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autisticadult · 28 days ago

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The deal

Chapter three: danger around every corner

Warnings: a small spicy moment ;) as well as some violence and a car accident, as always minors DNI

AN: I really like this chapter, I know it’s shorter than most but the ANGST that is to come after this is AHHHHHHH- yall I’m geekin

Taglist: @tinysunshine @shadyloveobject

Chapter Three: The Game Begins

The morning after Elijah’s unexpected visit, you awoke with a strange sense of clarity and unease. His words, his touch, and that kiss haunted you, playing on a loop in your mind. He had promised protection but also laid bare the danger of being tied to him. And yet, the fire he’d ignited in you refused to be extinguished.

As you dressed for the day, the mansion felt quieter than usual, the kind of silence that didn’t promise peace but instead hinted at a brewing storm. You wandered downstairs, unsure of what the day would bring.

In the parlor, Rebekah sat lounging on a chaise, flipping through an old leather-bound book. She glanced up as you entered, her lips curving into a knowing smirk.

“Well, well,” she drawled, closing the book with a soft thud. “You look… distracted.”

You froze under her sharp gaze, wondering if she somehow knew what had transpired between you and Elijah.

“Not distracted,” you replied quickly. “Just… tired.”

Rebekah’s smirk deepened, and she stood, circling you like a predator sizing up its prey. “Tired, hm? Or perhaps… preoccupied with my brother’s newfound interest in you?”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you forced yourself to remain calm. “I’m here because of a deal. That’s it.”

“Oh, darling,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You’re here because Elijah wanted you here. You think this is about protecting your brother? Please. My dear brother doesn’t lift a finger unless it benefits him in some way.”

Her words hit too close to the truth, but you refused to let her see your doubt. “I know what I’m doing,” you said firmly.

Rebekah let out a laugh, throwing her head back as though you’d told the funniest joke she’d ever heard. “Do you? Oh, Y/N, you’re in so far over your head you can’t even see the surface anymore.”

Before you could respond, Kol entered the room, his ever-present smirk making you tense. He glanced between you and Rebekah, clearly picking up on the tension.

“What’s this?” he asked, sauntering over. “Another one of Rebekah’s delightful attempts at psychological warfare?”

Rebekah rolled her eyes. “Just trying to help our little guest understand her place here.”

Kol grinned, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, but that’s Elijah’s specialty, isn’t it? Our noble brother does love his little chess games.”

“Enough,” came a calm but commanding voice from the doorway.

Elijah entered the room, his presence instantly silencing the sibling bickering. He looked at Rebekah and Kol with a quiet authority that needed no words, then turned his gaze to you.

“Y/N,” he said smoothly, “a moment, if you please.”

You followed him without hesitation, aware of Rebekah and Kol’s eyes boring into your back. Elijah led you to the sunlit conservatory, a room filled with lush greenery and the scent of fresh flowers. It was a stark contrast to the tension swirling inside you.

He gestured for you to sit on a small bench near the window, and when he spoke, his tone was as measured and deliberate as ever.

“I trust you’ve had time to reflect on last night,” he began.

You nodded, your heart pounding. “I have.”

“And?”

You hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “I don’t fully understand your plans, Elijah. But I’m willing to do what it takes to survive.”

His lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Survival is an admirable instinct. But if you wish to thrive in my world, you must learn to do more than endure. You must adapt, anticipate, and, when necessary, strike.”

You swallowed hard. “What do you want from me, Elijah? Really?”

His gaze bore into you, unflinching. “I want loyalty. Unquestioning, unwavering loyalty. In return, I will ensure your safety and your brother’s freedom.”

It was the same promise he’d made before, but now it felt heavier, like a chain wrapping tighter around you.

“Then tell me how,” you said. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

Elijah stepped closer, his hands clasped behind his back. “Tonight, we attend another gathering. This one is far more… intimate.”

Your stomach twisted. “What kind of gathering?”

“Let’s call it a negotiation,” he said. “There are certain individuals who require convincing that our interests align.”

“And my role?”

He tilted his head, studying you. “To observe. To learn. And, if necessary, to intervene.”

“Intervene how?”

“You’ll know when the time comes,” he said cryptically. “For now, prepare yourself. This will be unlike anything you’ve experienced.”

Before you could ask more questions, he turned and left, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the growing weight of your choices.

That evening, you found yourself once again dressed in something Elijah had chosen for you—a sleek black dress that clung to your frame, elegant yet understated. You stood in front of a mirror, your reflection almost unrecognizable.

The ride to the meeting was quiet, Elijah’s calm presence both reassuring and unnerving. When you arrived, you were led into a dimly lit room filled with people who exuded power and danger. The atmosphere was charged, every glance and movement carrying unspoken threats.

Elijah guided you to a seat beside him, his hand briefly resting on the small of your back—a subtle gesture of control and reassurance.

The discussion began, a tense exchange of words laced with veiled threats and promises. You listened carefully, trying to piece together the underlying power dynamics.

Then, as the conversation grew more heated, one of the men turned his attention to you.

“And who is this?” he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. “Elijah’s new toy?”

Before you could respond, Elijah’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

“Perhaps she is,” he said coldly. Elijah’s hands twitched where they laid rested at his side, clenching into fists as she did. “And you would do well to show her the same respect you show me.” He threatened in a low growl, staring daggers into the man. “I don’t share my toys, you’ll do well to remember that.”

The man’s smirk faltered, and the room fell silent.

Elijah leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady. “Now, shall we continue?”

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur, but the weight of Elijah’s words stayed with you. He had defended you, claimed you as his, in front of people who could destroy you with a single command.

———————————————————————

As you left the meeting, Elijah’s hand brushed against yours, a subtle but deliberate gesture.

“You did well pet. You deserve a treat.” he said softly.

The warmth in his voice unsettled you as much as it comforted you. Because as much as you wanted to trust him, you knew better. Elijah Mikaelson didn’t do anything without a reason. And whatever his plans were for you, they were far from over.

The ride back to the Mikaelson estate felt different this time. The night was thick with tension—not just from the gathering they had left behind, but from what had passed between you and Elijah. You couldn’t forget the way his lips had felt against yours, the way his hand had tangled in your hair as if grounding you to the moment. And now, sitting beside him in the car, the air felt electric, charged with something unspoken but undeniable.

The sleek car glided through the quiet streets of New Orleans, the soft hum of the engine the only sound between you. The city outside was alive in its usual way—dim streetlights flickering, shadows darting between alleys, and the occasional echo of a distant saxophone. But inside the car, the silence was deafening. You could feel Elijah’s presence beside you, his calm demeanor somehow more unsettling after what had transpired.

Soon, your heart began to race as he pulled over to the side of the road, flicking the cabin light on and staring you head on. His usual cold glare held something different, something softer, hungrier

You dared a glance at him, your pulse quickening when you found his dark eyes already on you.

“Elijah,” you began, unsure of what you were about to say.

He arched a brow, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yes?”

Your words caught in your throat, the weight of his gaze pinning you to the seat. “Earlier,” you managed, your voice quieter than you intended, “what happened—”

“What happened,” he interrupted smoothly, his voice low and deliberate, “was the truth finding its way to the surface.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding. “And what truth is that?”

“That you belong here,” he said, his tone sending a shiver down your spine. “With me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and intimate. You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, Elijah leaned closer. His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your face. The touch was light, but it sent sparks coursing through your skin.

“You may deny it to yourself,” he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek. “But you can’t hide it from me.”

His fingers lingered against your jaw, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. The space between you seemed to shrink with every heartbeat, the tension palpable. You knew you should pull away, say something, do anything to break the spell he was weaving around you. But you couldn’t.

“Elijah…” His name slipped from your lips like a plea, though you weren’t sure what you were asking for.

His eyes flickered to your lips, and in the dim light of the car, you swore you saw something raw and unguarded flash across his face. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his voice a soft command.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned into him, the pull between you too strong to resist. The kiss was slow at first, his lips moving against yours with a precision that left no room for hesitation. His hand slid to the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, while his other hand rested on your thigh, his fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your dress.

You gasped against his mouth, your hands finding the lapels of his jacket as if to anchor yourself. Elijah responded by pulling you closer, his touch possessive yet measured, like he was staking a claim.

The car swerved slightly as the driver hit a pothole, breaking the moment just enough for you to remember where you were.

“Elijah,” you whispered breathlessly, your fingers still clutching his jacket.

“Hmm?” he hummed, his lips brushing against your jaw now, his voice low and filled with a dark kind of amusement.

“We’re…” You trailed off, unable to form a coherent thought as his hand slid up to your waist.

“Quite safe,” he assured you, his tone calm despite the fire blazing between you.

But then, as if on cue, the car jolted violently.

You barely had time to process what was happening before the screech of tires and the deafening sound of metal crunching filled the air. The car spun, your body jerking against the seatbelt as adrenaline surged through you. Elijah’s arm shot out instinctively, bracing you against the sudden chaos.

The impact was brutal, the car slamming to a halt against something solid. Your vision blurred for a moment, the world tilting on its axis as the sound of the crash echoed in your ears. You felt something warm and wet starting to trickle onto your forehead. The car had hit from the passenger side, and y/n was dazed, the impact messing with her the most.

“Elijah?” you croaked, your voice trembling as you tried to make sense of what had just happened.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos. His hand was already on your arm, his touch grounding. “Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know, what just happened?” you managed, though your heart was racing so fast you could barely breathe.

Before he could respond, the sound of car doors slamming outside made your blood run cold. Shadows moved beyond the cracked windows, and the unmistakable sound of footsteps approached.

“Elijah,” you whispered, fear creeping into your voice.

“I’m coming don’t move.” he ordered, his voice sharp and commanding as he quickly unbuckled himself, reaching for the car door handle.

But before he could open his door, your door was wrenched off its hinges. A group of men stood outside, their faces obscured by masks, their weapons gleaming in the moonlight.

“Elijah Mikaelson,” one of them drawled, his voice thick with disdain. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

Elijah didn’t flinch, his calm demeanor unshaken. “If you’re wise, you’ll turn around and leave now.”

The man laughed, the sound cold and cruel. “Oh, I don’t think so. We’ve been waiting for this opportunity for a long time.”

Before you could react, one of the men reached into the car, grabbing you by the arm.

“Let go of her!” Elijah’s voice was a deadly growl, but the man holding you only tightened his grip, dragging you out of the car.

“Elijah!” you screamed, struggling against the man’s hold.

“Elijah Mikaelson might be untouchable,” the leader sneered, “but you? You’re fair game.”

“Elijah!” you cried again, your voice desperate as the men began to drag you away.

The last thing you saw before they pulled you into the shadows was Elijah’s face, a mask of cold fury that promised retribution.

And then, everything went dark.

#caroline forbes #elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #klaus mikealson #rebekah mikaelson #the vampire diaries #elijah mikealson x reader #tvdu #the deal #the deal chapter 3

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docholligay · 4 months ago

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But what if instead of hating you, the house is mildly disapproving of you? Constantly making backhanded comments about your outfits, your choice of decor, the way you spend your free time?

Oh, honestly.

