#ill never forgive the internet for burying this series

[livingasaghost]

i love that angelfall is just a super hot angel man who rolls his eyes in amusement every time his teenage girl soulmate tries to be creative and help him win in a fight

[unto-myself-together]

Of Stories and Songs: A Haunted Mansion Fanfic Ch 4

This chapter was getting so long, that I felt like I have no choice but to divide it into two.  30 some odd pages in word, after all, is a little long to be left whole like that.  

Check below the cut for both author notes and the chapter proper.

Authornotes: Despite what the Ghost Host says, he will be making an appearance in the next chapter.

The description of the scarecrow should be familiar.  It is, in fact, a description of Jack Skellington’s alter ego scarecrow disguise.  I wanted to make tiny references to the Haunted Mansion Holiday overlay without making a pure crossover, as the plot I’m going with wouldn’t mesh well with the Nightmare characters. So, instead, I’ll just briefly reference it here and there.  Thus, the scarecrow in this fic isn’t actually Jack Skellington (unless you really want to pretend it is, I mean I can’t stop you).  

Solomon Gracey….Oh let me tell you the story about this.  When I was young, and going through the Mansion for the first time, I saw the aging man portrait.  Except, I didn’t know anything about Oscar Wilde or Dorian Gray (I was a kid), so I never made the connection there (even though in retrospect, it seems a little obvious that’s what the Imagineers were going for).  But I DID know about Batman, and through that someone had told me the poem once associated with one of the villains named Solomon Grundy:

Solomon Grundy, Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday, Grew worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday, That was the end, Of Solomon Grundy.

And you might be wondering “What does this have anything to do with anything?”  You see, as a kid, I misinterpreted the poem and what it meant.  I thought it referred to someone who was born, quickly grew up, lived, and died all within the span of a week. It apparently never occurred to my childlike mind that these things could happen on separate years.  

So when I saw the portrait of the man, and he aged so rapidly, I thought “Oh!  It’s like Solomon Grundy!”

And that’s the story of how the name stuck.

Artwork was drawn by me.

The statue comes from a statue in the Disneyland fast pass for Haunted Mansion

For the Gracey family seal, I used official Disney merchandise for the base.  It is the Master Gracey necklace from the Memento Mori store.   Here is the reference: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/506725395552228282/?autologin=true&lp=true

Here are other photographs and videos used as references for the other art pieces:

https://davelandblog.blogspot.com/2015/02/terrific-thirteen.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RGdw4ePzPg&t=306s

I am the one who played the piano and recorded myself.  I used sheet music from the internet for this. Here are the reference links. Please note that I made small edits for the Haunted Mansion piece and  I didn’t follow the original sheet music for John Brown’s Body piece, I just used the same key.

https://musescore.com/user/6017331/scores/1485776

https://www.music-scores.com/midi.php?sheetmusic=Trad_John_Browns_Body

~~~

Trigger warnings: ghosts, death concepts/discussions, murder, suicide, abuse, blood, lots of scary stuff (horror), implied sexual abuse, cursing (damn and hell), drug abuse, attempted rape (never completed; in a later chapter).

~~~

Table of Contents:

