the middle child of four brothers could master, especially against their twenty-three year old sibling.

Percy scowled, eyeing Bren with suspicion. “Reading what?” he inquired skeptically.

Bren ignored him, keeping his focus on the screen. “You made me lose my place,” he griped, moving the cursor around with the touchpad. “I was somewhere along here, I think.”

“Made you lose more than your place,” Morgan teased, entering the living area of the RV with a confident swagger. “Looks like Percy made you lose your rhythm too.”

Morgan laughed at his own joke as he strutted down the short corridor. The RV raddled from his heavy footfalls. Bren rolled his eyes along with Percy, who was giving his twin brother a disdainful glare.

“What’s goin’ on?” Morgan wondered, ignoring their irritated looks. “’Sides from Bren jerkin’ off on the couch again.”

“You’ve got a real grasp of the situation, bro.” Percy frowned then, turning back to the couch where Bren sat. “Wait, didn’t Daddy say somethin’ about you not doing that no more?”

“I wasn’t,” Bren replied defensively, though his shoulders hunched ever so slightly.

“He could use Kleenex.” Morgan shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “So long as he don’t shoot all over the cushions, he’ll be fine.”

Percy shook his head. “You’re a regular fountain of wisdom, you know that?” he told his twin brother, punctuating the sentence with a glare. “Maybe you oughta write advice for fortune cookies instead of hunting ghosts.”

“What, nuthin’ wrong with a lil’ bro enjoying some ‘me time’,” Morgan insisted, turning expectantly to where Bren sat. “Am I right?”

“I wasn’t,” Bren repeated, growing irritated.

“He still said––” Percy insisted, only to be cut off by Bren shouting.

“I wasn’t jerkin’ off! I was reading.” Bren glared murderously at his older brothers. “Fuck’s sake, what’s wrong with your hearing? Both of you!”

Percy and Morgan stared at Brenfor a moment, wide-eyed. From the canopy bed above the driver’s seat came the sound of Dutch stirring to life. Bren froze for a second, then quickly slammed the laptop shut, setting it onto the table as quietly as possible.

After a moment of silence, Dutch’s quiet snores resumed. Percy and Morgan both visibly relaxed. Bren looked relieved, as though he had just been given a life extension.

“Ah, let ‘im be.” Morgan leaned in, ruffling Bren’s hair, which Bren responded to by smacking his older brother’s hand away. “Lil’ brother’s gotta get his rocks off some way. Anyhow, where’s Daddy gone to?”

Percy’s face went from ‘irritated’ to ‘concerned’ in a snap. “I dunno,” he admitted, checking out the window. “When I woke up, he was gone.”

“Same,” said Morgan, moving so he could lean comfortably against the kitchen counter.

It was almost noon, going by the old-fashioned clock sitting against the wall on the counter top. They had left it there in the wee hours of the morning. It normally hung from a spot high up next to the cabinets. Last night’s adventure with McBride’s ghost had vacated it from that position. No one had felt like putting it back just yet.

“He left after I got up,” Bren explained, still angry. “Said he was gonna get more bandages and shit for us.”

Every one of them bore the scratches and claw marks from the attack last night by McBride’s possessed blackbirds. Bren had some pretty nasty scratches on his face. Percy and Morgan’s arms were wrapped up with medical tape.

Dutch was the least injured of the four brothers. The worst he got from the attack was a deep scratch mark along his forearm, running down along the length of bone. Bandages covered it, along with antiseptic cream. Currently, though, he was still sleeping off the events of the previous night.

“Hope he gets back soon,” Percy said idly, scratching a spot low on his back, and then letting the hand travel further underneath the red shorts he wore. “Anyway, you hungry?”

Bren eyed his oldest brother, wondering just how far the hand had traveled. “I ate cereal,” he said. “Go ahead an’ make something for yourself, if you wanna, though.”

“I could eat,” Morgan announced.

“Good,” Percy said, slapping his twin brother on the back. “Then you can help cook for everyone. Bren needs more than cereal. And, you need t’ pull your own weight around!”

Morgan scowled, but complied. “You only say shit like that whenever Daddy’s not around,” he grumbled, though he readily lent a hand. “And when it comes to cookin’.”

“I’m sitting right here,” Bren reminded them, though neither twin acknowledged that he had spoken. “An’ I’m twenty fucking years old. Not a baby!”

Very soon, the smell of bacon, eggs, and french toast filled the RV. This drew Dutch out from behind the curtain covering the canopy bed. Sleep still clouded his vision, enough that he stumbled several times.

“What’s going on?” Dutch wondered, looking bleary-eyed from one brother to the next. “Where’s Daddy?”

“Gone shopping,” said Percy, flipping a shingle of french toast in a frying pan while Morgan set the table. “We need more bandages and shit.”

“Ahh.” Dutch blinked, looked around again. His eyes widened slightly when he saw the laptop resting on the table. They narrowed before moving over to where Bren was still sitting on the couch, trying to look inconspicuous. “Hey, were you using my laptop again without my permission?” Dutch demanded.

“No,” Bren lied, not looking up.

“Yes,” said Percy and Morgan together.

“Oh.” Bren thought about this before nodding. “Yeah, okay. I was.” Shrugging, the middle Clydesdale son reached over to retrieve the laptop again. “There’s this fanfic I found about us online.”

Percy let out a groan. “Please,” he begged, shooting Bren a look while, in the frying pan, the eggs he was cooking began to burn. “Tell me you weren’t reading porn about us again!”

“Hey, do I get to be the top in this one?” Morgan asked, sliding over to the couch so he could read over Bren’s shoulders.

“Yup,” Bren replied, smirking at Percy. “Where I left off, you had Percy pinned up against the Bust Rucket and was getting ready to go to town on him.”

An uncomfortable shudder went through Percy. Shaking his head, he went back to cooking breakfast for his family. Dutch, meanwhile, made a face, but then burst into giggles.

“You’re weird,” he stated, still snickering. His face turned thoughtful suddenly. “Why on the couch, though?” Dutch asked, becoming slightly more awake. “Didn’t Daddy say for you t’ not––”

“He’s got tissues,” Percy, who was moving food over onto plates, said.

“I wasn’t––” Bren threw his hands up in surrender. “Whatever. S’ not like any of you can say otherwise. Especially you, Morgan,” he added, up at the younger twin. “Considering what almost happened to Daddy’s laptop when you took it with you into the bathroom.”

“We really need more than one power outlet in there,” Percy said absentmindedly over a big pan of scrambled eggs that he was stirring.

“We could get a surge protector,” Morgan suggested. “That’d work.”

“We tried that, remember?” Percy said, putting toast into the toaster. “It blew out the fuse box. Daddy said no more surge protectors except for when we use the recording equipment. The RV can’t take it.”

Silence fell across the RV, something that Bren was immensely grateful for. Percy waved Morgan over, which Morgan reluctantly complied to. The twins finished cooking breakfast without saying a word. Dutch yawned occasionally while scratching an itchy spot on his belly.

“Breakfast is ready,” Percy announced, claiming the first seat at the table.

“It’s noon,” Dutch pointed out, yawning again.

“Brunch, then.” Morgan took the seat across from his twin. “Get your asses over here. Bren, be sure you wash your hands.”

Bren made a face, but put the laptop in sleep mode. Dutch was already seated by the time he finished giving his hands a thorough scrubbing, more for show than anything. He then took the last seat available at the table, across from his younger brother.

“It’s good,” he said a moment later, giving Percy a thumbs up.

“One thing Percy can do is cook,” Morgan agreed.

“What were you reading?” Dutch asked Bren, before Percy had the chance to be offended by his twin brother’s undercut.

“Nothing,” Bren replied a little too quickly while making a show of peppering his scrambled eggs.

“I saw it.” Morgan had a huge grin. “He was on that fan site again.”

Dutch gave Bren a look, raising an eyebrow. “You used my laptop wit’out asking to read porn?” he asked, giving Bren a withering look. “Porn of Percy and Morgan?” Dutch leaned in toward Bred, just to drive his point home. “As in, together?”

“I was on top again,” Morgan said, laughing around a mouthful of toast. That earned him a smack from Percy. “Ow!”

“Don’t talk with your dang mouth full,” Percy scolded. He then turned his ire toward Bren. “An’ quit readin’ those creepy stories about us.”

“Why?” Bren demanded, making it a challenge.

“Cuz it’s weird?” Morgan offered, shrugging—as though the answer were obvious. “Duh!”

“It is a mite weird,” Dutch agreed before stabbing a fork into his eggs.

Daddy picked that moment to come through the RV door. A bandage covered the cut on his right cheek. The plastic bag full of bandages, gauze, medical tape, antiseptic spray, and antibiotic cream rattled as it landed on the counter. Daddy took one look at his sons, then noticed that breakfast was ready.

“Thank fuck,” he said. “I was kicking myself for not stopping somewhere on my way back.”