It was spellt--no, spelled--wait, spellt? No, written on the counter in a script Billie could barely read, all curliques and long arches. All that delicacy was balanced by the fact that it was written in the drips of Franzia that Billie had spilled across the counter while she was trying to unwrap her Taco Bell crunchwrap.

She'd been in this apartment two months. It had seemed like a steal, a backdoor entrance to a strange little apartment, two levels separated by the old, steep servants staircase. Most people wouldn't have liked it. It was the leftovers from the gutting of an old mansion into a triplex (and Billie), those three apartments sparkling clean and brilliant white, advertised as offering "glimpses into the past" with restained hardwood next to cabinets in Joanna Gaines grey. The walnut had been painted over, unfashionable tiling turned subway, and sold off to couples who were looking forward to the cheap cost of living in the area, giggling about their remote jobs.

Billie's apartment had never been fashionable. It was a servant's staircase attached to a servant's hallway and servant's quarters, atop a servant's kitchen. One of the bedrooms the landlady had generously called the parlor, never mind that you needed to pass through the kitchen to get to it. The hallway upstairs ended abruptly next to her door, with what was called 'exposed brick' on the half sold to a couple from Seattle but looked like 'a wall' on Billie's side. Sometimes you had to go down and hit the boiler, and there was no air conditioning in her part of the house, but the plus side was, no one wanted to live there.

Billie liked it, all in all.

Except the constant judgment.

For the last six weeks of eight, Billie had been haunted. There was no other way of saying it, no way about it, it was a haunting through and through. Not the sort of haunting she could ever tell anyone. Not a campfire story. No blood had spilled from her walls, and no chains had rattled around, but she did hear a deep, pained moan every time she put on a t-shirt with a cartoon character from the 80s on it.

It would have been fine to be watched, but Billie was being watched and judged, and what was worse was: Billie was beginning to think her snooty-nosed spirit might have a point.

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clawbehavior · 9 days ago

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Fic ending tag game

Rules: post the last sentence/s from your 10 most recently posted fics (less if you don't have 10 is also fine)!

With thanks to @uhhhhmanda for the inspo!

10. elevator troubles

‘tell me what you’re thinking,’ yohan says, taking gaon into his arms. his mouth is soft and unsure.

‘that i love you,’ gaon says, resting his hands on yohan’s biceps, ‘and since we’re doing this, let’s do it right.’

‘no min jungho tomorrow?’ yohan says after a moment, voice raspy. he could never say it back but he said it with his body and actions all the time.

‘not now. soon,’ gaon answers. with yohan by his side, it was only a matter of time.

9. i'm lost around you, under a spell; when i found you, i lost myself

in all those scenarios, he came home to yohan, who was happy to see him. ‘you’re right. i could be anything in bern, but there’s only one thing i want to be.’ he smiles up at yohan.

‘what’s that?’ yohan asks fondly.

‘yours,’ says gaon and kisses him.

8. til kingdom come

kang yohan remembers all of this when he cradles kim gaon’s broken body in the destroyed office, first in horror, then in rage.

7. the second coming [WIP]

through the sound of metal groaning, he hears a door slam, then heavy booted footsteps approaching the car. his side of the car.

gaon-ah, he thinks, not looking away from his beloved son when the driver's door is wrenched open. i love you. my precious son. i love you, before blade meets throat and his blood sprays across the car and slices across his son's permanently smiling face.

6. even gods can't change the past

yohan doesn't say anything. doesn't reach out when gaon stands up to leave. doesn't call out to him when he exits the bedroom, doesn't stop him from going.

yohan’s final gift is to peaceably let gaon leave.

5. everything everywhere all at once

'but, you only need one little push to make people realize that they have collective power --’ his eyes glow brightly ‘-- one spark.'

‘what’s the project called?’ gaon asks calmly into the silence after this revelation. yohan strokes gaon’s pulse points with his thumbs and smiles.

‘it’s called the live court.’

4. my heart is going back to you, i just don't know [WIP]

after isaac’s death, when yohan became the keeper of the mansion, he had most rooms covered to preserve them from dust. the other areas were the ones ms. ji cleaned routinely. besides bedrooms, bathrooms, the kitchen, there was yohan’s study, elijah’s art gallery, and for some reason, yohan had added the parlor room to ms. ji’s list. it was the same reason as to why he occupied the desk that he had been whipped over as child, and the master bedroom that was haunted by his father’s miasmic hatred -- because being close to his roots reminded yohan of his true purpose. of his monstrous self. it was his way of disciplining himself.

he takes gaon to that room.

3. dreams shall come true

'how exquisite,' he says, withdrawing his fingers, eyes turning black with lust. 'kim pansanim is a virgin who enjoys anal.'

2. at first there were two [WIP]

for more than ten years, i believed you killed my parents , the letter begins. yohan’s fingers tremble. then, gaon came along.

yohan reads the letter quickly but intently until he reaches the three words at the end. then he puts his head in his hands and cries.

1. lost and found [collab fic 🤗]

Kang Yohan will never lose Kim Gaon again.

tagging with no pressure to play + opening it to other writers @killerandhealerqueen @mid-n0vember @godotismissingx @tenderlywicked @jehan-d-art

#even gods cant change the past has a happy ending #the final chap is flashback #i did not write the final line of lost and found -- thats the collab fic!#this was fun!#my fic ideas #my ficlets #writer games #writers games #asks games #ask games

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violettduchess · 1 year ago

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A/N: Because he didn't have one yet 💜

WC: ~600

He tastes like coffee and wonder, like fudge and fervor.

The minutes leading up to this moment, this embrace in the depth of night, began with you coming back through the mansion door just as the clock struck the midnight hour, one hand pushing back the rich hood of your cloak, revealing cheeks flushed from the cold and eyes bright as sunlight winking off a morning’s frost. Your smile was wide and warm and open as you stepped into the parlor, searching for him. Arthur took one look at you, threw down his hand of cards and with a light smile and breezy valediction, took your hand and took his leave, pulling you along with him, away from the knowing glances of the others.

Up the wide staircase you go, down the carpeted hallway with its arched windows letting in pale slants of moonlight. Your room is much too far away and his may as well be on the moon.

He needs you now.

And so he pulls you into a shadowy alcove, pulls you against his lean body. You’re laughing softly, breathless, murmuring something about still wearing your cloak and boots and-

“As if that matters, luv.”

And then his lips are on yours and you realize, no, no it doesn’t matter at all. Although eager, his kiss begins soft, one hand sliding up, across the plane of your cheek, thumb stroking smooth skin. His lips leave yours to roam the line of your jaw, to prowl the sensitive place below your ear. You tilt your head back and allow him access to the slope of your neck, expecting him to sink his sharp fangs in immediately, unable to resist the feeling of lawless pleasure.

He does not.

Instead, kiss after kiss decorates your skin, as if you are a blank page and he is the writer, jotting formless words of desire and devotion, of tenderness and aching affection along your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder.

No one before you has ever mattered. You are the beginning of his greatest story.

His name is a sigh whispered into the shadows, your fingers catching his chin and lifting his head back up so you can kiss his mouth, the romance of the moment draped around you like silken cords. His hands slide under your cloak, untuck your blouse from your skirt and slide underneath, palms pressing against the bare skin of your back. Up they slide, along your spine, then back down the lines of your torso. You are softer than vellum, his fingertips curling and tracing a filigree along your waist. They feel feather-light, like ink trails across your skin.

“I need you,” he breathes against your lips, sincere and honest, his heart a fragile thing you hold in your hands. And you smile, clutching the nape of his neck. “I need you too.”

He lifts you into his arms, kissing you once more, this time harder, a kiss edged with the promise of what is to come. You curl against him, soft and boneless as his long legs carry you down the hall, towards your room. You close your eyes, nuzzling into his neck, dropping kisses like tiny sparks against his skin.

His heart thunders in his chest at your touch and he knows, with every fiber of his being, that you love him, as he is. You, who pulled his gaze away from the regrets of his past and helped him close the chapters on the trauma that had haunted him for far too long. Your love cradles him and keeps him safe, a cover to his fragile pages and a promise for all that is still unwritten.

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @olivermorningstar @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @ikesimpleton @ikemenlibrary @namine-somebodies-nobody @greatstarlightstarfish @cellophanediamond @whatever-fanfics @justpeachyteastea @chirp-a-chirp @got7igot7family @kookie-my-little-sunshine @mastering-procrastinating @portrait-ninja @fang-and-feather @bubblexly @ozalysss @kiki-tties

#ikemen series #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp arthur #ikemen arthur #arthur conan doyle #kiss fic #arthur x reader #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #otome fanfic #violettwrites

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jestercake · 11 months ago

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Finished some writing for you lovelies! Sorry for the delay but the concept piece to go with it took more time than I expected it to.

Preliminary Before Reading:

This short story is based almost entirely off of Disney’s Haunted Mansion 2023 film, with some allusion to the 2003 film adaptation. All of the characters within this story belong to Disney and I have adapted many of them to my own personal interpretation. This storyline takes place the night before Ben Matthias enters the mansion and Kent has gone back to New Orleans in order to seek him out. This story is a tragedy! (NOTE: I often capitalize the pronoun “He/Him” in most sentences in order to identify the Hatbox Ghost.)

Word Count: 10,414

DISCLAIMER:

Before reading, this story has specific and mature content listed: Necrophagia, Suicide by manipulation, poisoning, implied assult, explicit violence to ghosts, and implied enslavement.

The Dining Room

…

Almost every night at midnight, many ghosts were forced to set the elongated dining table for dinner. Some servant spirits had no trouble setting the table for their previous masters of the house, William Gracey amongst them. However, those times were far behind them. Now that Gracey had fallen victim to what others called, “the Hatbox Ghost,” dinner was a time of misery and melancholia.

William Gracey watched the upper levels of the grand dining room with a sunken heart and a sunken soul. How, in retrospect, it used to glow with warm orange candlelight, full of life and merriment, especially when guests used to come round. Now, the only light was an ominous, cold purple, gloomy and wrong.

William decided to ignore the subtle beat of the grandfather clock, thumping akin to a metallic heart. It would soon strike the thirtieth hour, signifying evil was on its way. He dematerialized down to the grand hall with a fair swoop of blue light as he grappled his yellow lantern. He was fond of it, for it was reminiscent of Elanore’s warmth.

“Quiet night tonight, isn’t it?” The ghost of a footman seemed to exclaim with a mellow tone to Gracey.

They patted the obvious pillows upon the largest dining armchair. Gracey exhaled as if he still had life within his lungs, folding the napkins as if to make himself useful.

“Yes...it always seems so.”

“It’ll get lighter!” Another spirit had said rather optimistically.

“It was lighter then…” Gracey finished the rest of the napkins off as if he were a footman himself, contemplating how many would be eating here tonight.

Every night was different now that the new master of the house had taken authority. The unfortunate souls that had seemed to disturb His presence spent the rest of the night locked away in objects of his choice, or worse. Sometimes, it was any object He’d set eyes upon— such as a lamp or a curtain hanger. William particularly remembered a time where He trapped a soul inside a chaliace and started to drink from it. Really, it was all who enviced such cowardice that were selected, brought forth to their ferocious master, and were led off immediately to be punished as an atonement for their offense. It was quite tortuous actually, being trapped inside something inanimate just to further the idea of enslavement. Being used was another abuse.