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 ,

Chapter 6 , Chapter 7

~~~

Ch 4.  John Brown’s Body

~~

“John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave, His soul is marching on!”

-Traditional Folk Song, John Brown’s Body

~~

“This is all a bad dream.  This is all a bad dream. This is all a bad dream. There’s no such thing as ghosts. This is all a bad dream.  This is all a ba-“

                  “Repetition does not turn a statement to fact.”

“Shut up.” She muttered, shakily walking down the hall towards the door that she could see on the far end; the complete opposite end from the strange stretching room she had come from.  “This is all a bad dream.  This is all a bad drea-“

              “You can chant such trifle prayers to your dying breath, but                      your words will never be any truer five centuries from now than                                they were five moments ago.”

“But it keeps me going,” She muttered again, this time to herself. “And there…there can’t be life after death.  It’s impossible.  There’s no such thing.  Dead is dead.”

              “Care to repeat that to the dead person behind you?”

The creepy feeling of an ice cold hand on her shoulder made her speed up, nearly running towards the door.  

                       “Why not look behind you, hmm?”

“No I won’t I won’t!” The anxiety making her giddy, she gave a little nervous laugh as she made it through and slammed the door.  She leaned against the door and slid to the ground, eyes closed and breathing in deep.

                     “Rather impolite, but no matter….               You can always repeat your statement to the one in front of you.”

This time…This time, her eyes had flung open all without her permission and she screamed.  

She screamed all the while as she crawled backwards.

All the while as she jammed her wrist against a table in her attempt to get under it.

The thing that lay before her.  Whatever it was, it did not follow her, choosing instead to remain swaying side to side in its position.

And she permitted herself to think about what she had just seen: its legs looked like bond stalks, it’s mahogany jacket in tatters.  A figure that seemed stiff at first, its limbs in haphazard directions, as though it’s clothes were stuffed with straw.  But…

…But that couldn’t be; there had to be a person in there because behind the carved smile of its pumpkin head….she could see teeth.  

Human teeth.  

She dared to peek out from under the table, but there was no longer any sign of it.  The scarecrow’s long legs ought to have been in sight, where could it ha-

-

POUNDING ON THE TABLE ABOVE HER.

SHE COULD SEE THE SIDES TIP PRECARIOUSLY

AS SOMETHING DANCED ATOP IT.

“I’msorry I’msorry I’msorry!!” She screamed out, her shaking mimicking every jerk of the table.

The pounding stopped.   The table stopped.  

The thunder rolled off in the distance, and the rain pattered against the windows.  

She took an uneasy breath.

“…Why are you doing this to me?”  She said in a small voice.

                                  “Why, whatever do you mean?”

She could hear his tone, the thinly veiled sarcasm, the mirth that made it seem like he was laughing at her.  She tried again.

“What…what exactly do you want with me? What did you say before, that lives have value?? That the raven was useless to you??  What is it about me?”

                        “But lives DO have value.                       Unless, of course, you don’t see value in yours.                        We are certainly capable of removing                         such a heavy weight from your shoulders.                                Or are you more hands on?”

By her side….

………………

….a noose appeared….

Dangling over the sides of the furniture, her safe zone.

She found herself staring at it.  

A good.  Long.  While.

“Are you really trying to kill me?” Her throat constricted, just by having it in her sights.

                     “Would you take comfort in hearing me say ‘no’?”

“At this point….At this point I’m not sure I’d believe you…”

                “Then there’s nothing more to be said, now is there?”

She closed her eyes again.  Even knowing that her “host” might take advantage and shove another creature in her face, it was comforting to pretend that she was back at home, in bed, with her eyes closed and ready for sleep.

But the noose…

“Please….please will you at least take it away?”

….

A soft whisper of a sound, and wisp of a breeze.

When she dared to peek, bracing herself for the return of the scarecrow or some other terrible thing, she was surprised.

The noose was gone.  And there was no evidence of any new scary entity within her immediate sights.  

“Thank you.”  She mumbled.  

The only response was the low rumbling of a chuckle.

Perhaps because of that, she could not bring herself to leave the relative safety of the furnishing she’d cowered under. The underside of the table was nice and cozy, after all.  

So spent the time to look around instead.

There were instruments.  Karen couldn’t pretend that she knew much about music, but she knew enough to recognize the violin sitting on one of the chairs.  The bigger one sitting in the corner was probably a cello, and there were likely even more instruments hidden from sight in the cases she could observe.  

A piano took up most of the room; the light from the candelabras on its surface glowed in the reflection of the gigantic window behind it.  From beyond the window, she could see the dead trees buckling under the weight of the downpour, their gray limbs looking much like ghosts themselves.  It seemed so deceptively easy to shatter the glass and escape.  

                          “Whatever is the matter, hmm?                              Have you given up on your friend already?                            Shall I leave him my condolences?                              A message?                           The very last thing he’ll ever hear:                               ‘Karen has left you for dead’.”

“No.”  She said flatly.  “No I’m not leaving without him.”

That telltale chuckle again.

                         “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

“You’re not going to ever tell us why you’re doing this, are you?  Is it really because you think we’re trespassers?”

                                 “You’ll have to forgive me.”

The piano began to play, a series of mismatched notes creating a discord of ugly sounds.

                       “I was not aware I required a reason.”