Daddy had dressed before going out. A pair of worn jeans, torn in places from use, clung to a shapely pair of legs. His button-up shirt with the ‘Praeternaturals’ logo was left halfway open, exposing the red carpet of fur on his chest and stomach. Each of the boys watched as their father walked past, their eyes drawn to a part of his body.

For the moment, Daddy was too hungry and pretended he hadn’t noticed. His crotch did swell a bit, however. Dutch noticed his father gave the hard bulge in his jeans a couple of tugs as he pulled a chair over and sat down. The sight of that made Dutch lick his lips.

“Taste good, Daddy?” Percy asked as his father munched on bacon , hoping for praise.

Daddy gave his eldest son an emphatic nod. “Damn good, son. You did great this morning,” he said, ruffling Percy’s hair. “Thanks.”

Percy smiled, lowering his head a little in satisfaction. The others continued to eat, though they all spared glances up at their father from time to time.

“Make sure you boys brush your teeth once you’re done,” he ordered. “After that...” Daddy paused. “Bren, take Dutch with you t’ do the laundry. We’re piling up.”

Dutch scowled, but kept his head down so his father wouldn’t see. Bren brushed a foot along his younger brother’s calf. Dutch looked up to find Bren smiling at him. He managed to smile back.

“We’ll take care of it, Daddy,” Bren assured.

The rest of their late breakfast passed by in silence. Percy and Morgan finished first, then cleared the table once Bren and Dutch were done. While the twins washed and dried the plates, Bren and Dutch took turns in the bathroom, brushing their teeth and overall making themselves presentable.

Once they were done, Percy and Morgan had their turn. Dutch gathered up any remaining clothes that needed to go with them while Bren brought out the three laundry hampers, each stuffed to capacity.

“Thank you, boys,” Daddy said from his chair, meaning it.

Bren moaned, lifting the heavy hamper. In a rare show of compassion, Dutch held the door open for him.

“We’ll be back soon, Daddy,” Dutch said, carrying the second of the heavy hampers out.

Percy came out of the bathroom and helped with the last remaining hamper. Once the younger sons were on their way, Daddy stood up. Morgan exited the bathroom last, finding his father staring hard at them both.

“Clean-up time, boys!” Daddy declared, leaving zero room for arguments.

Morgan managed to not groan. Percy opened his mouth to complain, but the look on Daddy’s face brooked no arguments. He was not in the mood for it today. Thus, Percy’s jaw snapped shut.

“I’m gonna go grab a shower,” Daddy announced, heading for the bedroom. “I want you two t’ make this RV spotless while your brothers are doing laundry.”

“Yes, sir!” they both said simultaneously.

A moment later, Daddy came back out. He had removed his shirt and shoes, wearing nothing but the faded, worn jeans that fit him so well. Barefoot, Daddy stepped outside with a towel tossed over one shoulder and a bottle of shampoo and conditioner in each hand.

“Get to it!” he called out to the twins before the door could close all the way.

The twins didn’t respond. Percy was looking at his younger brother by two whole minutes. There was a heat to his gaze, something Morgan knew intimately.

“How long we got?” Percy asked, his voice dropping to a low, hungry pitch.

“Twenty minutes,” Morgan answered. “Maybe?”

Percy nodded. Quickly, he tore off the shirt he had been wearing. Morgan watched his brother toss it haphazardly onto the couch.

“Race you t’ the bedroom,” Percy said as he hopped out of his shorts.

Morgan hurried after his brother, stripping as he ran.

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“I fuckin’ hate laundry.”

Dutch chuckled at his brother’s grumbling. “You and me both,” he said, dragging two laundry hampers behind him. “Look at it this way, though.”

“We ain’t gotta pick up the whole fuckin’ RV,” Bren said at the same time as Dutch.

The two brothers laughed together, reaching the RV park building where the laundromat was. It was predominantly a wooded area with a few picnic tables strewn about, but there were few structures in the park here and there. A trailer off to the side near the treeline served as a manager’s office.

The largest building was the laundromat. It had an annex built in alongside it for public showers. Dutch spotted their father marching shirtless across the quad toward it as he reached for the door. His eyes lingered on Daddy’s body for a moment.

Daddy was shirtless and barefooted. Sweat clung to him thanks to the hot spring day. The faded jeans their father wore had a pronounced bulge in front. It was impossible to miss because their father was so massively well endowed.

“You coming?” Bren asked from inside the laundromat.

“Huh?” Dutch shook his head. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

The inside of the laundromat was hot. Washers and dryers spun, putting out more heat. The only source of comfort was a single air conditioner unit stuffed haphazardly inside of a window high up near the ceiling.

“Get some quarters,” Dutch ordered, dragging his single hamper easily across the concrete floor. “I’ll start sorting.”

Bren did as his brother bade, leaving the hampers over by the door. The change machine was on the other side in a corner. Bren fed the machine a twenty, making a mental note to ask Daddy for more cash once they were done.

The quarters clanged out into the silver tin slot at the bottom. Bren scooped them up, stuffed his pockets full, and marched back across the room. The idea had been for him to leave the hampers behind so he wouldn’t have to drag them around. Now, in hindsight, he found the flaw in his reasoning. The hampers were still heavy, still by the door, and he had to walk farther to bring them over to where Dutch was.

“Really need t’ remember to think these plans through better,” grumbled Bren as he rejoined Dutch.

Dutch was halfway done with sorting through his single hamper. It was mostly colored towels, several of which were frayed at the edges. Dutch began to toss them into the nearest available washer.

“Here,” said Bren, digging into his front pocket for a handful of change.

Dutch took the quarters without a word and fed them into the machine, which started up. Bren sighed at the sight of two hampers full of dirty clothes.

“Gimme a hand?” he asked Dutch hopefully.

“Nope,” Dutch refused without hesitation. “I’m done.”

Bren scowled as Dutch walked over to a nearby wooden bench that looked like it was slapped together with nails and a few pieces of plywood. Dutch sat down, whipped out his phone, and began scrolling through while his older brother was left sorting out dirty boxers and underwear. Bren gave up when he got to a particularly foul pair of sweaty socks.

Looking around, he spotted a free washer behind him several feet away. Knowing from experience that it wouldn’t stay that way, Bren hurried over with a rank armful of underwear. He managed to get the biggest part of the load inside the washer, though there was a trail left behind him. Dutch was still tapping away at his phone happily while Bren picked up the strays he had left, mentally cursing his youngest brother the whole time.

“Excuse me?”

The sound of a female voice switched Bren’s disposition automatically. Putting on his best smile, Bren raised up, swiping his long hair away from his face in the process. Sadly, he chose to do this with the hand that had one of Percy’s dirty boxers in it. The smell of ball sweat and dried cum hit him hard, making his eyes water and his crotch tighten.

“Yes, ma’am!” Bren greeted eagerly before he had even gotten a good look at the lady addressing him.

It was hard not feeling disappointed. She was far too old for his tastes, in her late forties at least. The woman was dressed smartly, like an upper-crust socialite trying to downplay their own wealth. Her hair had begun to gray, but in that artful way that told Bren it was a salon style.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, keeping his smile firmly in place as he tossed the boxers aside. “It’s laundry day and I was giving my lil’ brother over there a break from all the chores.”

Her eyes sparkled when she saw the long-haired cherubic face of Dutch squatting on the wooden bench. “Oh, isn’t he just precious?” she gushed. “You’re such a wonderful big brother, letting him have time off.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bren replied, who was already mentally calculating what he might get from the lady. “My name’s Bren, by the way.”

“Sofie Killinsworth,” she said, offering a hand.

Bren wiped his hand clean before shaking hers. “I’m with the historical society in Vicksburg,” she went on, taking her hand back very quickly. “Someone said that I might find a… Jason Clydesdale here?”

The pause had been deliberate. This woman hadn’t gone to the manager’s office first like she was supposed to. There was also the fact that she had singled him out specifically. Bren figured the lady was a lot more shrewd than she came off. The ‘southern belle’ affectation was most likely an act.

“Ah, I’m terribly sorry, ma’am,” Bren said, figuring he may as well lay it on just as thick. “We just saw our father go into the showers a few minutes ago. If you’d like, I could send my brother in to let him know you’re here.”

“Well, bless your heart!” she exclaimed, letting slip that she’d guessed their identities already. “If you wouldn’t mind, please?”

Bren nodded politely and turned around. “Hey, Dutch,” he called out, a bit more sharply than necessary. “Go get Daddy for me. He’s got a visitor.”

Dutch hopped up off the bench without looking away from his phone. He was still scrolling through the screen––most likely looking at their click figures––as he headed out the door.

“I’ll have to thank him for that,” Mrs. Killinsworth said, watching Dutch go. “I doubt very much I’d be welcome on the men’s side.”

Wisely, Bren kept his opinion on that matter to himself.

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Daddy sighed as the cold water washed over his body. The thick, powerful bear of a man stood under the spray, letting it cool him down. It felt as though summer had already hit Mississippi.

Next, he ran his thick, calloused hands through the mane of curls that ran down to his shoulders. Daddy was proud of his hair. He’d gotten quite a number of catcalls for wearing it so long when he was younger. These days, however, it was a mark of pride.