“Oh don’t let Him get to you now, Master Gracey. Grief wants something in all of us, y’know.” A parlor-maid spoke after she had set the chairs in their places.

William Gracey looked around in anxiousness after the maid had called him ‘Master Gracey.’

“Don’t say that dear, not at this time. He could be listening.” Another parlor-maid had said in a sudden response.

William then noticed a much wilder, tall-stature spirit materialize across the room, but it was not black like a shadow. It was the Hatchet Ghost, titled that way by the Hatbox Ghost, where his mortal name was once Vincent Gracey. William’s shoulders ran tight when he spawned near the rest of the maid-servants and footmen.

Vincent wore the same tattered dark suit and tailcoat, accompanied by a straight Victorian bow tie. More noticeably, there lay a prominent and raw wound across his neck. He grimaced, side-glancing at one of the maids who addressed William as ‘Master.’

“Ah…I thought I’d heard something out of you few. Still resisting, are we?” Vincent sneered with his strange, grotesque smile and sickly bulged eyes.

His skin remained a ghastly color with somewhat sunken features. William Gracey watched the Hatchet Ghost paced past the two maidservants, skimming the decorative table once or twice. Then, he stopped at the dining armchair, scoffing.

“Who patted the pillows!? Our master likes them rather billowy! Was it you?” Vincent suddenly pointed at a servant who’s back had faced the scene.

Suddenly, the soul turned with a terrible expression while the Hatchet Ghost forced them to the floor with a strange unseen power. The ghosts screamed and were blasted out of the dining hall in a matter of seconds. The other servants cowered after the event, looking toward the floor with dreadful expressions, while others retreated themselves.

“That’s better...” Vincent grumbled as he turned his head back to the chair.

He took the time to readjust the pillows so that they were perfect. After he did so, his eyes met with William Gracey. Although William wanted to react, use what little power he could to resist, he had no control over the situation. Any situation, in that fact.

“Oh, William. Why the long face? You of all… specters should know these rules…” Vincent made his way over to his nephew.

There was a small moment of silence between the two until William decided to speak.

“I don’t care, Vincent. I don’t serve devils like you do.”

With subtle fury upon his face, Vincent closed his fists tightly in response. However, he was cunning enough to know William’s mannerisms would be dealt with rather soon.

“…I’m..sorry to hear that, William. I expected more from you. But…” Vincent paused for a moment as he neared his distant relative with an unforgivable face.

“I remember you’re just a coward who lives in the past.”

William Gracey stood his ground, but in response, the slight flame within him was snuffed out in a matter of seconds.

“…You’re stuck, Gracey, just like the rest of them. Stuck mourning over some dead drab that wouldn’t even remember you.” Vincent spoke with such poison.

William brought his head down to where it was less painful, contemplating those words that were sharp as spears. He knew his uncle was right and it sickened him. It almost made his bones twist deep within the Earth, as he knew the truth. No matter how much he tried to resist, how much he’d tried to better himself, nothing would change the fact that this was all his fault. All his damn fault.

“…Perhaps if you did your job you wouldn't be so…useless. Besides, I won’t be the one to help you when you’ll inevitably pay Him for your actions.” Vincent continued to speak.

“And I’m sure you know His punishments quite well…don’t you…William?”

The Hatchet Ghost smiled unpleasantly at William and watched him return to a submissive state of sorrow and regret. It wasn’t hard to degrade him, and he knew that all too well.

“Now then…How about you go and pour our Master His glass before he arrives. Make yourself useful for once…”

William kept his eyes off of Vincent as he passed him. However, it was obvious to him how the other spirits watched as he carried himself in misery towards the end of the table. As he passed the maidservant, she returned glances with him, truly sorry that he’d fallen victim to this darkness.

He poured a large chalice full of arsenic for the Master of the house. Arsenic was His favorite and quite a strong delicacy for dark spirits to consume. It was like any other form of alcohol in the mortal realm, though much more potent. Devil’s whiskey, he thought.

William set the glass back down as more spirits were forced into the grand hall without liberty. He could recognize a few of them in the large crowd, some of them distant friends he’d once known in his past life. However, many of them were new acquaintances that he’d met during his purgatory. He made his way to Victor, a pipe organist, and Dorian Gracey, a distant relative to himself. He was also good friends with a harpist who had no name, for she couldn’t remember what it was, but she was a kind spirit. Dorian was the first to speak.

“William, I wish I could say good afternoon to you, but…” Dorian’s voice faded slightly.

William Gracey only smiled with his lips in response, but his expression hadn’t changed.

“It’s good to see you intact, Dorian.” William said half-heartedly.

He knew Dorian was cursed and would soon start to deteriorate, but it was always good to remind him of his obvious beauty.

“I didn’t know you were helping tonight, Gracey. And if I’m being quite frank I’m not even hungry.” Victor had said afterwards as he met up with the small group of spirits.

“One is always…particularly hungry. We don’t even need to be here.” The flutist caught up with Victor, adding into the conversation.

“It’s good to see you both. The realms haven’t been so kind to me.” William spoke with a dreadful undertone, knowing the reasons why.

“Don’t dwell on the past, William. At least we can see each other now.” Dorian patted William’s shoulder in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Yes, In the grand hall….Which I can never seem to escape…” Victor Giest scoffed in slight annoyance, though he was glad to be with his fellow spirits.

William exhaled a small laugh as the four of them continued to converse with each other. However, he couldn’t help but notice the darker spirits around them, maintaining the proper order of their master. Constance was one of them, corrupted by the Hatbox Ghost and forced to do his bidding unwillingly, despite her general liking to frightening mortals.

“You know, I sometimes wonder why He invites so many of us. One should not invite fewer than the Graces nor more than the Muses.” The flutist had commented upon the obvious, uneven amount of spirits present.

Constance met eyes with William suddenly, her eyes blinded with a strange blue light. Even for a ghostly entity, she was quite awful to look at. He inhaled suddenly, turning his head towards the upper levels of the house in a moment.

Suddenly, the grandfather clock echoed throughout the entire realm of the mansion, refracting perfectly as if to evoke fear upon every sorrowful soul. The painful ticking heartbeat seemed to cease after the twelfth stroke, as every spirit turned heads without content. William inhaled and watched as every exit seemingly faded away within the walls of the grand hall, which had stretched effortlessly in every direction. All spirits were lively, some even attempted to flee. However, an unknown presence forced their standing as if the floor became an ethereal cement. Even William had come to find himself stationary, which made every particle of his plasmic form circulate with worry and anticipation of what events would unfold.

Soon, the last chime of the clock echoed through the atmosphere and the repeated loud tapping of a cane’s ferrule could be heard everywhere, as if to snare the helpless souls once and for all. Every loud clap was a disturbing reminder of agonizing pain, akin to the sound of a whip to the abused. Each stab noisier than the last until the final blow came to a halt almost suddenly.

William Gracey looked around for the rest of his small group, no sign of the Hatbox Ghost anywhere. His eyes found movement when Vincent walked from the table effortlessly in silence. As he watched the spirit near one of the walls that had recently closed off, everything ran cold and still. Not a single Spector made a sound once the world around them grew dark with a black smog. He was near.

Trapped in thought, Gracey gripped onto his lantern in means of comfort, hardly able to make out his friends beside him in the thick fog. The feeling of grief began to overwhelm him without control, as he began to recall his beloved Elanore’s passing. Frightened souls wailed in the darkness as they heard the Hatchet Ghost’s calling.

“Everyone in their places…”

William shut his eyes as he was engulfed in terror, unable to escape. Every move seemed torturous as a now present sinfulness resonated throughout the endless realm, pure and maddening. The void of the fog started to reabsorb itself into one large, singular entity. An evil spirit of tyrannical might and manipulation. An infamous, malevolent entity.

“…Sir Hatbox Ghost…” Vincent exclaimed softly as he stood behind a nearby dining chair, arms folded.

The remaining section of a wall was ripped open as the dark spirit entered the room, only to have it close quickly after he’d entered. The air was deathly still as his cane tapped mockingly against the cold tiles. An animalistic growl escaped the entity as His great dark, ghostly cape dragged shortly after His grotesquely discomforting limp, a hatbox held in His left claw. The dark spirit had about him a spectral aura of blackness, something unnatural for even the ghost realm, where a strange bright orange light illuminated within the hatbox.

“…No reason to be…afraid…” came an omniscient, dark echo.

William Gracey attempted to move his feet, but to no avail. It was unwise that he had to stand so near the end of the table, for that was where the Hatbox Ghost approached. The Hatchet Ghost followed his master shortly after, making sure he drew the seat from the table.

However, before Hatbox Ghost took a seat, he stopped. Suddenly, the light within his hatbox faded to reveal a dark and desolate face of demoniacal features upon his hunched shoulders. He stared across the lengthened grand dining hall without a single sound, looming above them all. Only His great yellow eyes sifted every soul within His vicinity, followed by a deep, breathless inhale and a low snarl with bared teeth.

Many ghosts never saw his true face upon his shoulders, for he was a cursed entity, head bound to his hat box. Only during midnight was he able to soothe his own pain, once his head rested upon his shoulders.

The darkness within the dining hall never ceased as long as the Hatbox Ghost was present. No one held a voice, for he was too powerful to be spoken with. The only way one could stay below the radar was to disengage Him. But that was inevitable.

“Ah, what a…delightful bunch I have here tonight. I’m sure you are all…ecstatic upon my arrival.” He spoke through his booming, guttural, accented voice.

“Yes, Sir—Marvelous indeed!” One of his goons had said suddenly without context.

The Hatbox Ghost turned to face the outspoken spector, only to have them fall to silence instantly. Then he exhaled, finishing off his strained cycle towards his enlarged dining armchair.

Every eye watched with underlying dread as the Hatbox Ghost first analyzed the pillows. He glared with some content upon the work, akin to a critic, then held out his cane for a footman to take. Then he set his hat box beside him, still standing. Quickly, the footman took the large object in complete, almost robotic sync against his very will.

Something upon the entity’s face painted an impatient and ferocious expression in such a gradual manner as He stalked the still atmosphere. Then, He grimaced with sharpened, decayed teeth whilst he set himself down with a bit of strain. Within an instant, every spirit had made their way to the table without their will present. They all waited for Hatbox Ghost to sit before anyone could. Only after, did everyone take their seat in a repetitive manner.

William Gracey had found himself bending down until he and the rest of his friends were glued to their seats, unable to get up. It was an engaging, yet terrible entrapment caused by the evil spector’s supernatural abilities. Only He was in control.

After a moment of long silence, The massive ghost lifted His dark spell upon the spirits so that they could move freely. However, no one could leave their seat after He turned his clawed hand in a strange manner. Some whispering and vickering came shortly after the Hatbox Ghost had done so.

“Ah, yes. There’s no need to thank me, for I am rather…generous tonight.” A deep bellowing growl escaped His thin lips.

Then, He set his folded claws upon the edge of the table. It was in such terrible grace it made William Gracey feel quite weary. No one responded, in fear of what Hatbox Ghost might say or do to them. It was something every old spirit had painfully adapted to. However, some still spoke, for they were rather young and oblivious.

