July 1822...

Percy Shelley had been reckless ignoring the storm warnings, and the violent squall would not be outrun. Moments before tumultuous waves engulfed the Don Juan and its sailors, Percy shoved a book of Keat's poems into his pocket. Most appropriately, poetry would be this Romantic poet's last thought before his death on that fateful day.

Adding to the trauma of their loved ones, the uncaring sea wouldn't spit their bodies ashore for another ten days. Shelley’s friends – Lord Byron, novelist Edward John Trelawney, and poet Leigh Hunt – claimed the remains, only identifying him by his clothes. His face, rendered unrecognizable within the water's depths, wouldn't be the most chilling aspect of his death. As his body was cremated on a pyre on the beach, his heart remained whole, refusing to burn in the fire. With others staring aghast, his friend, John Trelawney, burned his hand reaching into the fire to retrieve the indestructible organ. Eventually, the heart was given to Percy's grieving widow, Mary Shelley, best known for her literary masterpiece, Frankenstein.

Mary carefully wrapped her dead husband's heart in one of his last poems, Adonais. For the next thirty years, the heart lived in her desk – the centre of her literary output. It was an interesting choice by Mary, keeping his heart closest to her writing. Seemingly more devoted to Percy in death than in life, she spent decades labouring over his poems, editing, bring them to public attention. It was as if Percy's spirit directed her actions.

After Mary's death in 1851, Percy's heart was then kept by their son until he died in 1889. At that time, his heart was finally laid to rest in the Shelley family vault in St. Peter's Churchyard in Bournemouth, England.

~ooOoo~

Present day...

After crumpling the paper in my hands, I flicked my wrist, once again trying to hit the bin, and once again missing the target. Sighing, I stared hopelessly at the growing pile of crumpled paper on the floor.

It had seemed odd to many that I didn't use my laptop for writing. To be honest, I wanted to feel like one of the old-school writers, so the simple pen was my preferred writing tool. I chewed on my pen when deep in thought and rapped my forehead with it when frustrated. Right now, my head throbbed from the thumping it had taken over the last hour, unable to concentrate as his words kept echoing inside my head.

Your writing lacks authenticity, he had said. 

It's planned. Calculated. A far cry from the poems of the Romantic writers you hope to emulate, he had added, twisting the knife.

And the one that really stung was when he had said, It's like you are devoid of passion.

I hoped he hadn't noticed how embarrassment coloured my cheeks. It was hard to write with passion when you hadn't made love yet. In my teen years, I had prided myself on keeping my legs closed to those immature boys. I was a hopeless romantic who wanted to save myself for my wedding night. Sure, I'd been kissed a few times ... even had my plump breasts felt up a time or two ... but when I refused to lower my knickers for them, boys stopped asking me on dates. As I said, I was proud of my choice. Proud until I reached uni, and being a virgin at my age came to mean something was wrong with me. As a twenty-two-year-old virgin, I could hardly argue with his last statement about my lack of passion. 

He, the man throwing the barbs my way, was Professor Wentworth, my Creative Writing professor. I valued his opinion because he was known for his connections in the publishing world. If he admired your work, you had a definite foot in the door – the door usually closed to unproven wannabe writers like me. 

His last statement before I left his office had been, Do something that scares you ... then write about it. 

I knew what scared me ... that one thing that raised goosebumps all over my body. Hugging myself I thought, I have to visit a graveyard. 

~ooOoo~

I intended to reach St. Peter's Church much earlier in the day. Really, I did. My irrational fear had stopped me each time. My heart raced, chest muscles clenched. Fighting fear was truly exhausting! I talked myself out of going a few more times, but eventually, my desire to improve my writing became bigger than my fear of graveyards. I knew which graveyard I had to visit – the Shelley family vault. Maybe, if I was lucky, some of the Shelley family brilliance would rub off on me ... if I could force myself to touch the gravestone.

Easy to find, the church was situated in the heart of Bournemouth. I always felt a layer of protection with a church on the grounds. The walking dead wouldn't dare disturb the Holy. Or would they? The Gothic architecture momentarily distracted me from my death-laden thoughts. Looming overhead was a towering spire with dramatic arched windows. Surely any Spirits floating around would feel God's eyes upon them and stay out of trouble. I stood shifting my weight from one foot to the other, glancing at the graveyard. Well, get on with it! I screamed inside my head.

My first step onto the grounds was tentative. I tapped my toe on the grass as if waiting for the ground to swallow me up. Of course, it didn't. All that happened was I drew a few odd glances from other visitors. Stop being so silly! I scolded myself again. Sucking in my breath, I set off up the hill to the Shelley family vault highlighted on my map and didn't release my breath until I reached my destination. There would be no browsing this creepy place. Nope. In and out was my plan. 