She held her breath, watching the keys move across the instrument without any visible fingers to press on them. But there was a shadow that fell across the whole scene that looked oddly…human-esque.   Already, she was too frightened to think too deeply into that.

                 “Shall I play you something light and bright                   to coax you from your crypt?                    The mortal creature does still love a happy harmony                   wrapped up in a major key…correct?                                          And after all                                     wouldn’t you agree                                   that your life would be                           so flat without a sweet melody? ”

And with that announcement, the piano changed to a happier cord.  Was that the Battle Hymn of the Republic?

Listen to the piano part1

Despite her wariness, she did feel herself relax a tinge.  She even went so far as to lean back a bit to rest herself against the wall that bordered her ‘safety table’.   The ruffling of paper at her fingertips snatched at her attention.  

Two papers, actually.

“Mr. Williams,

I write to you on the matter of the issue you had previously approached me for.  

Thus far, the Atencio Trading Company has remained relatively unchanged despite the change in the Head of the Gracey family.  Indeed, the Atencio Company firmly remains under the ownership of the Graceys, as it always has, despite the remaining echoes of the war and reconstruction. None of the businesses contained within the company have been removed, destroyed, or discarded; if anything, new businesses have been added and not subtracted.

Below is a list that I have compiled, as best as I was able, of the Industries contained therein of the Gracey family’s Atencio Trading Company:

2 Wineries   6 Tanneries 4 Major Textile Production Factories (not containing various minor Textile Refinements involved) 1 Business involved in the Production of Cutlery 2 Beekeeping farms (also involve Honey Refinery) 3 Breweries of Beer and Fine Liquor 9 Livestock farms (not including horses) 5 Horse Ranches 2 Bakeries 7 Farms that variously produce Wheat, Barley, Grapes, Corn, Apples, and Vegetables 1 Metal Production or blacksmith factory whose purpose I could not ascertain

These industries are spread out among several states, regions, and cities. As you know, the Atencio Company regularly transports on the behalf of foreign companies.    Thus, this is in addition to the trading profits the company gets for the transportation and shipping of goods owned by companies not under the control of the Graceys.

This is not including, however, the personal farm and properties therein attached to the Gracey Manor house itself. The production involved there is mostly for the immediate benefit of the family, it’s fellows, and the servant class who board there.  

I am afraid I have still come up empty, sir, in finding the meaning behind the name “Atencio”.  It has apparently been used for ages long past, as long as the Graceys have owned this company.  The only shared name I have ever found in records, was that of a pirate crew that operated in the 1400s, long before the Golden Age of Piracy.  As such, there are only scant records of this crew, and none of them enlightening enough to provide evidence that there is any relation.  

The methods by which the Graceys run their business is still very non-involved.  Like before, it appears that many of the overseers of each company sub-branch are left to manage their own affairs, provided that profits are returned to the family proper.  The Graceys are involved in making final decisions regarding payment distribution, and appear to be very generous with those in their employment.  Especially so with the current Gracey head of family.  As such, exceptional loyalty to both the Atencio Trading Company and the Gracey Family itself is not unheard of, nor should be unexpected.  

It is with this in mind that I send this letter through an unconventional means.

For you see, sir, I am greatly concerned that this letter should be intercepted by them.

-Leslie Harrison”  

And there was a second letter underneath that.  

At its very top, was a family crest: A carved letter G in the center of the decorative shape, swirling lines jutting on both sides and a devilish head at its very top. The symbol was flanked by Latin: Familia Supra Omnia.

“Dear Miss Slater,

I am very much distressed at reading your previous missive, which I had received on the fifth of February.  I understand your concerns regarding your status as, and I quote you, “a lowly circus performer”.  But as I have stressed on more than a single previous occasion, I do not care.  

As far as the town is concerned: I, and my estate, are dead to them.  

I have long given up on pleasing the most influential members of the community.  As well you know, Mr. Williams, whom has the town in his purse strings, already hated my father long before even the War of Rebellion, hated him even worse during the war, and has shown even as recent as last week that he finds my methods of running my affairs a contemptable sight in his long list of grievances against my family name.  What the head of the Williams Company says is practically decreed, and, by extension, I am no friend to any member of the upper crust in these parts.  It subsequently gives me the freedom to do merely as I please.  

And it would please me more than anything, Miss Slater, if you allow me to help you.

I have been hearing so many rumors about the financial status of that circus company that you have affiliated yourself with, and even worse rumors about the ringmaster himself.  

Miss Slater, I do not trust that man. He has proven time and again that his humor is morbid, and that his tricks are similarly so.  Many of his acts remark and revolve on death itself, and with such a depressing notion it is surprising that his fortunes did not deplete themselves sooner.  That mishap with the lion and the poor drunkard is simply another suspicious death to add to his collection of mysterious airs.  

I am concerned by some of your wording. You’ve known I have no qualms about reputation.  And you’ve never asked for privacy before, even when you had fallen ill.  Nor have you been forthright with any reasoning, on my part, that has caused you discomfort.  All of these things are suspicious and so very out of ordinary from the past twelve years you have been with these travelers.  Your phrases, too, are upsetting: “A lost cause” “Nothing left for me”, these are not words you have ever previously used to describe yourself. I cannot but be concerned that your ringmaster, or someone else in the company, has harmed you in some way.  