“Generous you are, Sir Hatbox Ghost! But, I was wondering something myself of late...” A rather plump spirit had responded, for it was Phineas, as most ghosts went by.

The Hatbox Ghost lifted his chin a bit, eyes now gazed upon the ghost irritatingly. His chest rose and one could notice the sheer width of his ribcage through his eccentric clothing.

“What do you…want, Phineas? Or should I say…you three.” Hatbox ghost snarled, for this has happened almost every evening occasion.

“Well, Phineas is just being quite chaste! If you—your uh—excellency…can lend us a car—” Another ghost beside him, Ezra, was brought into the conversation rather swiftly.

William Gracey, as for many of the other spirits at the table, observed the Hatbox Ghost as He pressed two of His long fingers against the sharp bridge of his sunken nose, closing His eyes in annoyance. This was the usual, everyone presumed.

“Yes Sir! I think we could be a great help if we weren’t—well, y’know—all cooped up in this house. Of course we all know you can't even leave the grounds yourself!” Another spirit, Gus, added his voice as well.

After a short bit of laughter, the trio changed expressions upon a quick thought. They noticed the Master’s widened, yellow eyes, beaming back at them unpleasantly. It was enough to even frighten the Hatchet Ghost, who sat closest to Him. It was rather animalistic and unnatural how small His pupils were slit.

Ezra looked away quickly, nudging the two others to quit their useless bickering. Then, he grinned back as if to relieve the thick atmosphere.

“We’re sorry, Master. Please…Do carry on in ignoring our requests. They are stupid requests…”

“Oh yes, childish!” Gus added.

The Hatbox Ghost exhaled with bared, slimy teeth. However, His terrible look was drowned out with a sudden, strange and false smile. Then, He spoke with sound gravel.

“The…only reason why I seem to be..stuck here…”

Suddenly, Hatbox Ghost clenched his fists and the three spirits were lifted slightly from their seats, which encouraged distressed cries. Then, they were all forced to face the evil Spector.

“Is due to the pitiful failures of little souls such as YOU THREE!” He bellowed.

Suddenly and by force, the Hatbox Ghost made the three of them strain painfully midair as if they were foolish puppets. Then, after enough torment, he brought them back down as they scrambled to their seats in a panicked frenzy. It was quite a terrible spectacle.

“Tedious old fools…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered.

William Gracey exchanged looks with Dorian, who now looked deathly sick as he reached the decomposition process of his curse. William turned his head in an instant, too overwhelmed to deal with Dorian’s malformations. Instead, he’d begun to fidget with his translucent, skeletal fingers underneath the table with his eyes shadowed.

“Now, where were we…” The Hatbox Ghost spoke with undertones of latent ravening. He was, however, quite capable of hiding such fury.

“The...mortals, Sir.” Vincent had imposed as he subtly whispered beside Him.

Slowly, the evil Spector wore a strange, deathly grin in light of the news, as He glided His vision across the table.

“Ah…yes. As many of you know, we have some new…guests with us of late.” He sneered.

The Hatbox Ghost grappled his chalice as he brought it to his gaunt lips with great emphasis. He took a rather considerable gulp, as he knew that all eyes were upon him.

It was strange to see the dark fluid melt into His ghostly form. William could see how it passed down His body, through His ribcage, every time lightning flashed into the room. It made him shudder. It was unnatural.

It brought Him much pleasure to be surrounded by the horror of others. Many souls knew He was not one of them, a cursed demon of sinfulness and lingering desires. Upon setting His toxic refreshment down, the Hatbox Ghost dragged his lengthy tongue across the surface of his teeth with such unpleasantness. His stare soon caught up to Victor, then to William Gracey, which made both of them presently unsettled.

“A priest, a mother and her…boy. What a bright little bunch if I do say so myself.” He spoke.

There was some short murmuring from the souls after the Hatbox Ghost addressed the news, most of them up to date. However, it was more due to their anticipation of the mortal guests that made them apprehensive.

“Oh…what will become of these most sorrowful souls?…” He spoke almost rhetorically, masking a wicked chuckle.

A grumble escaped the Hatbox Ghost as he failed to hide his content. It wasn’t unclear what the dark spirit would inevitably do to the mortals. For the entrapped souls, such as William Gracey, it was enslavement.

“Well, never mind that…for now. Let us dine together as acquaintances…”

After a moment of silence, the Hatbox Ghost raised his right claw and administered the footmen to leave the dining hall at once. As if it were almost routine, the ghouls headed towards the kitchen for the first course. That’s when the murmuring started up again.

“I heard the mother’s name was Gemma, or Gabbie, or something of that sort. Wonder where they’re from.” Victor spoke quietly from across the table to William Gracey and the Flutist.

“I do wish them well—That poor kid. He must be a bright young lad.” The Flutist had said to Gracey, who glanced back at her.

William attempted to disregard the obvious gaze from the Hatbox Ghost as he spoke to the spirits beside him.

“Uh—yes. Poor kid…” he muttered.

William Gracey now sifted his view upon Dorian, who’s skin had completely fallen apart from putrefaction. He was now an acrid skeleton, left in humiliation beside his friends. From the gratified look of Vincent, he enjoyed this quite awfully.

Dorian lifted the bare bones that were his hands, in an attempt to shield his brother’s gaze. However, William Gracey had stopped his relative before he could take any action, staring at him. Dorian looked back in slight bafflement.

“Don’t let them get to you..” William managed to say as he shook his head.

Vincent, among other goons, watched in subtle fury as the other spirits conversed, and perhaps even schemed, against the superintendency of the Hatbox Ghost. What dishonor they had for their glorious overlord, sitting in the very company of Him as if it meant nothing.

Willam Gracey set his eyes upon Vincent, and gave him a stern look. However, that soon vanished as the Hatbox Ghost suddenly gave him a look of absolute intent. It sent an unanticipated shiver down his entire form, filling him with despair, as he found himself frozen upon the deathly eyes. He couldn't help but relive those memories so long ago.

…

A pen had taken itself to parchment, he remembered. It was filled with words written in her handwriting. Every curve, every dot was hers. Instinctively, he wrote back to Eleanor, longing to see her again.

“I miss you as I loved you so. Why must death do us part?” He wrote in an expression that reflected his soul.

Madame Leota had warned him about this entity weeks on end, but he was blinded by grief and sorrow. He had seen Eleanor at times- as pretty as a picture and all the more. Sometimes she’d appear in a mirror or glass, refracting in a similar nature to water or dew. And sometimes, he heard her whisper things in his sleep. But mostly, she appeared in his dreams, and it was a presence that had wrapped him tight. A presence he couldn not escape.

“Gracey, my dearest love…” Eleanor had said within Gracey’s dream one night.

She caressed his false body, moving up his back and shoulders from behind. When William attempted to look at her, she set a hand upon his eyes and said,

“Mortal eyes cannot look directly upon the deceased…”

Gracey inhaled, soothed by her soft hand almost instantly. He moved his fingers across hers as he felt into complete darkness.

“…But why? Why can’t I look upon you, my love?” William remembered saying.

“…No man can gaze at My face and live. look at Me and you shall be lost for all eternity…”

“Then I beg of you to let me indulge in other senses! I want to picture you—remember you so that I don’t forget!”

After a subtle silence, Eleanor responded.

“…I will give you something…you will never forget.”

Her voice echoed within the darkness, giving off a shallow, uncanny feeling. It was as if it were doubled and strangled out in some strange way. But nonetheless, Gracey disregarded it.

With great dread and longing, he attempted to get the most out of his once lost love. He could remember her breath—absent of warmth—as she set her lips upon his. Together, they were in complete, desolate harmony as Gracey felt overcome with this lustful addiction. He continued to kiss her and so did she, arms intertwined as he felt her body like a blind man would with the world around him. He could almost picture her face clear in this dream until he felt hers draw away from his.

“…Eleanor…” Gracey exhaled, eyes locked away from sight as he shivered from the cold.

He gripped at her clothes, begging for more. However, slowly Eleanor had pulled away from him.

“—please—don’t leave me…” He uttered mournfully.

Gracey’s hands shook desperately as he held onto her.

“My time with you grows shorter. Listen to me, my love…”

“…no—please.”

“…Only the force of life has parted us from one another. You must give the life you have to Me. Only then will we reunite on the other side.”

“No!…”

Gracey reached out at nothing but ice-cold blackness as Eleanor faded away. On his knees he cried out, but she was no longer there to listen to his dreadful groans. In silence, he cupped his face with both hands until the dream slowly grew faint. But one echo was still heard from within the void, deep and omniscient.

“…Only through death can you see me once more…”

With the words reverberating infinitely in his mind, Gracey finally awoke in a sweat. Rapid breaths overcame him and quite suddenly, he drew away the covers to light a nearby candle. As he made his way towards the study of the mansion, the sound of spirits began to accompany him. Whispers filled the halls as he ran down them, trying to escape the chaos yet to unfold around the mansion. Nothing in the world would stop him from seeing his lost love tonight.

Upon entering the study, Gracey lit the fireplace to draw the darkness away. He stood within his office, noticing a piece of parchment enveloping an object on the large desk. with great anxiety and desire for action, he took the note and small object into grasp and brought it close to the light. He read the note first:

“Tonight we will meet on the other side. —Eleanor.”

Then, with terrible anticipation, he unraveled the note from the object, revealing a small bottle of arsenic. Poison.

Grasping the small bottle at hand, he covered his mouth and inhaled. It was all loud and true, and he knew what had to be done. However, even in grief something never set with him right. He started to quarrel with his morality as he paced in a panicked frenzy. Someone had told him once not to be envious of death, but Gracey felt as if even the malice of Hell would be meek compared to the torment of grief.

Gracey’s pacing subsided as he stopped to look upon the light of the fireplace, face wet with tears of confliction. It was warm and radiant— something he longed to feel again. Without Eleanor, he felt lost in the mortal world. Even after months of performing the same repetitive seance, it all felt futile, for he finally had a chance to see her again. He wouldn’t just let her fade away as if nothing had happened. It was only terror that seemed to engulf him. To live or to die, that was the question. The question that had brought him more pain than poison or hellfire. Finally, he felt as if he was in some control of his decision. He felt something other than misery.

And with this in mind, he slowly unscrewed the cork of arsenic as if it were a bottle of strong liquor. A liquor strong enough to stop a man’s heart. A subtle pop was heard and William Gracey glanced at the bottle with great apprehension, palms sweaty as his heart thundered. He winced away his fear and thought of Eleanore’s desperate command. With this in mind, his jaw tightened as he gradually brought the bottle to his lips. And finally, he slipped it down his throat with curled lips.

Upon finishing the bottle, he grimaced at the pungent and sour metallic flavor of the poison. He searched the room with rapid, uncontrollable thoughts, knowing there was no turning back. He gazed upon the table, setting his hand on the hard leather surface while he dragged his fingers across it. Then, he walked towards the fireplace, standing by it.

Hastily, Gracey’s breath started to stagger as he felt incredibly nauseous. His intestines screamed in anguish as he clutched his torso, for the pain never ceased afterward. It felt as if every organ and bone within him started to break apart and leak out in puddles upon the floor. He wretched out what he could in an attempt to free this sudden agony, but this acute state had him snared.