I knew the massive stone was their vault before I read the carved names. It was appropriately larger than the others, spotlighted, making sure one knew of its importance. Upon reaching it, I closed my eyes, making a memory of my feelings to recall and describe later with my pen. 

Without warning, emotions swept over me. With tears stinging my eyes, I blurted out, "I want to be a poet." I had spoken these words before but never with this much longing in my heart. Fear of this place was replaced with yearning. Yes, I yearned to know Percy Shelley. Craved the secret to his famous poems. I knew I had a hole within me that needed filling. 

Without trepidation, my hand reached out and traced the letters of his name etched in the stone – Percy Bysshe Shelley. How I wished I'd lived during his time. I didn't want to be just any poet, but a Romantic poet. My world was full of robotic analysts; all of us had become digitized. Concrete jungles replaced the lush, green ones. I felt it was my purpose to reintroduce this world to the beauty surrounding us. Awe-inspiring nature should be respected once again. Imagination should be revered over reason. I needed to find the words within me to express these things. Show me a poet's soul, Percy!

Within moments, the air around me turned noticeably cooler. Looking up at the sky, I looked for the reason for the sudden temperature drop, yet saw none. I shivered, hugging myself. Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me. Dead people. A gothic-looking church. All these things could give one an eerie feeling. Despite my uneasiness, I couldn't quite will my feet to move. Instead, I stood staring at the Shelley family vault, wondering about Percy. What did he have inside of him that I lacked?

Soul meets soul on lovers' lips. Percy Shelley's words drowned my thoughts. Without my intention, his face materialized in my mind. Handsome, yes, but also androgynous, I thought. His mouth was beautifully shaped. And his eyes – vibrant, captivating. But, so young was this picture in my mind. Sadly, he died just shy of thirty years old. "How tragic," I said aloud, wondering what else he would have created if he had lived longer.

My train of thought vanished as something brushed against my neck, covering me in instant goosebumps. My hand reacted, swiping at my tingling skin. Nothing there. Maybe a breeze tickled my skin. It happened again. Okay, now I was unnerved. Snapping my head around, I saw nothing. Calm down! I told myself, but my fears came rushing back with a vengeance. 

A couple not far away noticed my erratic movements and stared. I walked away, trying to find a different spot away from the mysterious breeze or wind or whatever. No, that didn't work; more brushes against my neck, harder this time. If I didn't know better, I'd think someone was kissing my neck. Again sensations in my hair as if fingers were entwined with my long, dark tendrils. Quickly, I relocated again, attracting a few questioning expressions from a different couple. And again, more touches. Yes, they were indeed touches, no mistaking this time. This force I couldn't see was following me!

Icy dread stabbed my heart. Panic set in, so I hurried to my car, shivering with fear, needing to flee this rapidly terrifying atmosphere. Once inside my car, I inhaled a few deep breaths. Better. Or so I thought.

My body had finally quit trembling as I managed to drive myself back to the safety of my flat. At one point, my hand thumped my forehead, trying to rid my brain of scary words - ghost, demon, undead, evil. Once inside my home, I decided a warm shower would help settle me down. After quickly shedding my clothes, I jumped underneath the heated water stream. I stood still, letting the warmth wash over me, and my chills ceased. A few moments of peace pampered me before thoughts of the graveyard pushed peace to a corner. Thoughts of Percy Shelley were in the forefront. His horrid death. The chilling story of his heart that wouldn't burn.

To my extreme discomfort, a new thought entered my mind – the thought that I was being watched. It's the spine-tingling uneasiness one feels when unseen eyes are peering upon you. Despite the warm water, tiny hairs on my body now stood erect. Shutting off the water, I stood naked and dripping wet, listening. I even held my breath, attempting to hear the slightest noise outside my shower. Nothing. But, the feelings remained. Finally, I poked just my head around the curtain. As I somewhat expected, there was nothing to see. Grabbing a towel, I covered myself and stepped outside the shower, ignoring the water dripping onto the floor. After a puddle had formed at my feet, I moved, leaving the bathroom and plodding towards my bedroom. 

Get a hold of yourself! Deciding I was suffering effects from an overactive imagination, I tried to push all thoughts out of my head. Turning on some soft music, flute mixed with waterfalls, calmed me. After changing into my sleepshirt, I slid underneath my covers and closed my eyes, visualizing the waterfall I was hearing. 

I guess I had drifted off to sleep listening to the music for when I woke with a jolt, my clock said 4:10 am. What had awoken me? Then, I felt it – a soft peck on my lips. 