Which is why, at first chance, I will make the journey to fetch you.    

Your daughter is of Gracey blood, if not in name, Miss Slater.  We are family.  And I will make sure nothing lays a finger on either of you.  

Yours in Sincerity,

Solomon Gracey”

As she tried to make sense of the newfound information…Miss Slater.

                                       Mr. Williams.

                                 Solomon Gracey.

                                         Circus.

                                          She….

…Was suddenly standing.

And not underneath a table at all anymore.

There was a man in front of her, sitting at a desk with a concerned expression.  He had on a fine white shirt, nice trousers, a gray vest, and was that a pocket watch?  It held the uncanny air of a bygone era, especially as he sat, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, at a desk that had no dust.  

She recognized that desk….and…when he turned and she saw him eye to eye….she recognized him.

This man wasn’t the same angry man from the earlier vision, with the maid and the young boy.  

This man…was from the portrait.  

The portrait that she had seen at the beginning of the house, the one that had aged to death right in front of her eyes. And as the eyes glanced her way, she felt herself back away a step.

To be sure, those eyes were beyond comparison.  Even here, the vividness of their blue felt like they could see straight into her.  

At the same time….she felt…safe.  The other vision had held a sense of terror.  The other man had clearly been antagonistic.  But this man….

                                Please. Let me help you.

She blinked.  For a moment, she had imagined that the man had spoken to her. But that…couldn’t be.  He didn’t even seem to see her, for one, as his eyes had glanced over her without any acknowledgement.  By now, he had gone back to writing….

She peeked over his shoulder.  He was writing…the very letter…she had just recently read..?

Karen stood gob smacked, gaping as he finished it off with a flurry of his signature.  

Was this really some kind of memory from the past.   How….?

                             I just want you to be safe.

She blinked again.  No, those weren’t words spoken aloud.  She finally identified them as a gut feeling.  An aura; something that the scene gave off that somehow she felt compelled to think of those exact words.  She was sure, anyways, that those feelings were mostly for the benefit of the person he wrote to.  

But those thoughts felt good.  The scene felt good. After all the ridiculous stuff that Ghost Host had thrown on her, the scarecrow and spiders and stretching rooms and nooses appearing out of nowhere, this was so relaxing in comparison. Comforting, even.  

Why couldn’t she stay and listen to Solomon?   Would it hurt so badly?  Who could blame her?  

Staying like this, watching him read over and over the letter he had just completed.  He had an intricate ring on his left hand; she could see it as he held his forehead in his hand in thought.  It was a good ring.

What was wrong with staying like this, watching him, forever?

Without worries, without cares.  No broken windows….Or was it reading…?  Law school….Something feels missing….But what does it matter?  None of the horror, just a calm room with a man writing a letter that he’d been struggling hours to find the words for.  Finally. Finally, he had gotten around to writing it out in full.

But…This won’t do at all.

He stood up.  

“Edgar!”  He called out.  “Fetch my coat and get Samuel!  We’re taking a trip to that damned circus.”

Why did he even need the letter?  By God, he’ll just show up unannounced, then he could see for himse-

….

Wait….

Karen’s face furrowed in deep thought. What were these thoughts that were now going through her head?

These weren’t…her thoughts. They had nothing to do with her.  So why was it as though her thoughts had begun to turn, turning to mush and then reshaping themselves, and all without her permission? It didn’t hurt.  But.  There was this small sense of mismatch, that something wasn’t quite right….

Thoughts about the ring on his finger….No, this ring didn’t represent marriage…But what was it…Why was she….

…..She was back underneath the table.

There was a brief sense of déjà vu as she tried to catch her bearings; the piano wasn’t helping, as it was now playing a more sinister sounding version of the Battle Hymn of the Republic.  It only cemented the idea that the dream was over and the nightmare was back.

listen to the piano 2

….She stared back to the letter. Touched it, even brought it up to her nose to sniff it.  It was real.  

Which means….the vision….

She squeezed her eyes shut so that she could gradually open them again.

The piano was still playing.  Didn’t that “Ghost Host” ever get sick of the same song over and over?

She didn’t want to deal with any of this; not him, not that vision-thingy, not this letter.

Michael…

There was a door to the left.  

She glanced back to the piano.  The Host was still playing, but for how long would he remain distracted?

Getting up on her hind legs, ready to sprint for it, the song still in the air,

one,

two,

three.

The door was in her hand, the handle turned, she slipped on through, into-

                                    “Hmm hmm hmm.”

-the same exact room?

She opened the door behind her again. In the room she left, a piano playing the Battle Hymn of the Republic.  In the room in front of her, an IDENTICAL piano playing…something else.

listen to the piano 3

Two pianos.  The same chairs.  The same violins.  Even the same table she had taken refuge under.  

Trying not to panic, she ran down to the next door.  Went through it.

                            “HmmHa ha ha Ha HA ha.”

listen to the piano4

The same room.  Again.  

She ran over to the next door. Just to peek.

AGAIN. That piano!  That horrible, wretched sounding piano!  

She stood in the center of the room, carefully avoiding the shadowy figure that seemed to sit at the stool and play away, her eyes bitter and angry as she stared at the instrument.  If she had to burn a hole through the piano with her eyes just to make a statement, so be it.  

                      “Finally facing the music, are we?                 Have you accepted the reality that you need me as a guide                   if you ever hope of getting anywhere?”