“AGH—” He screamed only once, gurgling a mixture containing vomit and foam.

His muscles had lost all control and he stumbled around the room with such terrible pain. Objects fell and broke all round him as every sinew within his body was electrified with excruciating pain. It was absolute Hell— something a simple poison could not inflict upon a mortal. This was something far greater.

Eventually, gravity had taken Gracey’s weight down to the cold hard tiles within the study. His eyes blurred the images about him as he faded in and out of consciousness. Now, in a deep state of paralysis, he only twitched in an attempt to move. The agony had overcome his state, for death would shortly arrive. Blood creeped down his lips in a deep red stream, indicating internal bleeding.

As William Gracey heaved his last breaths on the ground and awaited death, a cold presence overcame him. From what his eyes and mind could barely comprehend, he noticed a black silhouette on the left side of him, carrying a fog-like shadow as it moved across his lens. It was no angel like he’d imagined.

Slowly, the unlighted entity dragged itself toward him, circling him like doomed prey. It drew closer and closer with terrible rapping rhythm until it stopped close to Gracey’s face. It seemed to heave a deep and terrible breath, something that made his soul quiver in terror. This was not Eleanor…

Unable to escape, Gracey drew his last, long breath and the dark entity took it in like life. It groaned with terrible pleasure as it watched Gracey’s mortal form fall limp on the floor, bottle and note still at hand. The rest of his soul was devoured and trapped in an endless cycle of fear and grief as the entity had seized it from its eternal rest. This terrible entity was the first to greet him in the afterlife.

A demon.

…

All the painful memories flooded back as he stared at the Hatbox Ghost with fear and terrible regret. He held no conception of time as he did once so, never quite snapping out of it, heavy and lifeless breath engulfing his ribcage.

“Well…William Gracey. Once again pestering your relatives…” The Hatbox Ghost’s voice came, which accompanied a grim smile upon his face.

William opened his mouth to say something but quickly stopped himself. He stuttered, not knowing what to say to the evil Spector that sat before him. He was wrong— he was just attempting to ease Dorian’s humiliation. But, he knew he was just trying to convince his mind otherwise.

“I—” William stammered.

“Perhaps I should put an end to your…pestering…hm?” The Hatbox Ghost shifted slightly in his seat.

And before another stutter could escape, William Gracey was forced from his seat beside his friends and led down the table to where Hatbox Ghosts’s ghoulish goons sat, right beside the looming dark spirit that had entrapped him for eternity.

William, though persisting in his defiance by stance, could only withstand the agonizing pain of resistance for so long. Eventually, he stayed seated in order to keep the agony he felt at bay. It was a terrible feeling— to have the devil force one’s spirit like a puppet. With a widened lens, William looked around at the entities he sat with. They all stared at him with an occulted hatred as the Hatbox Ghost sat to the right of him, encompassing sinful pride with every expression. William looked down almost immediately.

“You see…That’s much better now. No more pitifully distracting side shows that squander my valuable time…”

Dorian attempted to comfort William from across the table, but it was obvious that he wasn’t responding to anyone, too frightened to do so.

“Speaking of wasting time…” The dark spirit spoke with prolonged groans in between.

He watched as the footmen carried in a multitude of silver platters, all of which were covered quite beautifully. Every spirit watched as the food came in, curling in their chairs with loads of anticipation. Despite the Hatbox Ghost’s torturous, inhumane mannerisms, he still allowed the ghosts to dine through offerings. It was a sick way of manipulating naive souls, causing them to almost believe He cared for them.

Normally, the feast was carried out with a variety of specific smells and memories found only in the past lives of the spirits. Whether it was the meaty scent of Jambalaya, or the pungent and delectable crawfish Étouffée with crispy crab cakes, it was a dish fit for a soul. And of course, a subtle glass of red wine on the side never hurt anyone. He knew that of all entities.

However, something was quite different as soon as the silver platters were placed in a manner that appeared planned. William slowly turned his head curiously and noticed the Hatbox Ghosts’s rotten grin when he spoke.

“Finally…something to celebrate my success. Satiate my hunger…”

Gracey inhaled without breath and winced almost immediately at a sudden odor. With terrible speculation, his fears were eventually portrayed through every spirit within the room. The platters were lifted up, revealing the nightmare.

Upon the long table was a rotting corpse, still fresh in a sense that it gave off a significantly horrific odor of death and decay. On everyone’s plate was a random piece of it— a hand or cheek alike. However, a lifeless body formed across the table in front of the Hatbox Ghost. It was enough to make all the souls’ wretch back within their chairs or simply stare in shock. Even the hitchhikers and goons had sat in silence as they gazed back at their plates.

Many spirits watched in utmost terror as the Hatbox Ghost inhaled the putrid scent of the corpse as if it were a dessert. He let out a sickening cackle afterward as he pressed his palms against the table, his gloved hands squeezed involuntarily. It was absolutely horrid, and many of the souls would rather die again just to get away from the situation. Even Vincent, the Hatchet Ghost, found that ideal hard to resist.

The Hatbox Ghost then shifted his cruel gaze upon every expression, for he found a gruesome pride in the fact every spector had a new and profound fear of him. He traced his green tongue against his rotted teeth, chuckling in the back of his throat.

“What seems to be the matter? Haven’t any of you had your fair share of tartare before?”

The dark spirit bellowed out in maniacal laughter again shortly afterwards, akin to a madman, as he covered his chest as though he had a heart. Even when he joked, it was as if the sorrowful souls had perished again all those years ago.

“Please…let us dine together now on this fine evening…”

The Hatbox ghost adjusted within his seat as he began to remove his black gloves one finger at a time. He acted in a manner of which every ghost could watch him with grueling anticipation as he revealed his monstrous claws.

Too frightened to look upon his friends, William Gracey’s skeletal hands shook underneath the table as he stared onto his plate. He had to look more than once to realize it was. A heart— a mortal heart—on his plate, covered in an array of dull greens and purples. There wasn’t any blood pouring from what he could see, just holes deep within the ventricles and shriveled, brown fat encasing its shape. If he were alive he would have evacuated himself. But now, he just felt paralyzed as the heart gazed back at him quite menacingly.

It all made devastating sense as William watched the Hatbox Ghost’s prominent side-eye. It was as if He vouched for such a dish just to vex him. In fact, the dark spirit had been tormenting him ever since the beginning, and He would do the same now. There was always madness within Him, but it was madness with an underlying method to it. There was always something the Hatbox Ghost wanted.

Vincent among other ghosts continued to watch his master once he set his large talons upon the table. The dark spirit’s elbows and wrists ceased to touch the edge of the cloth, which was a rather polite courtesy. He even picked up the silverware neatly placed upon the cloth as he examined its condition. He brought the fork to his eye level and slowly turned it before his hands began to tremble subtly.

It was His humanity slowly disappearing.

Then, as if something had snapped within the Hatbox Ghost, immediately the pupils within his yellow eyes began to wane as he dropped the utensil. He then violently grabbed the atrocious corpse in his massive claws as he began to devour it vigorously, revealing his truly famished presence.

Some airless gasps and mourns could be heard from the ghosts present, for it was an utmost horrible sight to see. There was strenuous struggling within the dining room chairs as the souls attempted to get away, unable to watch the beast take fourth in His sinful actions.

The Hatbox Ghost’s eyes evinced his pleasure as his whole massive frame hunched forward, continuing to partake in the gluttony. He felt a joyous impulse as he saw the fluids of innocence flow through his fingertips.

William nearly gagged as he watched Him, thoroughly revolted by His manners. But he knew the Hatbox Ghost was cursed to feed off of the living and deceased alike, truly unable to enjoy memories of food He had once indulged in. He knew this dark spirit truly felt hunger—something that all of the trapped souls did not.

The ghost’s claws were covered in the grotesque green and brown coloration, but nevertheless, His talons grabbed what was left of the slimy entrails. He seemed to devour most of them within minutes. However, time was irrelevant in the realm of darkness, and to some ghosts, it felt like He was eating for hours on end.

The souls that sat nearest to the Hatbox Ghost were quickly splashed and dirtied by the gush of old blood and gruel. William Gracey couldn't help but shed tears of misery and pain of what had unraveled before him. He was filled with agony, for the lifeless corpse returned him to his constant bereavement.

Oh—Why must this be so! To live among Satans whilst Eleanor lived in the realm of kings and queens? Was she even watching from above? He felt torn apart at the thought of her forgetfulness of him, mangled from the infinite pain, with no hope and no home. This was not the region beyond as he was promised. This was Hell. Because, unlike the eternal dream, this was the land where souls dwelled in torment and agony, forced to watch the Hatbox Ghost take his share of blood, flesh, and marrow. It was, of course, the acrid flavor that He desired, barely enough to satisfy His superimposed gluttony. The way He ate was enough to degrade even the toughest of souls.

William Gracey kept his face hidden, reminiscent of his dread. Normally, the Hatbox Ghost’s goons would’ve helped out with his wicked pestering, but they were all strictly preoccupied with his latent ravening. It was enough of a distraction until Gracey started to sniffle. Goodness—why did he have to sniffle?

Nevertheless it was heard, which had caught the attention of the monster to the left of him. The Hatbox Ghost’s claws unsheathed the mess intertwined in them, which fell from his hands slowly like a bloodied slime. Then, He quickly looked toward William with an unkenneled pleasure.

William, who shielded himself from many lingering eyes, wiped the tears and purged the marks from his face in an attempt to alleviate his constant dismay. However, he couldn’t stop pouring himself out with dreary wet tears once he’d started, which was no help to him in the end.

The Hatbox Ghost slowly leaned closer to Gracey and smelt the almost tangible atmosphere around him. He emitted a terrible groan—the sound of a monster as he widened his mouth to taste the addictive sensation. His ghostly hair seemed to stick on end subtly. In the Ghost Realm, sensations were like memories that gave off the scent of nostalgia, sorrow or any other deep emotion as a replacement of taste. Of course, they weren’t as pungent as the feelings of mourning spirits and mortals. And how pungent grief was to Him.

It didn’t take long for the Hatbox Ghost to become addicted to it, eyes maddened with the same inherent voracious prodigality. Many ghouls and spirits attempted to leave their seats again, aware of the inevitable outcome of this display. Eventually, The Hatbox Ghost would lose any mannerisms he had previously held before dinner, and would leave behind a madman. This needed to be stopped before anyone was permanently harmed. Vincent quickly proposed this ideal as the evil spector moved Himself closer to Gracey.

“Now, Your Excellency— Master of the Realms— perhaps you should finish devouring your lovely meal?” Vincent exclaimed quickly.

Other spirits had started to add onto this distraction in an attempt to draw the Master of the House away from the stench of grief. However, The Hatbox Ghost had already started to drool ferociously with every spectacle matching his inward appearance.

“Yes!— I think we all enjoyed the courtesy of your meal! Perhaps we should be excused before you—”

“SILENCE!” He roared.

And presently, not a sound was heard afterward, other than the mourns of William Gracey, who’d attempted to cease his internal dilemmas rather quickly.