Terror struck me. My fingers fumbled to switch on the light on my nightstand as I bolted upright. Time passed at a snail's pace the remainder of the night. I pulled the covers up tightly underneath my chin, remaining vigilant. Something was definitely amiss and sleep would not find me again that night. 

The next day passed without any odd occurrences, however, I stumbled around exhausted from lack of sleep. My muscles ached from tension. I knew I was walking tentatively with hunched shoulders. Again I believed someone was watching me. If I had any friends they would surely have noticed my odd behaviour and inquired about me.

That night, I crawled into bed, cursing myself for my childish fears the night before, vowing to sleep. It was not to be. With eyes closed, my other senses alerted me to a presence. I knew someone was in my room. Open your eyes! I couldn't make myself respond. You must! I obeyed that voice inside my head, trying the best I could to prepare myself beforehand for whatever I would see. 

Stunned upon first sight, the most vivid blue eyes stared into mine. Not just stared but penetrated me. My fear subsided somewhat as a feeling of intimacy warmed me. My eyes connected with the incredible eyes set upon me. The eyes belonged to Percy Shelley.

My love will inspire and create.

His lips didn't move, but I knew the voice was his. Then, I awakened confused, trying to shake the cobwebs in my mind. It had seemed so real! What is happening to me?

Another day passed with little consequence, but I was still not myself. My lack of sleep was taking its toll, obvious by my inability to concentrate. While true, those nighttime incidences had frightened me. Another feeling had crept in as well; I couldn't quite put my finger on it. 

I vowed to stay awake that night and plugged in a small nightlight, so I wasn't left in total darkness. Clutching my pillow, I waited. My eyes watched for the tiniest movement. My ears strained to hear any noise that didn't belong. I lost track of time and then it happened. The skin on my cheek tingled. Then my lips. 

My lips impress a lingering kiss.

The voice was back! I jerked the covers up over my head and then steepled my fingers in silent prayer.

Stop fighting me. 

More words appeared out of nowhere inside my head. The voice ... it wasn't mine. Or was it? God, I felt as if I was losing my wits! 

I popped my head out from underneath the covers and looked around. Nothing. Then, I cupped my ears, unreasonably hoping it would silence the voices. My lips ... softness touched them. Covering them with my hand didn't stop the kissing.

Stop resisting and drink of joy.

I quit trying to make sense of it all. The sensations ceased, and I had to admit they were not unpleasant but tender. Logic failed me here, so I resigned myself to just feel. Surprisingly, I found myself missing the tingling, willing it to return. Something inside me told me to obey the voice. Removing my hand from my mouth, I lay waiting. With the next touch of my lips, I bravely kissed back. Opening my eyes I saw nothing, so I clenched them shut again. More kissing followed and my skin became heated. Aroused. I had become aroused.

My neck rotated, wanting to feel the kisses everywhere ... over every inch of my skin. A nip of my ear made me gasp. Whatever or whoever was kissing me, I liked it. A lot. The kisses trailed down my neck and between my breasts. It was as if I lay naked, even though a nightshirt covered my body. These touches were directly touching my skin. My nipples reacted, aching, starving for attention. Oh, what pleasure I had not felt before. Nerve endings fired from my breasts down my tummy and between my legs. 

I had never masturbated before; the romantic inside me wanted a lover to touch me ... teach me ... release me. Whenever the ache had started, usually when reading a romantic novel, I had put down my book until it subsided. Deep inside, I knew those tingles would lead to something bigger, but I had refused to explore my private areas with my own hands. Never had I imagined my first time would be at the hands of an invisible lover. All my questions were about to be answered.

I returned my attention to the weight upon me, pressing me into the mattress. A weight, yet weightless too. Whatever was happening comforted me. I no longer felt threatened, but cherished. The most intimate connection I had yet experienced in my young life. 

You are my beautiful lover! Open yourself to me!

My legs splayed wide. Warmth shot to my clitoris. Intermittent pressure. Aching. My back arched off the bed, needing this invisible force to press harder. Faster. Something explosive was building inside me. Terrifying, yet thrilling. Please don't stop...

It's no longer touching me on the outside but is inside now. It's inside me! It - he - didn't matter anymore. My legs quivered as my most private area was invaded. There was no pain, only incredible pleasure ... indescribable pleasure which curled my toes.

"Oh, God!" I screamed. 

This is no God, echoed in my head. 

Tremors rocked my body. I lay on my back, clawing at the air, yet grasping nothing. My hands fell to my sides and settled for twisting the sheets. 

"Percy?" I whispered into the darkness, struggling to regain my normal breathing. My soul knew the answer but needed him to say the words. 

I was unsure if the voice came from within my own head or outside my body, but a male voice finally answered. He whispered, "Yes ... and like Mary before you, I will fuel your writing with passion."

To be continued...