“I’ve accepted the reality that you’re a well certified jerk.  Let me out of this room.”

                         “I didn’t hear the magic words.”

“Sure.  How about: ‘Let me out of this room or I break your piano’.”

Laughter radiated from the area of the piano, filling the whole room with the sound of the Ghost Host.  

                     “My how BOLD you’ve become just now.                Whatever happened to that poor, helpless mortal                           I left cowering under the table?”

Karen held her tongue at this part. She didn’t want to risk him retaliating and sapping what little courage she’d managed to muster in her bitterness.

“Take me out of this room now.”  She said, holding her ground with her chin up.

….

“Please.” She halfheartedly added a moment later.

                     “…Well.  Since you’ve asked so NICELY.”

The door in the middle opened.  As she recalled, that was the door she took to enter the music room to begin with.  

But strangely enough, it didn’t seem to lead out to the same hallway as before.

…Had he been moving her around when she was traversing all the duplicate music rooms?

If so…She opened the door that had led to a duplicate music room, only to find a wall.  He’d completely stripped her of all sense of direction…

She shuddered at the thought, finally relenting to go through the door he’d opened for her.  

“Th-thank you.”  She stammered out.

                   “Hmm hmmm hmm…You’re very welcome.”

The door behind her slammed shut so loud that she jumped.

                   “Come now.  Shriveling up on me, are you?               I was having so much fun with this new version of you…”

“Is that what you call ‘torture’?”  

            “One man’s torture is another’s…entertainment. Hmm hmm hmm.”

“And that’s literally the reason you’re doing all this?  THIS? All of THIS is entertainment to you?  What was all that before about us being trespassers?”

The voice chuckled darkly.

                         “If you must know, I could care less                 whatever foolish reason a mortal comes wandering here for;                                                  trespasser or not.                      So long as they are here, in the flesh,                           I can take my pickings as I please.                  Such a curious creature you are, though, to keep asking about this.                           Most mortals merely accept my deeds                    without questioning my motives so aptly…                         . . . Perhaps this is your ‘gift’ talking…”

“My gift?”

                         “Yes.  Surely you’ve noticed by now                        that you’ve a talent that expands beyond the grave.                        Becoming one with the very essence of human nature,                    and all of the exploits and endeavors,                         good or otherwise, therein.                                 In effect, a psychic.”

“I am NOT a psychic.” She said with a huff as she strode off.  

He had led her to yet another unfamiliar hallway.  There was an end table with scattered papers, a stairway that lead up (complete with a fancy banister).  Candelabras with intricate weaves of spiderwebs held behind an intricately carved griffin. And a statue was hidden in the alcove.

A very strange statue.  

And familiar; she could have sworn she saw one like it outside with the gravestones.  

But this one was much larger, human sized, in fact.   And it was strange specifically because she got an odd, prickly feeling as she came close to it.  For all intents and purposes, it LOOKED like any other statue she may have seen in her life.

It was that of a women who appeared to be grieving.  Her dress cut just above her knees, the shawl around her shoulders wrapped up and covered her head.  Her face was positioned to the floor, and one of her hands across her chest placed over to about where her heart would be.  

Karen reached out and touched it, and it even FELT like a statue.  Hard stone that was a little rough along the edges, likely from wear and tear over the years.

But very cold.  Almost ethereally cold.  

What was worse than any of that, was the smell.  Statues didn’t normally smell, but this one reeked.

It reminded her of the time a squirrel had gotten into the electric breaker box of a telephone pole near her house; it had chewed through a few lines and wound up electrocuting itself.  The power workers had tossed the remains by the side of the road, but no animal dared to take a bite of it so it simply sat there rotting.  The smell that always ran to her nostrils every time she had to pass it was an unholy combination of cooked flesh and putrid decay.  

                              “Are you sure you’re not psychic?”  

The voice said, as though mocking the anxiety that the statue seemed to produce in her.

“No, I’m not psychic!  Maybe…Maybe ghosts exist, ok?  But I am definitely NOT psychic!”

                      “Oh?  You admit to the existence of some of the supernatural?                           A nice improvement in your disposition.                          But do you mean to tell me you’ve never feel those moments?                              That prickling on the back of your spine?”

As if in obedience, the goosebumps on her back became more pronounced.

“Stop it.”

                   “That chill that you can so easily feel in the air?”

And in that moment, the area immediately around her dropped a few degrees.

“I said stop it!”  

                  “That feeling of being watched,                    as though there were someone, or something there?                       And all you have to do is look behind y-“

“Shut up.”  She seethed under her breath, trying to avoid glancing behind in case he sent another scarecrow.   “Why don’t you just go back to playing the piano or something?? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

                                       “As you wish.”

The temperature normalized, the goosebumps died down.

“Wha-really?”

                                          “But of course.                         If you so desire it, I am FULLY prepared to leave you.                               In this empty, creaking, dark hallway.                                              By yourself.”

“Or.  You could drop Michael off near me.”

The Host’s laughter was raucous.  

                   “And interrupt all of the exquisite entertainment he’s experiencing?                                  Surely you don’t think me THAT cruel.”