William shut his eyes and only sniffled now that he had shielded his rather robustious cries. Though it was hard, he couldn’t let the demon before him get what He desired so desperately and with such ease. Even with eternal blackness to cloud out his vision, William pictured Him perfectly. It was disturbing how every component was laid out within his mind with no comparison to a painting. And it was that same painting that had been stuck within his mind ever since he’d died so many decades ago.

Slowly, the evil spirit made His way towards William Gracey, not hesitating to push his chair away from the long table. As He stood tall over William, many heads turned in utter terror, for they knew they were nothing against the wrath of their unwilling Master. This was quickly proven as Hatbox Ghost looked at everyone with a sudden animalistic fury.

“…What are you all looking at?! DINE!” He spat.

Almost suddenly, every ghost took up their forks and knives like puppets that feasted without hunger or desire. It was such an ugly sight to anyone, even the deceased, that some spirits would much rather suffer for years trapped inside an airtight box than have to face eating the remnants of a human. The spitting of sludge and crunching of bones was a bitter enmity to anyone forced to participate or even listen, the crimes justified only by Hell itself. After all, it was His realm now.

Even William was forced to take up the fork. He unwillingly sliced off a stiff piece of the old, wretched heart, much like the rest of the thralled spirits, forced to bring it to his tongue and eat it. Nothing in the mortal realm before prepared him for the disgust as he began to chew without will. Every empty tear fell to the floor without a stain, almost as if every one of them meant nothing in a dimension of infinite sorrow. They were tears in the rain, pointless to remember even if they meant something. Once William swallowed with great misery, he’d given into the inevitable that was The Hatbox Ghost’s eternal torment.

“—Why…” William had said rhetorically with a cloudy and woeful expression.

He spoke aloud but with little volume, for his spirit felt low and chained from within. It was more than just a spell that he and the ghosts were under— it was a curse. A terrible curse.

As if the deathly dimension couldn't take any more away from him, William was quickly torn from his seat by a large set of claws that had tightened painfully around the rest of his torso. He yelled only once, before the large hands suffocated him as if he had air to breathe. He couldn’t escape it.

The Hatbox Ghost ceased his terrible laughter as he neared William Gracey to his monstrous facade. His ferocious and lifeless breath exited the emptiness of his nose cavity. It was truly His face altogether that expressed His violent yearning towards such helpless and innocent souls. There was no exaggeration as He savored the grieving spirit’s aroma grotesquely, full of content.

“Mmm…You smell of…Misery…”

It was William's fragrance of grief that He’d found irresistible. It was enough to impose the sins of Gluttony and Lust simultaneously. What a mistake it was to show this heartfelt pain. He’d begun to feed a demon.

“…In-toxicating…”

William felt his ghostly form ripple painfully as the Hatbox Ghost took fourth in his own obscenities. He fed off Gracey’s grief, which caused his spirit to cripple and lose all thoughts that were dear to him during the process. The love he held for his friends turned sour, into dread and sorrow instead. He began to focus on Eleanor’s death once again.

“Leave him alone!” One of the maids screamed toward the Hatbox Ghost with a small spark of resistance.

The Hatbox Ghost let out a deep chuckle as he violently grabbed Williams neck instead, allowing him to dangle midair. William let out a strained noise as the grasp tightened like a serpent around his neck, firm and constricting.

“Oh, you really care for him, don’t you?…” The Hatbox Ghost’s voice seemed to grow darker as he gazed at the parlor maid with monsterous eyes.

“…Willing to share the same fate?…”

Suddenly, the maiden fell into the floor that stretched open beneath her. She let out a shrill scream of terror as she fell into a large pit of black sand that emitted a dark aura. The ghosts around her gasped audibly as some peered into the gaping hole next to them, which began to fill up quickly and swallow up the poor soul. Her screams ceased as the floor closed up afterward with a strike of lightning from outside.

The Hatbox Ghost let out a horrendous, boisterous laughter afterward, and it was clear he gained sickening satisfaction from the event.

William gripped at the Hatbox Ghost, almost in a pleading manner, desperate to be set free from the torment. This elicited the dark spirit to focus his gaze back toward him. He bared his slimy teeth as He fought His ferocious desire to confiscate and devour Gracey’s kind spirit in an instant.

Even in sorrow, William was so full of life—brilliant and caring—everything Hatbox Ghost was not. But He was patient.

“Don’t you recall…that night…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered as he neared William’s face closer to his own.

William scrunched his expression horribly as he struggled to relieve himself from the monster's grip. His translucent, skeletal fingers grappled the Master’s tough dark claws in an attempt to relieve himself from the constant, agonizing restriction.

“The night Eleanor deserted you…” The Hatbox Ghost whispered through a chuckle.

His eyes fiercely studied William’s, for He still desired much more delicious grief from him. William quickly felt the torment burn down on his soul again, which had forced his sorrowful tears to pool in his sockets. And those terrible words repeated endlessly within his head. It was all his fault…

“She never loved you…” The Hatbox Ghost uttered through a masked grin, eyes pulsating with a strange, yellow aura. Soon, He would get what He desired. And how He deserved it.

Gracey mouthed “no,” too weak to project any resistance. Even if he were a strong and enduring spirit, nothing could withstand the excruciation of this Devil.

“…She…left you here, allowing your torment. To waste away and rot in your own home…Just to suffer.” His words came again like poison.

William let out a strained sob as he shut his eyes. The misery was almost too much to bear, for tears began to stream rapidly down his face without an end, almost forced out. The Hatbox Ghost’s eyes widened at the tormented soul with an exhilarated pleasure. Only He noticed the visible aura of misery and grief illuminated around William. This is what he longed for.

William kept his eyes shut tight as he felt the Hatbox Ghost lean in towards him. He could feel a demented chill wash over his spectral form as he realized quickly that he was being drained of his life force slowly—feasted upon.

William understood the enslavement he constantly found himself under—all willing souls shared this fate. Many of the willing souls He fed on were wasted away into entities too weak to move or speak. In other words, they only existed for Him and his desires to satiate Himself. They were the true course— the reason why the Hatbox Ghost hosted the demeaning dinners. Why was he to be damned for all eternity this way, devoured into nothingness—Left with empty torture and grief?

The Hatbox Ghost groaned pleasantly as he began to consume William’s soul, exhausting him in the process. His jaws opened extensively whilst he drew in the concentrated anguish and suffering from Gracey. It roused and stirred the madness within, rather thrilling to Him.

“You’re…Mine!” He growled.

The Hatbox Ghost wheezed airily as he took in another lifeless breath full of grief and pain. lightning crackled in a much more electrified manner outside the windows, which had flashed in strange shapes of purple and green. Every loud crack against the immaterial realm sent a shrill scream of terror throughout the dining room, adding onto His deranged symphony.

Even Vincent, the Hatchet Ghost, had taken recognition of this most demonic sight, watching his very nephew waine and weep as he was feasted upon by the new Master of the house. He couldn’t help feeling an indiscretion deep within his spectral form, for he found the execution incredibly hard to watch. He suddenly intervened on behalf of any ghost unwilling to make the sacrifice.

“Master— Must you stop this…this madness?!”

A jolt of loud thunder was heard afterwards, silenced through the ferocious stare of the Hatbox Ghost. His beady, yellow, and menacing eyes were enough to stop any mortal heart— any soul’s at that. And it sent a terrible, antagonizing might that stunned Vincent into a state of pure shock. The only movement he could bear was his own trembling. It was only through this reaction that The Hatbox Ghost temporarily recessed his gruesome mannerisms, snarling as he spat.

“You DARE…disrupt ME?!”

The Demon roared with great severity towards the Hatchet Ghost among the other trembling spirits. The dining room had darkened all around them and all fears had been brought forth to their salacious Master. William, still trapped beneath the claws of the massive spector, held only the strength to look toward Vincent Gracey, who stood his ground even in fear. He winced in appealing agony with tears that could’ve burned at his skin if he were still alive. Why was he doing this for him— a ghost weak and pathetic beyond comparison? This was all his fault…

“Sir—” Vincent had managed to say before the fear had restricted his lifeless vocal chords.

Although he loathed his nephew, he couldn’t face the fact that he too was a willing soul just like him.

And how He craved the Willing.

“Even my most…Loyal adversary…Seeking to betray Me?…”

The Hatbox Ghost sifted himself towards the Hatchet ghost with William Gracey still snared in between his massive talons, much like a hawk with its prey. He bared His gray, rotten teeth at the demented, meek spirit with no desire to blink even once. The darkened aura seemed to engulf most of His cape now as if to stretch His shadow across the room, which gave Him a much larger expression than before.

“Of…of course not—” Vincent managed to speak.

The darkness around him started to crawl close to the putrid scar embedded across his fleshy, green neck. It made him grunt due to the sudden enforced agony.

“You’re not…caring for him, are you now? Much like…the others?”

The Evil Spector studied the Hatchet Ghost’s perturbed expression, His eyes enticed with such insanity and deception, they were enough to entrance any ghost who gazed directly at them. Every spirit hid their eyes from Him. All except Vincent Gracey.

“I…” Vincent muttered, enraptured by the Hatbox Ghost’s pulsating yellow eyes. He couldn’t resist them.

William Gracey watched in horror as his relative fell under the hypnotic and tractable spell. His eyes— Why must he look into those eyes?! He had almost seen Vincent Gracey’s true self, shrouded out within an instant through the manipulative power of the Hatbox Ghost. He almost had his uncle back. He almost had hope.

“Besides…I won’t be the one to help you when you’ll inevitably pay him for your actions…Right?…” He chuckled.

The Hatbox Ghost restated the Hatchet Ghost’s previous statement to William Gracey as if He’d known of their recent encounter. It sent a petrified chill down William’s spine.

He listens. He heard everything. And all roads lead to Him in the end…

The Hatchet Ghost strangely inhaled as the darkness faded around him, seemingly done with him. Then, those hypotonic clouds ceased within his eyes and revealed the same bitterness William Gracey had always seen in him. Hatred.

“...Of course, Master. Thank you for your…assistance.”

William Gracey faintly struggled within the Hatbox Ghost’s claws and watched as the Hatchet Ghost got up from his seat without hassle. It was quite alarming for the rest of the sorrowful souls, still glued to their seats without content. It was a statement which meant the loyal were favored over the enslaved. A terrible statement that meant one had to give into the dark spirit’s bidding just to be free. It was all an illusion, however. No one was free.

The Hatbox Ghost’s perpetual smile sneered all the more wider, now that the Hatchet Ghost had gazed at William with such unpleasantness. It made William shed more empty tears, no longer recognizing Vincent Gracey in those addhorrent, misshapen eyes.

“What do you think of…poor William Gracey now?…” The Hatbox Ghost snarled in his guttural voice.

Presently, He lowered William Gracey back down to the hard tiles so that Vincent could gaze upon him. William’s knees buckled from his lack of strength, kneeling as he held a heavily depleted expression. The Hatbox Ghost still kept an intense hold of his neck and torso while he wheezed, watching Vincent walk up to him with a sadistic grin upon his face.

For a moment, the Hatchet Ghost lingered his daunting smile at William Gracey, who had no choice but to gaze back with tired eyes. After a moment of silence, he spoke…

“I want him to…suffer…” He spoke through an inhale.

