Nana’s Bed

Another in the haunted artifacts series, using a literary allusion to provide a foundation for our frame characters’ developing relationship = enjoy

Nana’s Bed
by David Cain

“You said everything’s haunted. What about the bed? Did he sleep in a haunted bed?”

“He never slept here. No one could sleep in that bed.”

“Why not?”

“That’s Nana’s bed.”

“Nana? Someone’s grandmother?”

“Bah. Nana was the name of a very celebrated courtesan in nineteenth century Paris. She was an famous actress, sort of, appearing on all the biggest stages. She was incredibly beautiful when she was twenty and that was her only talent. She’d go on stage naked, as a Greek goddess or with some such excuse and the crowds went wild. After that bubble popped, she slept with many many men. You could call her a whore or a courtesan or whatever but mostly she was shrewd. And more than a little horny.”

“So the bed’s seen a lot of action.”

“Especially with Falconi’s box in the room.” We all shifted, tense at the mention of the erotic artifact. The fate of the box had still not been decided.

“I can vouch for this haunting. Every night, late, one or two, after the Opera and subsequent parties wound down, the bed begins to creak in a steady rhythm that gets louder and sometimes faster over a period of time lasting from two minutes to an hour. Sometimes people hear moans, too. I didn’t hear any moans.”

“So you spent the night here?”

“No, it also happens in the afternoon, sometimes. Life of an opera star, I guess. Get up late, screw, do a show, screw. Apparently she screwed a lot.”

“My kind of lady.”

“I believe she died in the bed, as well. Probably why the energy remains so high.”

“The bed has an energy?”

“Falconi’s box kind of drained us all, so you can’t feel it so strongly but it definitely has a sensual pull, makes you want to jump on it and bounce.” My cousin blushed, having done just that when we arrived. I’ve always thought it would make a great bed for a honeymoon suite, help the new couple break the ice and who needs to sleep on their honeymoon? Just an idea.”

“What would we get if we sold it?”

“A few thousand – some of the woodwork is exquisite but mostly it’s just old. Unless you found another erotic paranormal collector. Find one of those and you could name your price.”

“Or we could keep it and, like you say, make money with it.”

“There’s lots of potential for making money with this stuff. A museum would be appropriate but there are other ways.”

“Something to think about, eh, cousin?”

“Can’t sleep in the bed, so I’ve got no use for it. No room, either.”

“So you heard it, the bed creaking?”

“It lasted for about twenty minutes. Slow and steady for a while, then it seemed to get excited and creaked fast for a while and then a few furtive stabs later, it quit. Damnedest thing. Like listening to a roommate doing his girl but there was no one in the bed. The bed didn’t move either. Just really loud spring squeaks.”


My cousin sat back down on the bed, bounced a little. “I do like it,” she said. “It’s a good bed.”

“Not for sleeping.”

“No,” she said, a bit dreamy. “Not for sleeping.” I thought I heard a moan.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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