Other men were thinning on top, or had lost theirs altogether. Daddy was a man among men, and a rare breed at that. Each part of him dripped virility, right down to the red hair that coated his body.

Daddy refused to shave. He hadn’t let a razor touch his skin since he left high school. A beard trimmer was the closest thing he came to shaving, and the testament to that lay in the thick bird’s nest that grew out of his face. It went rather well alongside the hairy carpet flowing down his chest and belly, right to the mark of any male member of the Clydesdale family.

Speaking of, Daddy rubbed some of the suds from his hair down his stomach, stopping at his cock and balls. He used the slickness to lube himself up. It had been a week since he had gotten himself off. Travel on the road was rough, especially with four boys along. They never had much privacy, and this was too prime an opportunity to let pass.

Keeping his eyes shut, Daddy began to stroke himself. His mind went back to the familiar fantasy that had plagued him for years: his sons.

They were his boys, his pride and joy. If there was anything Daddy could say he was truly proud of in this world, it was them. They were all fine specimens, to be sure. Even as children, other men would compliment him, study them with shrewd eyes, and speak with an undercurrent of absolute envy.

It had troubled Jason Clydesdale for years. He wasn’t quite sure when it had started. Touching his boys had always felt natural. Perhaps, he reasoned, it had come from losing his own father so young, and from living with a cold, distant stepfather. He wanted his boys to experience the sort of love and affection that he had missed out on.

At some point, though, that affection changed. The dreams began while the twins were in college. He dreamed of touching them in more intimate ways. The fantasies began to invade his conscious mind, and he would picture them naked together with him, touching one another. More and more, Daddy began to fear that he would hurt them.

And yet, it had never happened.

Daddy was not a man willing to surrender to passion at a moment’s notice. Sure, the Clydesdale family had a reputation for being a bit less than monogamous. They were a libidinous bunch, even at the best of times.

His sons, however, were off-limits.

Of course, that didn’t mean Daddy couldn’t indulge himself. It was much easier to be around them when he let his fantasies out of the taboo box.

The twins were what came to him as he stroked his massive eleven inches. He could see them so easily. It may as well have been happening at that very moment. Daddy’s oldest boys were under the shower spray with him.

It always started simply enough. The Clydesdale men showered together all the time during their journeys across the southern United States. It was not uncommon to find all five of them naked and soaping one another up.

The twins would each take a side, rubbing his body up with lather. Their hands worshiped him, digging deep into his flesh and muscles. Daddy sighed and began stroking himself faster. He wanted so badly to feel his twin sons touching him. He needed to feel their mouths on his body next, licking the soap away.

He wanted them to kneel down in front of him next, gazing up in awe at the cock that helped bring them into this world. Their mouths would lap at his balls first, worshiping the divine essence kept stored away in them. The twins would kiss one another around his cock, licking at his shaft.

And, at long last, they would present themselves against the wall. It would be a tough choice for Daddy, deciding which of his oldest boys he wanted to fuck first. Of course, before the shower was over, he would have pounded a load deep inside their tight, de-virgined boypussies.

Daddy was close. He could feel his load building, the balls in his sac drawing up high. In his mind, the twins were crying out for him, begging for their Daddy to breed them with the seed that made each of them, the sperm that had birthed them as one flesh before they split in two.

“Daddy?”

Daddy’s eyes flew open. Someone really was calling for him, and it sounded like Dutch. At that moment, his balls unleashed their contents. Daddy gasped, then grunted as his load went flying. Rope after rope of cum splattered against the shower wall.

“Daddy?” Dutch called out, his voice coming closer.

“I’m...” Daddy clenched his teeth in the midst of a powerful, earth-shaking orgasm. “I’m cummin’! I mean… I’ll be there in just a sec, son!”

Daddy choked down his gasps as best he could. More cum flew out from his cockhead. He had always been a heavy cummer. There was a week’s worth of Clydesdale-grade seed splashing onto the communal shower wall. He would have to remember to wash it off before coming out.

“Okay, Daddy,” Dutch said, who had gone quiet for a couple of minutes. “I’m gonna wait outside. There’s a lady who wants t’ talk to you.”

“Okay!” It was difficult, but Daddy managed to bring himself under control. “She say what she… ugh, wanted?”

“No,” Dutch replied, his voice growing fainter. He must have been leaving the shower area. “But she was talking to Bren, and I overheard her say she worked for…” Dutch hesitated. “...I think it was the Vicksburg historical society.”

Daddy waited, refusing to relax until he heard the door shut, signifying that Dutch had left. His balls ached from how hard he had cum, and his cock stuck straight out. It had not gone down. In Daddy’s experience, he would stay hard until he had cum at least two more times.

Unfortunately, time was not a luxury he had today. Sighing, Daddy reached up to point the shower nozzle at the wall. He washed every last bit of his cum away, save for a tiny bit. That last bit was scooped up and deposited in his mouth.

In his mind, it was the twins who were cleaning the mess up, licking greedily at the wall. Daddy’s cock jumped at the thought.

It was time he got out and dried off. There was a mystery woman looking for him, and as he had been taught growing up, Clydesdale men did not keep women waiting.

It was a shame they didn’t share the same sentiment for their sons.

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“Oh, shit! C’mon, fuck me, bro!”

Morgan’s cries echoed off the walls of the RV. The headboard banged against the wall in a steady rhythm, mimicking the thrusts from Percy’s hips as he plunged his cock deep into his brother’s warm, velvety center.

The twin lovers rocked back and forth in an ancient dance, twisting their tongues together while they kissed. Sweat glistened in the sunlight peeking through the tiny slits between the blinded windows, raining down onto the rumbled bed sheets. Their mating was already at a frantic pace, yet the brothers soon rocked their bodies faster still.

They never had long together. It was always them with their family, Daddy and his sons on the road going from place to place. The twins had to make due with whatever tiny scrap of privacy they had.

Fortunately, they more than made up for the lack of privacy with enthusiasm.

“Fuck me harder!” Morgan pleaded, breaking the kiss.

“Shh!” Percy hated to, but they couldn’t afford to attract attention. “Not so loud!”

Morgan moaned as he felt his older brother’s cock hit the same spot over and over. It made stars burst behind his eyelids. His body shivered in response. When Percy thrusted again, his back arched off the mattress of its own accord.

“Don’t stop!” Morgan pleaded. “Please, don’t ever stop!”

Their foreheads touched. Morgan felt a silent communication pass between them. Love for his brother flowed as easily as the precum from his cock. He loved Percy.

He had always loved his brother. Over the years, they drifted apart, then grew back together. Finances forced them to attend college together. Convenience led them to sharing a room.

One night, a lucky pick-up had drunkenly asked them to kiss for her. The twins, equally as drunk, agreed. Their muscular jock arms wove around each other’s naked bodies as their mouths locked together. For a moment, the room—and even the girl, whose name Morgan could no longer remember—faded away.

That had been the beginning. Neither of them touched one another during actual sex, but the kiss stayed in their minds. Morgan was the one to initiate it again, hoping to entice another drunk co-ed at a different party. Percy resisted, but agreed afterward that it had been ‘wild, but fun’.

Now, they were lovers. Born from a single cell, brought about by their mother and father’s coupling. Divided, yet whole.

Morgan never felt so complete as when his twin brother’s cock lay buried to the hilt inside of him. Their bodies and souls knew one another, knew each other as intimately as soulmates.

“Cum in me,” Morgan gasped out. He had lost the breath to shout. “Cum in my cunt, brother. Breed me like you always do.”

“I’m cummin’!” Percy announced, feeling his nuts draw up. “I’m gonna make this cunt mine again, brother. Feel me cummin’ inside you! Feel me cum!”

Morgan’s own engorged cock sprayed cum all across his abs. Percy slammed home at last, complete and whole as his cock pumped rope after rope of cum inside his twin. The two held their position for a moment as wave after wave of orgasm took over.

“Boys!”

There came the sound of their father, followed by a door slamming. “You in here?” Daddy called out from somewhere inside the RV.

“Shit!” Morgan hissed out through his teeth.

Percy leaped off his brother in a single, fluid movement. “In here, Daddy!” he called, scrambling for his clothes. “Just… give us a sec!”

Morgan was in a state of complete panic. They were both naked, covered in sweat, and the room reeked of sex. Worse yet, the bed was completely ruined.

Percy, meanwhile, was scrambling into a pair of shorts. “Put on your clothes, ya idjit!” he hissed, using his shirt to wipe the droplets of Morgan’s cum that had splattered on his own immaculate abs.

Numbly, Morgan complied. He reached down to pluck his own shirt off the floor, then realized it was Percy’s. Percy had used his shirt to wipe cum off of himself.

“No! No!” Percy began to straighten up the bed, ignoring the fact that Morgan was livid at him. “Just the shorts! Just the shorts!”

Morgan felt an irrational urge to defy his brother. He hated it when Percy bossed him around. The sound of their father’s footsteps coming toward the bedroom, however, squashed the rebellious impulse flat. Morgan grabbed his shorts and leaped into them, legs first.