“I want to…watch you break him. Only I…”

Vincent’s voice was layered with darkness as he knelt down in front of his tormented relative. What was said was something imparable and vile, addressed to no one except the once luminescent soul before him. Now, he was nothing but an eternal feast for the demon before him.

“…And let the others’ blindness overcome them with a fear far greater than the sweet escape of closure…” The Hatchet Ghost added, looking up to his dark ruler.

William shook with a sunken head, eyes glassy and darkened by the condition of his very being. He could only listen to the quaked voices of his fellow friends, for they too always winded up paying for his actions. Why must this always be so? This was all his fault. Always his fault.

“What a…pleasant surprise…” The Hatbox Ghost uttered through an utmost sinister chuckle.

He was infatuated by the animosity He’d caused between a once happy family. How he loved the capability of destruction caused by His own making. He was a monster, vain and vile, created with misanthropic power and the disposition for committing atrocity.

“Wouldn’t you agree…William? He bellowed.

The dark spirit hunched down with a most wretched snarl, one claw upon the floor, while his eyes gazed upon William Gracey. He was once again lifted off the ground with such ease and carried back towards the Hatbox Ghost’s mummified facade. It was acrid and dark, his face. Void of any life or pleasantry it had once possessed in a forgotten timeline. His nose cavities enlarged after every powerful, lifeless inhale, eyes but yellow fragments of hellfire as they stared back at William. William had made no effort to voice out even a feeble ‘no,’ too dreadfully exhausted to do so. All he could muster was a heart-wrenching stare at the dark spirit before him, eyes blurred from tears.

“Well then. I shall see to this manner…personally. Within a more…confined setting...”

As the Hatbox Ghost straightened himself up back into his menacing, overbearing stance, he fixed his eyes upon every quivering ghost and spirit within the room that had watched the grimful spectacle commence. He groaned and bared his spear-like teeth as he made his gaze known across the room, then inevitably stopped at William’s acquaintances.

Victor, the Flutist, and Dorian Gracey couldn’t help but share the same alarmed expression with each other, the rules made known to all of them clearly. The Master was never wrong. The Master was always listening. And if He shall ever look upon you with greatness, He will do so with great reason. And ‘great’, He was. It was this final oath that had made them tremble with anticipation.

The darkness began to ripple throughout the massive dining hall, which had echoed its deathly sweet lullaby into the infinite chambers of the mansion. Sometimes it thundered like lightning or rippled akin to waves. Nevertheless, it taunted every soul under His mighty curse. Haunted them.

“Oh, I hate to be a terrible host and run, but I do think it’s time for me to go. You see, I have some…important matters to attend to…”

The Hatbox Ghost’s aura had begun to ripple and mystify him as he took a gradual step back from the chair that was his throne. Everyone had eyes on the Master of the house as he took William Gracey with him into the blackness that had been summoned. The Hatchet Ghost was beside his Master, and observed as the black veins started to crawl and intertwine around them. Although it was inevitable to show fear, he’d embraced it long long ago: something his nephew did not.

“Enjoy the dinner…Ta-ta, now…” The Hatbox Ghost muttered in an exaggerated voice.

The dark spirit quickly dematerialized within His own darkness alongside the other two spirits. He always spoke the final word. Even after He’d vanished just as elegantly as He’d come, no one was allowed to leave until they were finished with their dish. And Every ghoul alike held this deep and unforgiving punishment, the solemn supper being only the beginning of it all.

Many had known what this celebration had meant, for it was all loud and clear what the Hatbox Ghost had in store for the delicious mortal souls entrapped within the mansion. Eventually, they would all share the same fate as every ghost had—forced to abide by the dark spector’s command. And the willing souls? The willing were special to Him; potent to Him. It was something He craved ever since his arrival, something eternal that would fuel his insatiable hunger for more. Because, unlike the mortal realm, there was no escape from the infinite oblivion waiting for them on the other side.

And how He waited ever so patiently…

…

#my art #haunted mansion #haunted mansion 2023 #the haunted mansion #disney #hatbox ghost #alistair crump #the hatbox ghost #digital illustration #digital art #story #stories #artists on tumblr

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ofthecaravel · 3 months ago

Text

Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)

Danny Wagner x Sam Kiszka (kinda?)

Summary: Ghost hunter extraordinaire Danny Wagner takes on Kiszka Manor with a Ouija board and a dream. Luckily, the ghosts like him. One of them likes him a lot.

Tags: Ghosts, mentions of murder/death/disease/suicide, arguments, majority silly goofy I promise!!!!

Word Count: 3.6k

A/N: My submission for the GVF Writers Halloween Event organized by the wonderful @hearts-hunger! Such a fun idea and I'm excited to participate.

Prompt #2: Real Haunted House

“Hey guys! Welcome back to my channel! Today, I’m at the famous haunted Kiszka Manor to investigate its history and see if we can get in touch with the spirits that haunt these grounds!”

Danny took a confident step back as he grinned wildly at the camera, his hand moving from a wave to a theatrical gesture to accompany his continuing speech.

“This building has been abandoned ever since the mysterious string of deaths that plagued its halls finally came to an end in 1899 with the death of its last living inhabitant, Samuel Kiszka, the youngest member of the family that had lived in the house since it was built. The house was sold to new owners a few years later, but they lasted no more than two months before fleeing, claiming that the rampant paranormal activity was making it impossible to live there. Since then, countless paranormal investigators have braved a night within these walls, but nobody has ever made it to sunrise without experiencing something that they couldn’t explain.”

Danny reached off camera to grab the sleeping bag that he’d leaned up against the kitchen wall prior to shooting, giving it a little shake as he smirked.

“Tonight, I will be joining that brave league,” Danny explained. “And I’m going to catch it all on camera for your viewing entertainment. Stay tuned to see if I survive a night at Kiszka Manor.”

He ended the recording and let out a relieved breath, flipping the viewfinder in and setting the camera down on the table he’d laid his other equipment on. He startled when his movement jostled the sleeping bag and sent it unfurling down his torso. It swung down onto the dusty wooden floors, quickly gathering a cobwebbed dust bunny as he tried to shake it off. Danny grimaced and lifted it up, giving it another genuine shake.

“Aw, gross,” he said to himself, now much more quiet and meek that the camera was off. “Ew.”

In the parlor facing the kitchen doorway, the three spirits that did in fact haunt the house were watching Danny with an amused calculation. When they spoke, they spoke in synchrony.

“Dibs.”

After rolling his sleeping bag up with an annoyed huff, Danny ignored the chill running down his spine and the uncomfortable jerk of a nerve in his ear. A surely false sense of being watched started to overtake him the longer he stood in the empty mansion. And a mansion it certainly was, with three expansive stories just waiting for Danny and his camera to go exploring in…alone…at night…

Sometimes Danny wondered what his nights would be like if those silly ghost hunting videos he’d made in his college dorm hadn’t gone so viral and asserted him as a cornerstone of the Youtube ghost community. Maybe he’d be unwinding from a 9-5, lazy on the couch and warm from a home cooked dinner. Maybe there’d be someone there with him, laying their head on his chest and making light conversation.

But here he was. Standing with his hands on his hips in a pathetic attempt to gather any semblance of authority and trying not to shake in his shabby Nike sneakers as he noticed the retreating creep of daylight out of the corner of his eye. In a very old, probably asbestos filled house that was also probably full of ghosts that already hated his nosy guts.

Great.

Luckily for Danny, there was something untrue about his assumption. The ghosts did not already hate him. Actually, they were quite taken with him.

“Is it just me, or do these guys keep getting cuter and cuter?” Josh cooed, coasting through the kitchen to assess Danny from every angle. “They must be putting something in the water these days.”

“Cradle robber,” Jake laughed, following his twin through the doorway.

“Back off, I called dibs first,” Sam complained, trailing behind them in his unsteady float. “He’s already talked about me. I have claim!”

“Oh yeah? Then what’s this?” Josh teased, shimmying up next to the light switch and pressing his translucent fingers into the wall. He gave them a wiggle with a challenging smile as the overhead light started to flicker, causing Danny’s head to jerk in surprise and his eyes to widen as Josh made the bulb flit a few more times before slowly burning it out. Danny strode to the light switch and gave it a few desperate flicks, never taking his eyes off of the light.

“That’s a cheap trick,” Sam accused, his lip curling as Josh removed himself from the wall and straightened his lapels. “He deserves some distinguished communication.”

“He’s not going to be any fun at all,” Jake sighed, already seemingly bored by Danny’s anxious stature. “It’s only fun when they’re skeptics. Let’s just toss some crystals from the chandelier and slam a door and get him out as soon as we can.”

“Oh, come on, it’s been ages since our last little ghost hunter,” Josh lamented, flopping over sideways into the air and landing as if he’d fallen onto a bed. “It’s nice to have some company.”

“We might actually be able to talk to him, too,” Sam noted excitedly, directing his older brother’s attention to the all too familiar board sticking out of one of Danny’s tote bags. “Now that I call dibs on.”

“What, so you can ask him if he like-likes anyone?” Jake teased, wiggling his eyebrows at Sam and letting out a laugh when Sam made an incredulous sound and floated into the next room. If Sam had still been in his body, they all knew his cheeks would have been flushed.

“Okay, guys, it’s been about an hour since I arrived, and I’m getting ready here to hopefully talk to some spirits.”

Danny had set himself up in one of the bedrooms on the second level, the one at the very end of the hall with a grand window that let in enough light for Danny to be able to see the Ouija board he’d placed on the carpet in front of him.

“I still don’t understand how there’s people in the cameras,” Josh observed, pointing a finger at the viewfinder that Danny was reflected in. “I only see him. Is it like a telephone?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” Jake shrugged. He and Josh had settled on the four poster bed on the opposite wall, chatting amongst themselves while Danny lit a few candles and their younger brother giddily took post on the opposite side of the Ouija board. Sam was generally a pretty mopey ghost considering his circumstances, but there was something about this particular person that really piqued his interest. It was odd, especially to his brothers, but it was also too exciting to ignore.

For his brothers, it was odd for a different reason. It was concerning.

“Alright,” Danny started, clearing his throat and trying to avoid stalling any more. “Let’s do this.”

He set the camera down on the end of the bed right in front of where the ghostly twins sat cross legged, and they mimed holding it steady and pressing the buttons with a collective giggle. Sam scowled at them and gestured for them to get away from it, knowing that their interaction with the technology could provide Danny with some interesting warped footage that would take away from his prospective Ouija interview.

“I’ve set up camp here in the south wing of the house in the room that used to belong to Samuel, who I very briefly touched on earlier,” Danny explained to the camera, settling into the animated lecturing tone he adopted for his videos. “On the opposite end of the hallway are the rooms that belonged to his older brothers, Joshua and Jacob, who died a year before him.”

On the bed, Josh and Jake raised their hands like roll call, and Sam rolled his eyes at them.

“From what I’ve been able to find, it seems that Joshua contracted cholera in the spring of 1897 and suffered with it for a year before finally passing away in 1898, with his twin brother Jacob passing away just a few days later from an unrelated cardiac event that left their youngest brother alone in the estate.”

“Thank you again for that one, you guys,” Sam commented dryly. “That wasn’t super lonely or anything.”

“I still think it was very dramatic of you to die from heartbreak,” Josh snorted, nudging Jake.