Karen bristled.  “You want to talk about cruelty?!  How about ever-“

                    “But worry not.  You may be alone now,                          but you’ll be joined soon enough.”

“What…?”

                             “The happy haunts have long since received                         your sympathetic vibrations and are beginning to materialize.”

“What. Does. That. Even. Mean?”

                        “They’re assembling for their nightly swinging wake,                        and they’ll be expecting me… I’ll see you a little later.”

“Wait…!”

There was no indication that the hallway had changed, and, of course, no actual physical sign that a disembodied voice had left the area.  Yet it felt emptier than before.  

“Ghost Host?”  She called out tentatively.

No response.  Only the low sound of thunder that rumbled in the distance. That indescribable feeling that she had experienced up until that point that had indicated his presence ceased to exist anymore.  

The hallway was devoid of its Ghost Host.

And somehow, someway, she knew that.

[tayegi]

Lake of Fire Pt. 2 (m)

Sequel to In Bloom and Lake of Fire Pt. 1

Warning: Graphic wolf!Jungkook smut

Word Count: 12,457

Dedicated to the misogynists who tried to ruin my passion for this series. Couldn’t have done it without y’all :) 

The next few Tuesdays pass in rapid succession.

The very next day after the accident with Jungkook on the full moon, Jiho breaks up with you. He simply goes up to you at your desk the next morning and tells you that you should break up. It’s so blunt that you almost feel offended. Like the last few months didn’t exist. But for some strange reason, you can’t bring yourself to feel one ounce of indignation, and you accept with a simple nod of your head. And when Jiho storms off, strangely furious, you realize that he had been expecting you to grovel for his forgiveness. That your reaction wasn’t what he had expected at all.

And that’s when you realize that you desperately need a change of scenery. So you go to your boss’s office directly after work and beg for a transfer to a different branch. She’s hesitant at first, utterly dumbfounded over the fact that anyone would want to return to Busan after a high ranking position in Seoul. But she has no choice but to grant your request when you make up a heartbreaking story about ill relatives.

So nearly a decade after your move to the big city as a naïve little teenager, you find yourself moving back to your hometown.

Your parents are utterly bewildered when they find their fully-grown, adult daughter on their doorstep that weekend with just a suitcase in hand. They’re worried at first, but when they begin to piece together the details of your breakup, they decide not to ask any questions. Your father mutters under his breath about your overreaction as he leads you to your childhood bedroom, but of course, he doesn’t know the specifics of Jungkook’s role in the breakup. And you don’t correct him.

The phone calls and texts from the wolf boy decrease in frequency as time passes, but they never cease entirely. He still has his Tuesdays, after all. But you’ve learned to delete the messages without looking at them.

You already know that he loves you. You are reminded every time you look in the mirror and see that ghastly puckered scar on the base of your neck.

Twenty-five Tuesdays later, you arrive home from work to find your mother outside, working in the small vegetable patch in the backyard. You quickly run upstairs to change, stopping briefly to greet your father in the kitchen, before rushing outdoors to meet her.

It’s August, and even this late in the afternoon, the sun scorches your bare skin. So you grab a wide-brimmed gardening hat out of the shed before joining your mother at the garden.

She smiles at the sight of you, “How was work, honey?”

You shrug, more interested in the rows of squash plants, “Fine. Boring as usual.”

“The Busan branch of your company is pretty tiny, huh?”

“Yeah… They have nothing for me to do. I work for an hour, then surf the internet for the rest of the day... This job’s a joke.”

“It seems like your work in Seoul was more fulfilling,” Your mother carefully comments as she tugs a weed from the soil.

You playfully roll your eyes, “Oh come on, Mom. Not this again…”

“Your father and I just don’t really understand why you would give up such a nice job.”

“I didn’t give it up,” you correct her, “It’s still waiting for me when I get back.”

“Alright… It just doesn’t seem like you to do all of this just because of a boy. We thought you were a bit tougher than that.”

You pause in the process of examining a leafy green plant, hurt by her comment, “If you want me out of the house, I’ll leave. I’ll go apartment hunting in the morning.”

“Oh, don’t do that, sweetie. Of course you’re welcome to stay for as long as you’d like. It’s nice to have you back… We just don’t like the reasons why you’re back.”

You have no response for that. Your mother’s right, after all. Hiding from a man after a breakup… it’s a cowardly act. It’s not like you at all.

But at that moment, your phone rings, alerting you of a phone call. You take one look at Jungkook’s name flashing across the screen, and reject the call without hesitation. And here’s the real reason why you’re hiding in Busan.

“Shouldn’t you take the call?” Your mother asks, confused by your brusque response.

“Nah. It’s fine.”

“Who was it?”

“No one important.”

“Who?”

“… Jungkook,” you finally admit.

“Ah, Jeon Jungkookie?” the older woman repeats, her entire face lighting up in delight at the mention of his name, “Aish, I was supposed to have lunch with his mother last week, but something came up! How is that boy?”

You wince at the mention of the wolf boy, “He’s… he’s fine.”

“I haven’t seen him in months!” Your mother exclaims, oblivious to your distress, “Maybe I should invite him over for a weekend.”

“Mom!” You cry out, “That is not a good idea!”

She raises an eyebrow at you, “What’s wrong? The two of you were inseparable as kids! Did anything happen?”

“No. That’s not it,” you quickly lie.

“Then what is it? Is it the fact that you’re both adults now? You don’t want to ruin your reputation for future suitors by spending so much time with such a handsome young man, huh?” she teases.

“Mom!”

“Don’t worry, I have an easy solution for you,” she continues, undeterred, “Just marry him! You’ll save your reputation and make him happy all at once!”

Your stomach drops. She’s just teasing… But her words are surprisingly insightful, “Stop it,” you mutter, dropping your gaze to fixate on a stubborn dandelion weed, “We’re just friends.”