Percy, meanwhile, reached over with one hand to open the window, letting out a bit of the funk. Morgan realized what Percy was doing and seized one end of the bedspread. Together the two brought the spread up to the headboard together.

They were straightening out the wrinkles when Daddy entered, a towel tossed over one broad shoulder and water droplets falling from his wet hair onto the worn jeans he had on. “The hell ‘re you two doing in here?” Daddy wondered, staring wide-eyed as his sweaty twin sons.

Percy and Morgan stood at attention together on opposite sides of the bed. “Just straightening up the bed a bit, Daddy,” Percy said, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“You wanted us t’ clean up,” Morgan reminded his father, folding his arms behind his back.

Daddy looked from one twin to the other, eyeing them with suspicion. Morgan could feel a telltale bead of sweat sliding down one side of his temple. His heartbeat raced in his throat.

“Well,” said Daddy finally, “what I was saying was for you two t’ clean up front first. But, since you already started in here, go ahead and finish. We still got more work t’ do.”

“Work?” Percy asked, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.

Morgan looked over to Percy briefly. “We got a case again?” he asked, getting enthused.

“Someone from the Vicksburg historical society came this far east just t’ talk to us,” Daddy explained, leaning against the door frame. “They say a house in Vicksburg’s haunted.”

Morgan couldn’t keep the sheer glee off his face. Percy grinned as well, though a bit more subdued than his brother.

“Yes!” shouted Morgan, wheeling his arms, which sent his elbow banging into a wall. “Ow, dammit!”

“Language,” Percy reminded, though he was teasing.

“I said, ‘Dammit’. Not fuck,” Morgan pointed out, though his face fell immediately afterward. “Oh. Sorry, Daddy. But do we really get to go visit a haunted house?”

Daddy was smiling. “Looks like it,” he confirmed. “I’m gonna chit-chat with her for the details while Bren and Dutch finish the laundry. If it looks legit, we might be heading out there today.”

“Hell, yeah!” Percy raised both arms, managing to not bump his elbow this time. “We’ll get the Bust Rucket ship-shape while you do that.”

“I hope it’s better than the last haunted house,” Morgan said, frowning at the memory.

Daddy rolled his eyes. Percy, however, laughed.

“We drive all the way down t’ Pass Christian,” said their father, scowling at the memory. “Just to get attacked by a bunch of bats.”

“Hey, the exterminators wanted our autographs,” Percy reminded. “Plus, I still say that wasn’t as bad as our first case.”

Daddy and Morgan both shuddered together.

“Wild chickens,” Daddy groaned.

“That reminds me,” Morgan added, shaking off the bad vibes. “Can we have Popeye’s chicken for lunch?”

“Maybe.” Daddy pushed himself off the door frame and backed away. “Assuming there’s one nearby. And if you boys manage t’ clean up like you’re supposed to instead of fuckin’ around.”

Morgan went pale. “Will do, Daddy,” Percy called out as their father vanished from sight. When the RV door slammed, he turned to his younger twin. “Calm down. He meant it figuratively.”

Despite having realized that, Morgan was still rattled. “Dude,” Percy said, snickering. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Or something we don’t see every other week.”

Morgan settled the score by tossing a pillow at his brother’s face. When Percy tried to retaliate, he bumped his elbow against the wall. “Shit!” Percy shouted while Morgan burst out laughing.

“Serves you right,” Morgan said loftily. “C’mon, let’s get back to work. We’ve got a mess to clean up and a haunted house to investigate.”

Percy complied, however bitterly. “I’d rather face a ghost than a mess in this place,” he said while picking up trash off the floor, which included the ruined wastebasket from their last caper.

“Yeah,” Morgan agreed, getting out the vacuum cleaner. “But would you rather face Daddy when he finds out we weren’t cleaning up?”

Percy brokered no more protests. There were fewer things scarier in the world than Daddy Clydesdale when he was angry. The twins knew that from personal experience.

“Bro,” Percy said when he turned around, finding Morgan bent over and getting ready to plug the vacuum in. “Your ass is leaking cum onto the carpet.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “Sure it is, bro,” he replied, shaking his head. “Sure it—” The sudden presence of wetness on his ankles made Morgan freeze. “Goddammit!”

Author’s Notes:
Daddy wants to take the time to say thanks to everyone who’ve been keeping up with my stories so far. It means a lot. A special shoutout goes to and . You’ve both encouraged me to post here on Substack and it means a lot. , thanks for all of the advice.

Things get steamy in this episode, but there’s more heat to cum. Will the twins be able to keep their secret affair from Daddy? Or will the supernatural forces that lie ahead be able to corrupt the entire Clydesdale family? To find out more, give that Like and Restack button a smash. And don’t forget to become a Paid Subscriber because that makes Daddy want to make his boys even hornier!

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It actually was a dark and stormy night.

Midnight, to be precise. Winds from the north blew through the treetops, scattering leaves through the air. Thunder rumbled in the distance, signaling the coming storm that the weather app had promised would arrive tomorrow morning.

Tombstones surrounded them, reaching up from the ground toward the dark sky. Each one glowed brightly in the moonlight peeking through the clouds. Several figures stood among them, huddled together for their own protection against the distant gloom.

Jason Clydesdale––better known to his sons and the Internet community as “Daddy” Clydesdale––gripped his shotgun. It was already loaded with specially-made ammunition from his private stock. The six-foot-five mountain of a man brushed the bangs of his long, curly, red mane out of his face with one hand. Green eyes peered into the darkness above a thick bush of red beard.

His youngest son at eighteen years, Dutch, squatted in the damp grass to his left, checking the readout on a set-up they had brought with them. To his right, twenty-year old Brenton––Bren to family, friends, and fans––was checking the angle of the camera.

“Almost ready,” Dutch called out, eyes fixed on the soft glow of the laptop screen. Expertly, his fingers flew across the keyboard, making keystrokes that he had done a thousand times before. “Few more minutes, max.”

“Daddy, this tripod’s a piece of shit,” Bren grumbled, giving one leg of the obstinate stand a sharp kick. “Didn’t we buy a replacement just last week?”

Daddy Clydesdale rolled his eyes. “Just make due with wha’cha got, son,” he replied with the patience of a man who had been raising boys for more than two decades. “So long as we stay in frame an’ it don’t topple over––”

As if in response, a gust of wind whipped through the cemetery. Bren immediately seized hold of the tripod, keeping the gale from pitching the expensive camera resting atop the shaky stand over. In the process, however, Bren managed to bang his knee on an old grave’s headstone.

“Gah, dammit.” Bren cursed under his breath, struggling all the while. “Can’t we get one that’ll stay upright on a windy day?”

“Not until August,” said Dutch crisply. “Minimum. Funds won’t cover it before then.” The youngest Clydesdale son glanced up from the laptop. “Daddy, can you give ‘im a hand? I’m busy.”

“Can’t,” his father replied, watching the shadows. “Busy keeping watch.”

Daddy gripped the barrel of the shotgun with one hand. His eyes stayed sharp, watching the treeline beyond the fence surrounding the graveyard. The shadows moved with the wind. Nothing unnatural stood out, yet he remained on high alert.

“Done,” announced Dutch as he stood up, moving the laptop aside in the process. “We can shoot. The stream’s ready to begin once the camera starts recording.”

“Good,” said Daddy, a hint of impatience tainting his voice.

Bren was still grumbling to himself, alone with the uncooperative tripod. “Hate… this damn thing… so much!” he snarled while the trivet rattled.

Dutch rolled his eyes, sighing at the sight of his older brother fighting tooth and nail against the three-legged stand. Bren managed to get one leg buried inside the soft cemetery dirt. The other two were being even less helpful, though.

“Here,” said Dutch, going over where Bren was. “Lemme help. Otherwise, we’ll be out here all night and the ghost will get bored and wander off.”

Once Dutch got close enough to see, the problem was obvious. Bren was trying to push one of the legs though a small patch of gravel. Dutch solved the issue by turning the tripod so that the camera faced at a ninety-degree angle.

“Why try and dig down through gravel, anyhow?” Dutch wondered while Bren glared behind him.

“Duh,” Bren replied. “The gravel’ll hold the tripod leg in place.”

Dutch fitted the second leg in using his weight, then went straight to work on the last one. “Yes,” he acknowledged, “but you were still trying to push a plastic leg down through stone.”

The third leg sank into the wet soil. “Here, see?” Dutch pointed out in a satisfied voice. “Now, just grab a handful of gravel and spread it around the three legs.” He was already pointing down, gesturing so that Bren understood. “That’ll weigh things down and keep the wind from tippin’ the camera.”

Bren’s scowl never left his face, but he did as Dutch instructed.

“What about the camera, though?” Bren asked. “It’s pointing toward the headstones.” He paused, tossing gravel onto the base of one of the tripod legs with a grunt. “Daddy said we should keep names outta the shots if we can.”