“Who says it was heartbreak?” Jake teased right back. “I was simply so overcome with the joy of finally being free of you that I croaked.”

“I would like to try and run the spirit box in their rooms later on in the night, but I wanted to start in here,” Danny went on, setting the planchette on the board. “I couldn’t really find much about how Samuel died, except for that his autopsy reported some broken bones and internal injury. If I’m lucky, maybe he’ll tell me.”

“He jumped out a window!” Jake yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Shut up!” Sam snapped. They both exchanged faces before Sam turned to give his full attention back to Danny, who was very hesitantly placing his first and middle fingers on the planchette. He waited for Danny to trace three circles before adding his own fingers to the wood, wishing for a moment that he was still able to feel anything at all so he could feel the warmth of Danny’s skin. Now that was something Sam missed: warmth.

“Is there anyone here who would like to talk to me?” Danny asked gingerly. Whenever he asked, he always hoped deep down that nobody would answer.

Unfortunately for him, Sam was eager to talk, and he concentrated all of his energy on very laboriously sliding the planchette over to his answer.

YES

Danny stared at the board for a second, trying to zero in on the twitch of muscles in his fingers and finally deducing that his subconscious must have moved the planchette. Danny had had plenty of paranormal experiences with shadow figures and moving doors, but he’d never been lucky with the Ouija board before.

“O-kay, that’s great,” Danny squeaked out. “Wow. Okay. Yeah. Can you tell me your name?”

S A M

It took a lot of effort to move the planchette and Sam figured his nickname would be enough. He wanted to preserve his energy so they could talk for as long as he wanted to.

“Ooh, keeping it casual, I see,” Josh sang. “You’re best friends already.”

“Sam,” Danny repeated, his heart racing so fast he worried it would freeze up. “Are you the same Sam who lived here? Samuel?”

YES

“Wow,” Danny blurted, flustered from this revelation. “It’s nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Danny. You, uh, your house is very nice.”

“Danny?” Jake echoed in a thin, nasally mockery. “Good grief, what’s with names these days? What’s so bad about Daniel?”

Sam glowered at him before steeling himself to reply again.

T H A N K Y O U

“You’re welcome,” Danny answered, still dumbfounded.

He was talking to a real ghost. This was proof, if not for the camera but for himself. He knew his comments section would be filled with accusations, but Danny knew somewhere deep in his gut that it was not him rigging the game.

This was real.

“How old are you?” Danny asked, realizing with a panic that he wasn’t nearly as prepared as he’d hoped. He was really grasping for straws with his questions.

2 4

“Hey, so am I!” Danny laughed. Sam grinned and shivered at the sound. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard a laugh that wasn’t his own or his brothers, or one that wasn’t at the expense of their house from so-called ghost hunters far less courteous than Danny. Usually when Sam was around, people were screaming. But here was a laugh. It was a nice change of pace.

“Is it just you in the house?” Danny asked.

“Can I ask who else is here with you?”

J J

“JJ?” Danny repeated with a confused frown. “Who’s JJ? OH, do you mean your brothers? Joshua and Jacob?”

“Come on, Sam, give him a little more to work with,” Jake scolded.

“My arms hurt,” Sam whined. “It’s not my fault your names have so many letters. He figured it out, anyways!”

YES

“Oh, well, hello to them, too,” Danny greeted nervously, looking around the room for where they may be lurking. “They don’t want to talk?”

“Any reason why?”

E F F O R T

“It’s a lot of effort? To move it?”

YES

“Oh, so you can spell that but not Jacob? That’s too much work?”

“I’m sorry,” Danny apologized. “We can stop.”

When the planchette moved again, it was fast and aggressive.

NO NO NO

“Don’t scare him too bad,” Josh murmured, taking note of Danny’s tense body language and Sam’s frantic eyes. “Easy.”

“Okay, we’ll keep going,” Danny said, cringing at the slight shake in his voice. “Uh…sorry, I really wasn’t expecting a reply. I’m kind of blanking. You must get the Ouija board treatment all the time.”

“No? Really? I feel like that’s what everybody brings to haunted houses.”

Danny cringed again, breaking out in a cold sweat when he thought about what he’d said. Did Sam know he was dead? Was it a touchy subject? 2 years of ghost investigation and Danny was only now considering the ghost’s perspective.

Sam watched Danny stick his tongue in his cheek and visibly ponder potential questions. He felt very grateful that Danny couldn’t see how intensely he was staring. Sam made detailed notes of the spray of freckles across his nose and the Botticelli furrow of his brows, the way his hair grew long and gathered at his shoulders in a way that Sam envied and never would’ve been allowed to do in his time. If he listened closely, he could hear his heart beating, panicked and bloody and alive.

“What is death like?” Danny found himself asking, the words rushing out in a whisper. He couldn’t help himself. It was all he could think about in this place, with its silent halls and chatty spirits.

Sam smiled.

L I G H T

“Light?”

C A L M

“Sam,” Josh warned. “Watch yourself.”

H A P P Y

Danny felt a wave of relief pass over him at the affirmation. He’d long since forgotten that the camera was on and felt no sense of self consciousness at his little shiver of excitement.

“That sounds nice,” Danny smiled. “I think people worry that it’s all hellfire and empty spaces and whatnot, so that’s good to hear. I’m sorry you died so young. At least you avoided The Great Depression and stuff.”

“The who?” Sam said out loud to himself, earning a laugh from his brothers.

“Well,” Danny sighed. “I’m probably going to end this now. Is there anything else you want to tell me before I put the board away?”

Sam’s heart sank. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye. According to Danny, he’d be moving to the twins’ rooms next, and knowing them, they’d keep his spirit box chattering all night with their incessant scares. It wasn’t fair. Everybody always came to the house for Josh and Jake and their heart wrenching, freaky-deaky twin deaths and their boyish paranormal antics.

When was the last time somebody had come here looking for him?

“Tell him he needs a haircut,” Jake suggested. “Tell him you’re Satan.”

“They always go running with that one,” Josh agreed. “What’s the other one? ZOZO? No clue where that comes from but it sure freaked out those guys from Seattle.”

Sam ignored them. The only thing he could hear was Danny.

S T A Y

Danny chuckled nervously.

“Stay? Am I really such a great interviewer?”

S T A Y

Jake and Josh exchanged glances.

“Okay, Sam, time to hang up,” Jake demanded, leaning forward off the side of the bed and pulling on Sam’s shoulder. “We are not doing this again.”

“He’s different,” Sam insisted, shrugging Jake off and moving his fingers on the planchette so that they spliced with Danny’s. The temperature change was subtle, but it was enough that Danny felt his fingers go cold. He eased up on the pressure he’d been applying out of fear that he’d begun to cut off his circulation.

“You said that about the last two,” Josh reminded harshly, joining Jake’s effort to try and pull Sam away from the board. “Back off. We’ll spook him on the spirit box and he’ll be out by the sunrise.”

W A N T

Every alarm bell inside Danny’s gut was blaring full volume and he knew he needed to end the session and get going. He couldn’t help but keep glancing up at the empty space in front of him, trying to remember anything about Sam’s appearance from the online archives he’d used for research the night prior. It was only when he looked back down at the board did he catch a glimpse of something in his peripheral; a smudge of brown hair, pale skin…or was it the candlelight playing tricks on him?

“It’s been nice talking to you, Sam,” Danny blurted hurriedly, struggling to speak with such strong paranoia twisting in his stomach. “Goodbye, now!”

With an unheard frustrated shriek on Sam’s behalf, Danny circled the planchette three times again and pulled his hand back like it’d been resting on a hot stovetop. He let out a rattling breath of relief and turned back towards the camera, acknowledging it with a jolt and flashing the screen a relieved smile before scooping it off the bed.

“You heard it here first, folks,” Danny announced with a breathless chuckle, pushing his curly bangs off his forehead. “Your man Dan is in hot demand on the grounds of Kiszka Manor.”

“You’ve got to control yourself, Sam, for heaven’s sake,” Josh reprimanded.

Danny had left the room a few minutes ago, abandoning them with haste in favor of setting up motion detectors and a spirit box in Jake’s room at the other end of the hall. But the twins were in no hurry to go play with any of Danny’s toys yet.

“Now you know why we don’t like you to interact,” Jake added, his words landing like a slap on Sam’s stormy face. “You get too involved.”

“Why are you two the only ones who ever get to have fun?” Sam yelled, getting to his feet and facing the wall away from them with his arms crossed haughtily. “Why am I in trouble? I’m an adult! I’m 149 years old! Leave me the hell alone!”

“If we could get away from you, we would,” Josh spat. “Trust me. But we can’t. And you’re not allowed to ‘have fun’ because your idea of fun is KILLI-”

“I’VE NEVER KILLED ANYBODY!” Sam howled, his hands coming up like claws next to his face. He still refused to look at either of his brothers.

“Then would you care to find another explanation for our forlorn ghostly companions in our attic? I’m sure they’d love to hear it from you!”

“JUST GET OUT OF MY ROOM!”

“That boy should count himself pretty lucky he remembered to close the portal,” Jake sneered at Sam’s back. “We’re going to go give him a scare or two and then we’re going to leave him alone. And I recommend you do too. Do you hear me?”

Sam fell deathly silent, the weight of his fury draining any last remnants of warmth that the candle had left behind and plunging the thermostat as low as he felt.

“Christ,” was the last thing Sam heard muttered before he felt them leave the room, making sure to let the door slam behind them and conjure up a muffled scream of fright from Danny down the hall.

Once Sam was certain they were gone, he relaxed his incorporeal body out of his act of tense rage and turned to look over his shoulder at the door. He was wearing the lazy smile that he’d been unable to wipe off his face and had to hide from his family. That was a curse of his that he carried into his afterlife; he just couldn’t help but wear his heart on his sleeve.

Except that Sam didn’t have a heart anymore. It had died with him, of course, but he was pretty sure it had given its last beat on the day that he was left the only surviving member of his family. With a house too big, a backyard overpopulated with graves, and a town that offered only thoughts and prayers in his time of need, Sam lost his ability to feel. It had been so blank inside his chest that Sam figured the only explanation was that his heart had simply shriveled up and withered away. He’d gone looking for it in death but found himself somehow twice as lonely even with a reunion as sweet as the one he’d had with his siblings.

But now he’d found it again, that rhythmic pulse that he heard from the ribcage of a polite ghost hunter that had been delivered to his door by what seemed like the hand of God. He was sure of it, actually. Danny was here because he was meant to be Sam’s, meant to drive away all that endless, bleak loneliness and bring back his capacity to love.

Why else would have Danny done the closing circles on the Ouija board in the same direction as he had the first time? Every paranormal professional knew you ended things by moving the planchette in a counterclockwise direction. And Danny really seemed like he knew his stuff.

Sam smiled wider. Danny must’ve left the portal open on purpose. Just for him.

Down the hall, Sam could hear another dampened scream from Danny, no doubt from the twins tossing a ghostly buzzword in between radio waves. On the bed, Sam noticed for the first time that Danny had thrown his sleeping bag across its expanse, already unzipped and ready to receive him.

Them.

It may have been unbeknownst to everyone except for Sam, but the night had just begun.

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