“Sure you are,” your mother laughs, but your glare shuts her up, “Ok, ok. I’ll stop teasing you, sweetie. Though you really should invite Jungkook over for a visit.”

You say nothing, turning your attention back on weeding the vegetable patch again.

However, at that very moment, your father shatters the brief moment of peace by sticking his head out the screen door and yelling, “What are you guys saying about my future son-in-law?!”

You groan and bury your face in your hands.

On the twenty-sixth Tuesday, you receive a bouquet of roses from Jungkook on your front doorstep. You hurriedly pull off the card and leave them in front of your neighbor’s house before your parents can notice. On the twenty-seventh, you receive an enormous teddy bear that goes directly into the toy drive donation box at work. And so it continues until the thirtieth Tuesday, when your parents miraculously intercept the fruit basket that arrives a few hours late.

You walk through the front door to find the two of them enjoying fresh pears at the kitchen island and your heart drops. “Mom!” You exclaim in horror, “Dad! Where the heck did you get that from?!”

“It’s from Jungkook,” your father explains as he pops a grape into his mouth, “What a thoughtful kid.”

“Yah, you lied to us, ____!” your mother grumbles, “I knew you were dating! Why didn’t you admit to it?”

“We’re not!” You screech, rushing over to grab the elaborate basket from the counter, “Stop eating that!”

“Ah, don’t be selfish and share with your poor parents,” your father complains loudly, “Jungkook would want his in-laws to eat well.”

“Stop saying that!” Your ears have turned bright red at this point, and you slap both hands over them in shame, “We’re not dating and we never will.”

“Why not?” your mother bemoans, “It’s clear that he likes you, ____. And he’s such an excellent match: handsome, good job, good family. What else could you possibly ask for?!”

“Just date him,” your father adds, hastily wrestling back the fruit basket so he can shove another grape in his mouth, “You’re getting to that age, anyways.”

“Yeah. And it’s not like you can do any better.”

Your heart sinks to your stomach, “W-what?”

Your mother simply rolls her eyes, “I’m surprised that Jungkookie even likes you. He’s so handsome and successful and you’re so…” she clears her throat loudly, “You should just jump on this opportunity before he changes his mind.”

She’s not serious. You know this. Your mother just has a caustic way of talking and she doesn’t mean it. But you can’t help the pain that explodes across your system like a punch to the gut. You swallow tightly and shake your head, “N-no. It’s more complicated than that, mom.”

But she snorts, “I don’t see why you young people need to make things so dramatic. You’re too old to be playing around anymore. Stop messing around and accept Jungkook already. You’re hurting his feelings!”

You bite down on your bottom lip, “Is that all a daughter is good for?”

Your parents look up at that, surprised that you’ve dared talk back to them, “What did you say?”

You lower your eyes to the ground, “I just… I don’t think you’d be saying this to me if I was a man instead.”

They gape at you with their jaws dropped to the ground, unable to process this unexpected outburst from you, but by then, you’ve already walked away.

Later that night, guilt fills your stomach as you recall your immature outburst. How could you have reacted that way, at your age? You’re not a whiny little high schooler anymore, but a mature, adult woman. You should’ve just kept your thoughts to yourself and meekly agreed with whatever your parents were saying, even if they were wrong.

But as it is, your parents weren’t exactly wrong. You do have strong feelings for Jungkook. These feelings haven’t always been romantic, but they’ve always been there. There’s no doubt about that. So what’s stopping you?

You can’t express it in words, but there is something weighing you down, turning your stomach at the very idea of a relationship with the wolf boy. You’ve always thought that it was because you were afraid of ruining your friendship with your best friend. Relationships never last and you refuse to ruin the one good thing you have in your life with messy feelings. But could it be that you’ve just been lying to yourself?

Your mother is wrong, at least. That much you know for sure. There is absolutely nothing wrong with having some fun in your youth, and you resent any hint of slut-shaming, but this is not the reason you’d reject Jungkook. It’s much too petty for someone you care as your second half.

So why are you running away from him? What are you so afraid of?

You flip over in bed and pull the covers over your head, as though you can hide from your painful thoughts.

On the thirty-seventh Tuesday, you find your resilience rapidly melting away. Your mother had asked you to clean out your closet for the clothing drive, but after picking apart your old things for a few hours, you stumble upon a box of old trinkets from grade school. And you’re not surprised to find that most of it is saved memorabilia from times spent with Jungkook.

There are countless birthday cards, ticket stubs, and little bits of cheap, broken jewelry that haven’t stood the test of time. There’s that lopsided teddy bear Jungkook won for you at the seventh grade fair. There’s that now-unsticky sticky hand that Jungkook used to torment you with in fourth grade. There’s that coaster imprinted with the logo of the bar the two of you had your very first drink in the moment you came of age. There have been so many memories shared by the two of you that you can’t untangle him from your past. The two of you had been inseparable, like two halves of the same whole.

It’s been months since you’ve last spoken to him. Months. In the past, you’d be lucky to endure with the silent treatment for over a day… You miss him.

You feel empty without him in your life, as though your barren chest is missing its heart.

You’re still not sure how you feel about him and the whole mate situation, but one thing is clear and that is you can’t live without him. You need to go to Seoul.

You stand outside Jungkook’s apartment on the thirty-eighth Tuesday, hand poised to rap on the door, then you freeze. Your heart is pounding in your chest so hard that you’re afraid that he can hear you even through the thick walls. Sweat has collected at your temples and under your nose, and your knees won’t stop wobbling. You’re so nervous that you could die.