Dutch raised up, reaching for the camera. A turn of the knob on the tripod’s head raised the neck up higher. Dutch checked the angle and the night vision to make sure everything was crisp and clear while Bren finished weighing down the legs.

“Simple,” said Dutch, looking pleased with himself. “We needed to raise it anyhow. Daddy’s too tall t’ fit in a shot next to the two of us from that angle.”

Daddy was moving toward them with the shotgun pointed toward the ground. Dutch indicated where they should stand: in-between two ordinate headstones. Bren joined their father, standing close to his side on the left while Dutch set the timer.

The digital recorder beeped once to indicate it was now capturing footage. Nodding, Dutch ran over to stand beside his father on the right. His footfalls sank into the earth, making ‘squish’ sounds like he was stepping on rotted meat.

“Howdy, folks!” Daddy said, greeting their viewers in a jovial manner.

“Sup,” said Bren, laying on the southern drawl.

“How’s it been, people?” Dutch asked. “We’re on our last night of the hunt for the fabled ghost of Marla McBride.”

“Legend says,” Bren spoke, ready to begin his shpeal, “that this poor, restless soul has haunted a certain cemetery in Winston County for years. Locals told stories of the woman who stalked the dirt roads wearing her wedding dress, seeking a ride to church so she could get married.”

“Sorta stuff kids tell in elementary schools,” Daddy chimed in, keeping the shotgun in frame.

“The older versions,” Dutch continued, “had it that she would appear in the back of people’s vehicles, asking to be taken to a specific church.”

“That,” Bren chimed in, earning himself a glare from his younger brother. “Or hitchhiking along a dirt road trying to flag people down.”

Daddy cleared his throat. “Those that helped her never saw her again,” he explained, taking the reins. “Drivers who tried to ignore her, or asked her to get out, were pestered by her presence. She would appear again and again along the roadside until they stopped.”

“That was the old version.” Bren smirked at the camera as he interrupted his father, putting emphasis on the word ‘old’. “These days, the stories go that she causes accidents to happen, engines to malfunction, and one elderly man was almost frightened out of his mind recently.” He then gave the camera a quick wink. “True story,” Bren insisted.

“Something had disturbed McBride’s restless spirit, even more so than before.” Daddy spared a glance toward Bren, who shuffled his shoes nervously in the mud. “Far as we can tell, nobody in this family was responsible. Believe me, I double-checked!”

“We’ve come to Winston County to help,” Dutch said, enjoying his older brother’s discomfort. “It’s our hope that we can lay McBride’s ghost to rest at long last.”

Bren glanced at his father and younger brother. “Oh, my turn?” he wondered, a question that earned him fresh ire from both “Right!” Bren turned to the camera again and began speaking once more. “Unfortunately, each attempt has been met with resistance. We’ve either hit a dead end with the locals or come up short at trying to banish McBride back to the aether.”

“So,” said Daddy, pumping the shotgun once, “it looks as though we’ll be resortin’ to more practical means.”

“Not to mention,” Bren added, “cruder methods of persuasion. Namely, a shotgun with modified ammunition.”

Dutch stepped forward, pointing to the loaded gun his father held. “The shells contain a mixture of iron ore shavings, depleted uranium, and sea salt rock,” he explained, giving the camera a cute smile. ”Something guaranteed t’ give any ghost a very sorry afterlife.”

The three men stood together, perfectly still. Their smiles remained fixed and painful on their faces. At last, however, the camera beeped.

“Finally,” gasped Dutch, letting his body go limp.

“Assuming said ghost bothers to show up, that is,” their father muttered.

Bren, meanwhile, was already searching on his phone. “The betting pool’s started,” he informed wryly.

“Which one of us is supposed t’ die tonight?” Dutch asked absentmindedly while he took down the tripod and camera.

“Ain’t nobody gonna,” Daddy said. “But, I guess folks’ll have their fun one way or another.”

Their area of the boneyard was deserted, save for them. Not another soul, living or dead, through the crumbling edifices erected in memorandum to the deceased. Clydesdale kept his eyes sharp and his ears open nevertheless.

It was an ideal night for a web broadcast dedicated to the banishment of a hostile spirit.

“Don’t take it so personally, Daddy,” Bren said as he calmly flicked his long, red hair back over one shoulder. “People wanna see a show. So, we’ll give ‘em one.”

“After tonight,” Dutch added, a satisfied smile spread across his face as he tucked the tripod under one arm, “nobody’s gonna say we’re frauds ever again.”

Dutch’s hair was even longer than Bren’s, though more orange than red, and silky like spider threads. Dutch was the thinnest of the four sons. At eighteen, he still had a bit of growing to do.

By contrast, Bren’s hair was darker and a bit more wavey. He was taller than his baby brother, though only by an inch or two. He and Dutch stood almost eye-to-eye, but Bren’s shoulders were just a little bit wider, a little less slender.

Daddy let his guard drop for a moment, long enough to study his two youngest sons, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth underneath his big, bushy beard. “People’ll always say what’s on their minds. An’ most folks’ minds don’t know much besides what they’ve been told.”

“Two-to-one odds are on Morgan biting it tonight,” Bren announced. His face turned thoughtful, suddenly. “Say! Maybe one of us should put money on that!”

“Really?” Dutch frowned, looking at Bren disapprovingly.

When Bren looked up, his father was glaring. “What?” he wondered defensively. “We’re not getting paid for this one.”

Daddy shook his head. “We ain’t doing this one t’ make a buck,” he reminded the middle child. “It’s cuz this is the right thing t’ do.” Daddy then shifted from one foot to another uncomfortably. “This time, anyway.”

Dutch seemed amicable enough. Bren, on the other hand, looked horrified at the thought. “Wait, we are?” He turned at once to walk away. “I’ll wait in the RV.”

It took Daddy grabbing him by the scruff of the neck to get him to stop. “I mean, I’m just trying to be pragmatic here,” yelled Bren as he was pulled back.

“Try yelling louder, Bren.” Dutch’s eyes narrowed at his brother. “I mean, it’s only almost midnight in a frikkin’ cemetery, after all.”

Dutch started to say more, but then realized what he had done. Daddy gave his youngest a narrow-eyed glare of his own.

“Sorry,” Dutch apologized. “I just… If he yells anymore, McBride’s ghost’ll know we’re here.” Dutch gestured at the nearby tombstones with both arms. “The whole point of getting here early was t’ plan for a sneak attack.”

“Sorry,” Bren grumbled as Daddy released him.

Dutch shook his head at the sight of his petulant older brother. “Damn, I’m better behaved than you,” he stated, shaking his head at the irony. “Things ‘re hard enough as it is.”

Daddy straightened himself back up. “Don’t worry,” he reassured the youngest, gripping the shotgun with both hands. “Nobody’s gonna get hurt on account of her. Not after tonight.”

“Huh?” Dutch turned toward his father. “Oh, I was talking about the figures. People show up in droves for the hoaxes. Whenever we do a real case with a real haunting, the numbers sink.”

Daddy rolled his eyes, but Bren nodded in approval. “I mean, he does make a good point,” Bren said, turning one corner of his mouth downward into a half-frown. “We gotta get some click-bait on the channel some way or another.”

“Okay, I take that back!” Dutch proclaimed, giving the set-up near his feet another glance. “Figures look good” His eyes went from the laptop to his father and older brother. “In fact, they went up just a few seconds ago!”

“Excellent.” Bren gave his brother a thumbs up. “Keep up the good work.”

“Keep it down while you’re both at it,” Daddy warned. “We’re supposed t’ finish this one tonight. I doubt that patrolman from Louisville who keeps coming this way since we rolled in will be happy if he catches us.”

Dutch muttered, “Well, if you’d let me install the police tracker,” he grumbled ruefully.

Before Daddy could comment, Bren interrupted again. “Damn, the wi-fi in this place sucks,” he spat angrily at the phone in his hands. “How’re we even able t’ get a halfway decent signal for streaming?”

“Satellite feed,” Dutch explained, once again looking pleased at his accomplishment. “I rigged it up so we’re getting a boost from the antenna on the Bust Rucket.”

Their RV––the “Bust Rucket” in question––was parked over on the opposite side of the cemetery, hidden from view by some trees. Daddy disliked being so far from their base, and home by extension, but it was a necessary evil. They couldn’t afford to attract attention from the authorities. If someone spotted them, Daddy Clydesdale and his sons would spend a night in the drunk tank—or maybe even longer.

Of course, for some of their fans, that would be even more entertaining than watching the family take on a real ghost.

“Getting worried,” Daddy said as the chatter between his two younger children died down. “What’re the twins up to?”

Bren responded by tapping furiously at the screen on his phone. A moment later, the device chimed, indicating that a response was sent via text message.

“Percy says they’re still in position,” Bren said, scanning the screen. “Nothing so far.”

Another chime came, interrupting Bren. “Morgan wants t’ know if he can take a bathroom break,” Bren informed Daddy on behalf of his older brother.

“Tell ‘im to piss in the woods,” was Daddy’s immediate reply.

Bren typed for his father, who was watching the cemetery again warily. Another chime came less than a minute after.

“He says,” read Bren, sounding repulsed, “that it’s a number two.”

The senior Clydesdale sighed. “How long ‘ve we been out here?” he asked wearily.

Dutch checked the timer on the feed. “A lil’ over half an hour,” he said, balancing on one leg so he could scratch his right calf with his shoe.

“How much longer d’ you think we gotta wait?” Bren was getting impatient, and though Daddy was annoyed, he couldn’t deny feeling the same. “I mean––”

“Long as it takes,” their father decided, keeping his shotgun ready. “Tell Morgan he’ll have t’ hold it. That why he’s supposed t’ go before this whole mess starts. Same t’ all you.”

“Don’t get mad at me,” said Dutch, still checking the set-up. “I went like you said.”

Bren made a sound. “Actually, I… gotta take a leak,” he admitted sheepishly. “But, I don’t feel right pissing on somebody else’s grave. ‘Specially if I don’t know ‘em.”

“Hey, it might bring the figures back up again,” Dutch told his older brother, smirking. “They dropped down a little. Give it a shot.”

Bren appeared to consider it. “It might bring out McBride’s ghost,” Dutch added, egging his brother on further. “Especially if you manage to pick her grave.”

Bren began looking around right and left, trying to discern which aged tombstone belonged to the ghost of Marla McBride. Daddy got his middle son’s attention with a sharp glare.

“Don’t,” he stated flatly.

Time ticked by slowly for the three men. Bren exchanged a few more texts with the twins, but declined to share the details. Periodically, his fingers would thread through the long mane of thick, bright red hair.

All four Clydesdale brothers shared the family trademark. Their hair was red and their eyes were a solid forest green. Bren was similar to his younger brother Dutch, in that they both took after their mother. They were both svelte, with Bren rocking a swimmer’s build rather than the bulk that Percy and Morgan put on during college. Dutch was the only twink in the family, but Daddy frequently assured him that he was coming along nicely.

The twins were more like their father. Clydesdale was a beast of a man, standing at six-feet and five inches. His body had muscles all over. Even the gut he sported was muscle, built up from years of labor and hard work. The twins, while not as big, still had the Clydesdale genes. Their bodies already bulged from weightlifting and moving heavy equipment around.

A mosquito landed on Daddy’s arm, ready to drain his life blood away. Daddy flicked the offending insect away with a thumb, using his free hand.

“Might as well not have bothered,” he reasoned to himself.

His arms were coated in thick red hair, colored the same as the mane on his head. The hair extended down over his chest and stomach, and along the thick tree trunks that passed for his legs. Underneath the hair, skin that was slightly tan stretched over his thick, muscular form. Much of his body was naturally tan, made even darker by a sea of freckles that went everywhere.

A bright red beard completed the effect. None of Daddy’s sons sported facial hair, preferring to keep their faces smooth. His sons were not as hairy in general, compared to their father. Daddy expected that would change some day, even for Dutch and Bren.

“Can we go now?” Bren exclaimed, shaking Daddy out of his thoughts. “I really do gotta piss, and Morgan keeps messaging me about needing to take a shit. I’m sick of hearing it.”

“That makes two of us,” Dutch retorted.

Bren picked up a nearby pebble and flicked it lightly at Dutch. “Hey!” Daddy warned, giving Bren a death glare. “Cut it out.”

“He didn’t hit me,” Dutch said, hoping to calm his father down. “He can’t hit anything, even when it’s broad daylight.”

This little jab earned Dutch some of his older brother’s ire, though Bren was reduced to nothing more than scowling while Daddy watched.

“And besides,” Dutch added, holding his own phone up. “I meant that Morgan’s been messaging me too.”

“Oh.” Bren thought about that. “My bad, then.”

Daddy gripped the shotgun in his hands, praying for patience. A night owl hooted somewhere in the distance. Crickets sang their nighttime song, cheering for the rain that was still lingering at a distance in the clouds. A low rumble of thunder rolled their way.

A rainstorm was the last thing Daddy wanted. “Pack it up,” he told his boys, lowering the shotgun. “This one’s a bust.”

Dutch hesitated. “What’ll we do about the show?” he asked, but Bren was already racing around the cemetery, collecting the night vision cameras.

“We’ll come back,” Daddy reassured Dutch, placing a hand on his youngest son’s shoulder. “This ain’t over ‘till we put McBride to rest for good.”

“Besides,” Bren added from off in the distance. “People love these multiparter episodes.”

“Yeah, ‘cept for the jerkasses who bitch about ‘em in the comments,” Dutch reminded his older brother, though he was already bending down to pack up his gear. “Maybe we can turn it into a standard episode instead? Edit around it. Come back tomorrow an’ leave off the part where we called it quits for the night.”

The thought had occurred to Daddy as well. “We’ll see,” he told Dutch. “I’ll take that stuff in, son. Go find the twins while Bren rounds up the last of the cameras.”

“Sir,” Dutch obeyed, passing the equipment case over to his father.

“Damn,” Daddy mumbled, walking with both hands full back to the Bust Rucket. “Thing’s heavier than I remember.”

Percy and Morgan came running to the RV as Daddy was settling behind the driver’s seat. His oldest son got the door open first, but Morgan raced inside ahead of him, making a beeline for the restroom.

“Shit!” Percy screamed as the bathroom door slammed shut. “I gotta piss like a fucking racehorse, bro!”

“Language,” Daddy reminded. “And if you just made a mess in there, you can bet your ass it’s on you t’ clean it up.”

Percy scowled as he scaled up the steps into the Bust Rucket, carrying two expensive night vision cameras in each hand. “Did you just lecture me on swearin’,” the older twin by two-and-a-half minutes asked, “an’ swear in the same sentence?”

Daddy ignored him. “Where’s Bren and Dutch?”

“Coming!” Dutch’s voice came from behind Percy. “Just getting the last of the cameras together, Daddy.”

Daddy was relieved when all four of his sons made it inside the RV. “Close the door,” he told Bren, who came in last.

“Half a good night’s sleep wasted sitting out in a boneyard,” Bren groused, laying the cameras down on a nearby table.

“Don’t complain,” Dutch said, before Daddy could. “We’ve got some great shots. Plus, the figures for the stream were high. We’ve just gotta edit the final broadcast together––”

“People will know,” Percy interjected, shaking his head. “The live streams are for die hard fans that make donations. Something t’ make ‘em feel special, but they’ll know the final edit comes from two different nights.”

“So?” Dutch did not back down easily. “We’ll put in a disclaimer. Or, just tell the audience upright that this episode took place during the week.”

“We’ve done it before,” Bren reminded, coming to Dutch’s defense.

Percy frowned as Bren slid down in a nearby chair. “But this was supposed t’ be a big night,” he insisted, unwilling to let the subject die.

“Things don’t always work out,” Daddy reminded, sensing a fight brewing on the horizon, and wanting to nip it in the ass before it blossomed.

The sound of a toilet flushing caught their attention. Morgan emerged from the bathroom, wearing a look of absolute relief on his face.

“Whew,” he gasped, waving one hand behind him. “Almost didn’t make it.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Percy snapped.

“We’ll get the video worked out,” Dutch tried, attempting a more diplomatic approach with Percy this time. “I always get it workin’ in the end.”

“Yeah,” Bren muttered, half-asleep in the chair. “Dutch’z the best.”

Content that the situation was diffused for the time being, Daddy started the RV. There was no traffic on the country road so there was no need to worry about pulling out in front of anyone. Nevertheless, Daddy looked in both side mirrors before rolling the Bust Rucket out onto the gravel road.

“Think we should film some Facetime footage?” Dutch asked, looking from Percy to Morgan. “I mean, just in case we don’t get a chance later.”

Bren snorted, then fell into a rhythm of light snoring.

“So glad we got his input,” Percy sneered.

“I’m game,” Morgan said amicably. “Not gonna pass out for a while. Not after the thermos of hot coffee I guzzled.”

“No wonder you had t’ shit then,” Daddy called out as Dutch began setting up a regular digital handheld camera for them to use. “Morgan, you remember that coffee gives you the runs, right?”

“He drank the whole thing,” Percy clarified. “In one gulp.”

“It was four gulps,” Morgan protested. “I was falling asleep next t’ the tombstone we were guarding. You were the one who handed the coffee to me.”

“Only because you were half-conscious.” Percy paused when Bren let out another snort. “Kinda like him, actually.”

Up front, Daddy ignored his sons. He needed all of his attention for driving through the deep woods. Like most roads in the area, this one was muddy, covered with gravel, and twisted like a poor old woman’s back. There were no houses this far deep and no security lights or streetlamps to help push back the dark.

Tree limbs hung across the road overhead, stretching as though reaching for one another. They tangled together, forming a canopy of leaves and branches. Daddy had the high beams going at full brightness, and even then, it was hard for him to see. In hindsight, he really should have just left the boys at a motel.

But they always had a golden rule: no one hunted alone.

“So, guys,” he heard Dutch asking the twins. “What’d you think of tonight?”

Morgan cleared his throat in an effort to sound important. “My ass itches,” he stated flatly for the camera Dutch held.

“I need coffee,” a very tired-sounding Percy grumbled. “’Cuz somebody drank all of it.”

“Not this late, you don’t,” Daddy warned, taking his eyes off the road for an instant. “Bad enough Morgan’s gonna be climbing the walls once––”

The whole front of the RV suddenly bucked and shook. Daddy gripped the wheel instinctively. His eyes swept the darkened road for signs of life. A second later, the cabin shook again. Each of the boys yelped in surprise as they were tossed about like rag dolls.

“My camera!” Dutch screamed, snatching hold of the strap before it could fly away.

“My ass!” Morgan cried out, falling backward into a wastebasket.

“Ow, my head!” Percy cried, having banged it against a cabinet door when it swung open on its own.

“Whazzgoin’ on?” Bren wondered, waking up.

Daddy slammed on the brakes and put the RV into park, bringing the Bust Rucket to a complete stop. They had stopped in the middle of the road, but that wasn’t his major concern at the moment. Bracing himself, Daddy leaped up out of the driver’s seat.

“Head count,” he called out, moving toward the back where his sons were. “Attached or otherwise!”

“Ow, here,” moaned Percy.

“Here, Daddy,” Dutch complied. “Oh, hey! The camera’s still recording.”

“I’m awake,” Bren announced, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. “Are we there yet? Wherever ‘there’ is.”

“I’m here,” Morgan’s voice came feebly from further back. “And I’m stuck! Help me.”

Morgan had landed backward in a wastebasket, the remains of which clung to his derriere with a vengeance. It took Percy and Bren holding onto the wastebasket while their father pulled for the thing to come off.

Dutch recorded the entire incident.

“Thanks,” said Morgan, before glaring at Dutch. “Delete that! I don’t want any of that getting into the final video.”

“No, keep it,” Percy insisted, laughing. “This way, people’ll stop thinking I’m the idiot of the group.”

“They only think that because you keep falling into open graves,” Bren pointed out, tossing the ruined wastebasket aside.

“Once,” Morgan reminded. “I fell into an open grave once. Singular!”

“It’s like clockwork,” Bren continued, egging his brother on.

“It was dark outside!” Morgan insisted.

“Enough.” The single word from Daddy silenced the two. “I hit something. You boys stay put and lock the door behind me while I go check it out.”

Daddy started to reach for the shotgun. Percy already had it in one hand, passing it to his father. Both barrels were pointed down at the floor, well away from anyone.

“You’ll need backup,” Percy said, determined. “One of us should––”

Daddy took the shotgun from his son. “I’m only going to see what I hit,” he said in a tone that was both gentle and firm. “Stay inside and don’t open the door until you hear the secret knock.”

It was standard procedure. The boys knew this, but none of them were happy. Each watched with trepidation as their father marched out the RV door, locking it behind him. A total of three seconds passed before one spoke.

“So, just so we’re clear,” Bren said, glancing from one brother to the next. “We’re totally going after him, right?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

“Duh.”

“Right.” Bren nodded. “Just one more question, then. Which one of us is staying behind t’ be everyone else’s alibi.”

In unison, the three oldest brothers turned to look at Dutch, the youngest.

“Fuck that,” Dutch spat, lowering the camera.

“Language,” Morgan reminded, though it was mostly a joke.

“You’re the smart one,” Percy tried, hoping to play diplomat. “We need you t’ be our eyes and ears.”

“Yeah, and besides that,” Bren added, “Daddy’ll murder us where we stand if anything happens t’ you.”

“I’m the one with the camera,” Dutch insisted, then added quickly when Percy opened his mouth, “And no fuckin’ way! Last time I let you be cameraman, I got the damn thing back in monthly installments.”

Something slammed hard against the door. All four boys jumped as the knob rattled. A second later, it flung open, revealing their father. The senior Clydesdale family member was ashen-faced, sweat dripping down his temples.

“We’re leaving,” he stated, slamming the door shut behind him. “Fuck the secret knock. It’s time we got our asses outta here!”

The boys moved aside to let their father through, a feat that took a moment due to Daddy’s size. Morgan and Dutch sat down at the table. Bren and Percy moved to the back. Once the way was clear, Daddy marched toward the driver’s seat.

“But,” Dutch protested, “didn’t we hit something?”

“Yeah,” Bren called out, moving closer to the front. “We didn’t even get t’ the part where we sneak out after you, get into trouble, and you have t’ come rescue us.”

Percy smacked Bren on the back of the head. “Ow,” Bren said, wincing.

“That only happened twice,” Percy insisted. “An’ we don’t count the time where I got trapped inside that possessed Cadillac. Daddy said I could drive it.”

As the two glared, Morgan got up out of his seat. His father had started the engine and flashed the headlights. Daddy was staring out through the windshield, as if searching for something.

“Daddy...?” Morgan asked.

“Yeah, Daddy,” Dutch said, equally worried. “What’s wrong?”

The answer came, not from their father, but from the RV shaking. The whole cabin rocked to one side, tossing Percy and Bren, who were still arguing, off their feet. The duo made a decidedly less-than-graceful landing on the floor in a tangled pile, one on top of the other.

“Ow, my head!” Percy cried.

“Ow,” echoed Bren. “My squeedily spooch!”

Morgan and Dutch managed to land back in their seats. This was helped by the RV rocking back in the other direction a moment later. Dutch clung to the camera, trying desperately to not drop it and still record everything that was happening.

“Boys, stay down!” they heard their father yell. “She’s out there!”

None of the boys required an explanation for who ‘she’ was. Dutch kept his head low, but continued to film everything going on around him. Percy reached for a cabinet to his left, getting a container of salt. Bren reached up top and pulled down matches and a tin canister of kerosene.

“Anybody seen the vial of Antiplasm we bought?” Bren yelled, searching the immediate area around him desperately.

“I think Morgan had it last,” came Dutch’s reply.

Morgan had gone for the PKE Meter and was looking over at the readings. Several curses came out from under his breath while he fiddled with the nobs. The machine let out a squawk, then a low-pitched whine, before settling on a steady beeping.

“Class Four,” Morgan announced, squinting in the dark at the screen. “Repeating specter. Readings are red-hot, Daddy.” Morgan paused, registering at last that one of his brothers had said his name. “What? What are we talking about?”

The RV shook all over. It felt as if something were above them, grasping it in a giant hand and shaking them about. Morgan tasted blood in his mouth when the RV fell back to the ground.

“Forget about it, Morgan,” he heard his father shout, his words etched with steel.

Silence followed, save for the sound of everyone breathing heavily. The four brothers looked to one another, apprehension etched on each of their faces. No one made the first move.

“Look,” whispered Percy, pointing toward the window.

The glass window was next to the seat where Morgan and Dutch sat. Nominally, during the day, it offered a picturesque view of the rolling countryside. Tonight, a mist crept over the pane. What little there was to see out of the outside vanished from sight, blanketed by a thick cloud.

“She’s up here,” they heard their father whisper.

One by one, the boys turned to where Daddy sat. The windshield was covered in the same dense mist. Daddy had one hand on his shotgun, but refused to raise it just yet.

“Back here too, Daddy,” Percy said in a softer voice. He was trying to not let his fear show for the sake of his brothers. “The windows are all fogging up.”

“Stay quiet, boys,” Daddy instructed. “Don’t nobody make a move.”

Streaks began forming over the windshield glass, as if a delicate set of fingers were moving playfully back and forth. The fog on the windshield would disappear for a moment, then fill back up again.

“She’s playing with us,” Daddy said ruefully.

Percy and Bren were both armed, waiting for a signal from their father. Morgan continued to check the PKE readings for fluctuations. Dutch filmed as if his life depended on it.

Something rattled underneath the RV. It sounded like nails scraping along the cabin’s pipeline. Daddy popped out of his seat, shotgun at the ready.

“If she hits the gas line,” he said, not bothering to finish the sentence. “We may have t’ abandon the Bust Rucket. Follow me, boys.”

His sons stood up as one. “Quietly,” Daddy added, frowning.

The five men, father and sons, marched one after the other out the RV door. Daddy was in the lead, his shotgun prepped and ready. His eyes scanned the surrounding darkness, piercing through the swirling mists for signs of danger.

“Back t’ back, boys,” their father instructed.

Percy held the door open for Dutch, then moved everyone along so that they stood outward in a circle. The brothers touched shoulder to shoulder with their father, walking in a pattern so that everyone got a good look at the same thing.

Nothing but dense forest and blackness caused by a starless night greeted their eyes.

“Wait for it.” Daddy kept his voice low and his instructions quick. “Wait for it.”

The temperature around them plummeted. The warm spring night in the swamps of Mississippi vanished, leaving behind the icy touch of winter and death. The PKE Meter in Morgan’s hand went ballistic at the same time.

“Full red lights,” he cried out, holding the Meter up.

Something came flying through the air, smacking the device out of his hand. It clattered to the ground against the gravel. The PKE Meter let out an audible “crack” before the screen died.

“Oops.” Morgan was shame-faced. “Sorry.”

“Great,” Dutch grumbled. “Three guesses as to who’s gonna be the one who has t’ fix––”

A howl, high and with the dulcet quality of nails on a chalkboard, cut Dutch off. “Never mind,” he said, turning the camera around.

“Stay together, boys,” Daddy instructed, watching the space above each of their heads. “Don’t move, an’ don’t run off.”

The sharp flutter of wings filled the air. Daddy ignored it, figuring it for a random spooked bird driven out of its nest. Another set of wings came, however, followed by another.

“Um, Daddy?” said Percy nervously.

They were suddenly surrounded. Wings beat with the fury of nature itself. A flock of blackbirds descended on the five men, scratching and pecking. Cries rang out in the dark, from the boys and the birds. Daddy attempted to get a clear shot, but there was too much movement.

“Fuck it,” he decided, aiming the shotgun straight up.

Before he could pull the trigger, something snaked along the ground. Daddy felt it roll over his feet, twisting around both ankles. The father of four found that he couldn’t move. All around him, there came the cries of his sons, swinging wildly at the attacking birds.

“Boys!” he yelled, panic gripping his chest.

The thing down at his feet lunged up, swatting the shotgun away. It bounced along the ground, landing in the nearby ditch. The birds returned in full force, aiming their infernal claws at his face.

“Get back!” he roared, swinging his arms. “Goddamn crows!”

His legs were still held in place, bound by an invisible force. Daddy felt one claw slice open his cheek. Blood dripped from the wound onto the ground. The same wail from before shrieked in his ears.

“Get away from them,” he growled, “you bitch!”

A figure raced past. Daddy couldn’t see who it was for the blackbirds attacking. Morgan and Bren were closest to him, so he went for them first. Since he couldn’t run, Daddy settled for frog hopping. It was undignified, but got the job done.

One after the other, he swatted the blackbirds away from his sons. As the winged menaces took flight, Daddy saw well enough that Percy was doing fine on his own.

Percy had retrieved a fallen branch from somewhere. Whenever a blackbird dared bring itself close enough, he swung. The birds found themselves flying back against their will with a busted wing or a bruised beak.

“I’m good, Daddy,” Percy reassured, seeing his father. “Hold on. I’m coming!”

There came a clap like thunder. Daddy recognized the sound immediately. It was from the shotgun. The blackbirds scattered in all directions, eager to fly now that their lives were in serious danger.

Daddy turned, finding his youngest son, Dutch, holding the gun aloft with a practiced ease. “Daddy,” Dutch said in a grave tone. “Don’t move.”

Daddy didn’t understand what was happening, but he did as Dutch requested. Both legs were still bound tightly together by… something. Dutch marched with the barrel pointed down, just as his father had taught him. When he was a few feet from Daddy, he pointed the gun to the right of his father’s feet.

“Let him go,” Dutch ordered, his voice suddenly sounding a lot like his father.

The ground beside where Daddy stood twitched and shuddered. Out from the gravel stirred a figure, face shriveled and wearing a tattered wedding dress. The deceased Marla McBride was a sight to behold. Maggots fell from the blank spots where her eyes had once been. Her mouth was missing half of its teeth.

Part of the skeleton underneath her flesh was visible. The tips of her fingers showed bone, as well as one side of her face along the jawline. A rattling noise came from her chest. Dust and gravel fell from her remains. She was holding on to Daddy’s ankles, trying to keep him in place.

Dutch took aim and fired, blowing the head and chest cavity to smithereens.

His brothers flinched, each taking a step backward. “Ow,” moaned Bren, rubbing his ears. “Warn us next time.”

Dutch lowered the shotgun. “You okay, Daddy?” he asked, his voice returning to normal. “I didn’t get you, did I?”

Daddy shook his head, finding himself able to move now. The decrepit remains of McBride lay in the gravel road, missing the upper half. There was no more movement from her.

“Salt and fire, boys,” he instructed, speaking to Percy and Morgan. “You know the drill.”

The twins went to work, making sure the body was properly disposed of so that McBride’s spirit could not return. While they worked, Daddy walked over to where Dutch stood. One hand stretched out expectantly.

“Wish I coulda caught that on camera,” Dutch said, showing his disappointment now that it was over. “Bet people would’ve thought I looked cool.”

Daddy smiled, pride radiating from him. “It was,” he agreed, taking the shotgun carefully out of Dutch’s hands. “You did good, son.”

Dutch waited until the shotgun was out of the way, then launched himself into his father’s arms. Daddy held his youngest son for a moment, relief flooding him. His strong, hairy arms squeezed Dutch tightly.

It was over.

“C’mon,” he said, keeping one arm around Dutch as they began moving. “Let’s get inside. Your brothers’ll be finished soon.”

Bren had already collected Dutch’s camera and the busted PKE Meter. The three of them marched back to the Bust Rucket while Percy and Morgan spread salt around the corpse. As the door opened, flames rose up from the graveled road, dispelling the mists and illuminated the darkness around them. Several blackbirds cawed and they took to the sky, fleeing the scene.

Dutch took a look at the PKE Meter once they were safely back inside the RV. “Doesn’t look so bad,” he mused, turning the device this way and that to get a clear idea of the damage.

“Think you can patch it up?” Bren asked, yawning as he claimed a seat at the table.

Dutch smirked at his brother in answer. “Cake walk,” he told Bren confidently.

Bren chuckled, giving Dutch a high-five. A frown marred his expression afterward, however. He peeked around Dutch to look at their father, standing by the refrigerator with a longneck in hand.

“Say, Daddy?” Bren asked. “Why’d you think she was buried in the road like that?”

Daddy finished taking a pull from his bottle of Sapporo before answering. “Dunno,” he admitted. “She was supposed t’ be buried in the cemetery.”

“Maybe whoever murdered her buried her in the woods,” Dutch suggested, his attention primarily focused on repairing the PKE Meter.

“We don’t know she was murdered,” Bren pointed out, though he looked to his father for confirmation.

“We don’t,”Daddy admitted. “Still, none of the reports about McBride make a whole lotta sense. They were old t’ begin with. She was in the road where we stopped, though. That much we can be sure of.”

“Because it sounded like we hit something.” Bren made a face. “No wonder. She must’ve been trying to get somebody’s attention so they would bury her.”

Daddy was in the midst of taking another pull when he frowned. “Speaking of,” he said, lowering the longneck. “How long does it take for those two t’ take care of an unclean corpse.”

“You know those two,” Dutch replied, still picking away at the PKE Meter in his hands. “They like t’ be thorough. Remember when we had to dump that reanimated cannibal?”

Daddy scowled. “They’d better not be fuckin’ around,” he growled impatiently. “It’s late, and we could all use a damn good night’s rest after this mess.”

“Speaking of which,” Bren said, stretching out. “I was in the middle of somethin’ earlier.” His legs popped loudly as his eyes fluttered closed. “G’night!”

Within minutes, despite being covered in scratches and having just fought an evil undead corpse ghost, Bren was snoring softly.

“That’s almost impressive,” Dutch noted dryly. “In its own way.”

“Sure enough,” Daddy agreed, rolling his eyes. “C’mere, boy. Let’s get those cuts and such taken care of. You can fiddle with your Meter once you’re not bleedin’ anymore.”

Dutch blushed, but didn’t argue. “Yes, Daddy!” he complied eagerly, his shoulder brushing against Daddy’s side as they moved toward the back.

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Author’s Notes:
Hey, boys! Damn, but it feels good to post this. You’ve just completed the first chapter of a story I finished years ago. Little came of it, sadly, despite my attempts to find a publisher who would take it. I’ve decided to share it with you all here.

Don’t worry. The naughty parts are coming. Daddy likes to build things up a bit before rewarding you all with some steamy sexual release. The wait will be worth it, trust me.

Also, don’t forget to check out my other taboo tales on Smashwords, available via Indie Erotica:
Daddy-Chief's Smashwords Page

With flaming red hair and bodies that are built for sin, there is nothing in the supernatural world that the Clydesdale men aren't willing to take on. Led by their father, Jason "Daddy" Clydesdale, the four brothers—Percy, Morgan, Bren, and Dutch—film their paranormal investigative exploits to post online. Sure, the world thinks that it's all staged, but the money they make is enough to keep their family fed and clothed. Their latest caper brings them to Mathiston Hill Mansion, an antebellum manor in Vicksburg, Mississippi. The house has an unsavory history of being haunted and the latest owners, while skeptical, wish for the Clydesdale men to do something about the problem while being as discreet as possible.

It doesn't take very long for the family to discover that the rumors are true. The secrets that lurk within the mansion, however, resonate with more than one member of the Clydesdale men. As their investigation deepens, more than one Clydesdale find themselves being drawn in by a sinister power and a forbidden love, both of which have the potential to destroy the family forever!

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Author’s Note:

Also, check out my stories on Smashwords, available via Indie Erotica:

Daddy-Chief's Smashwords Page