Your hand trembles like a leave in the wind, but somehow, you muster the courage to lower your fist to the wood. It’s a soft knock, barely audible to even your ears, but you know his sharp wolf senses can easily pick it up. Struggling to swallow the knot in your throat, you step back and wait.

No more than thirty seconds could have passed, but it feels like a lifetime before the door swings open. And then you’re faced with Jeon Jungkook for the first time in over four months.

His hair is longer than you remember, dark strands running into his eyes, and he’s not as clean-shaven as he usually is, stubble running from the bottom of his face down to his neck, but the handsome covered by the hair is still the same. And sharp brown eyes fixate on you so intensely that you can’t help but drop your gaze.

You drink in his simple outfit of sweats and a loose t-shirt instead, trying to collect your thoughts as the tense silence drags. But the familiar outfit reminds you of that fateful night last February when everything changed and you can’t breathe again.

You don’t know how long you stand outside, quivering on his front door step, but when a particularly vicious gust of wind threatens to knock you over, Jungkook quickly jumps to action, “Come in.”

A shiver travels the length of your spine at the sound of his voice for the first time in so long. You nod your head then meekly follow him inside. Jungkook stops you in the living room and gestures for you to take a seat.

“Would you like something to drink?” He asks, but the breathless, rushed quality of his voice reveals that it’s just for politeness’ sake. He’s much too impatient for that.

You nervously shake your head, “No, I’m fine.”

Jungkook nods and doesn’t say anything for a moment, his teeth sinking deeply into his bottom lip. You try to stare forward to avoid the intensity of his gaze, but you can’t help but notice the way his hands twitch in his lap. He hasn’t said anything but formalities, but you can tell that he’s dying to touch you. Even after all this time, it’s evident that his feelings have not changed one bit.

“D-did you,” his voice cracks and he has to clear his throat before trying again, “Did you get my gifts?”

You awkwardly nod your head, “Yes… They were nice, but very unnecessary.”

“I understand… I’m just glad you liked them.”

You can feel the excitement radiating off of him from where he sits next to you on the couch. You can hear his harsh breathing and the restless shaking of his legs. He’s basically vibrating. Suddenly, you’re brought back to those three long days when he was chained up from head to toe in the same bedroom mere yards from where you now sit. The way he had looked at you, straining against his binds and begging you for relief… The way he had emanated pure need and desire… It’s the same energy you’re feeling right now.

It’s contagious. You feel light-headed and murky, like cotton’s been stuffed in your skull. You want nothing more than to touch him, run your fingers through his long hair and scrape your nails against his scratchy beard. You want to kiss him so badly. But you know better than to simply jump in bed with him again. That’s what got you in trouble in the first place.

“We need to talk.”

He eagerly bobs his head up and down in agreement, “Yes,” he breathes, “We do.”

You bite down on your bottom lip as you mull over your next words. This whole situation is unbelievably tense and embarrassing. It takes you a considerable amount to muster the courage to voice your next words. But finally—

“I’ve missed you.”

He heaves an exhale, and like a dam bursting, his emotions come flooding out all at once, “I’ve missed you, too, ____. I’ve missed you so damn much, you have no idea. It hurt, ____-ah. It hurt so fucking much being away from you.” He lunges forward as though to embrace you, but you’re so surprised by his sudden action that you flinch away, so he settles for grasping your hand in both of his and ardently pressing his lips to the palm.

“Ah, Jungkook I—”

“But it’s okay,” he hastily interrupts, “I forgive you. Even though I was in so much pain that I thought I would die, I forgive you. At least now you’ve finally come to your senses,” he says, moving forward again.

“Wait, what?” you exclaim, holding up your arms to shield your face when it finally occurs to you that he keeps trying to kiss you.

Jungkook whines in protest and tightens his grip on your hand, “I love you,” he blurts out, heaving the statement out like a drowning man gasps for air, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Hearing those words in person after so long makes your heart flipflop. You stare down at the way his hand clutches yours so hard that his knuckles turn white. But his grip is too tight and you feel suffocated.

“And now you’re finally mine,” he whispers before lurching forward again.

You fall back against the couch in surprise, shoving a hand against his mouth just in time to ward off his unwarranted kisses, “Stop it, Jungkook!” you cry out, lying flat against the cushions and twisting your head to the side.

He falls motionless at that, bewildered by your reaction, “What’s wrong, baby?” he groans, pressing his mouth against the back of your hand instead, “I missed you so much. You have no idea how much it hurt being away from you. But it’s okay. Because you’ve finally come to me.”

“Wait, Jungkook, I think you’re misunderstanding!” You exclaim, yanking your hand out of his grip and scrambling back on the couch to gain a bit of much-needed distance between the two of you.

He pauses to stare at you through hooded lids, “_____... Don’t do this… Just admit that you love me too.”

“But I…” you nervously wring your hands together in your lap, “I’m not sure if I do…”

His eyes darken, “Do you even understand what you’ve done to me? What I’ve been through for the four goddamn months?”

You swallow tightly, terrified by the pitch black of his gaze, “J-jungkook—”

“I felt like I was going to die, ____. All because you were too damn stubborn to admit to your feelings,” he growls, eyes flashing red at this point. For a moment, you’re afraid that he might transform, “Seriously, grow up and stop this bullshit.”

It feels like a slap in the face. You’ve had your fair share of arguments with Jungkook over the years, but none like this. Never has he been so downright cruel with you. “Jungkook, I’m not lying, I swear. I really don’t know how I feel.”

His eyes narrow to slits, “You are my mate,” he snarls, enunciating each word with such fury that fear trickles down your spine, “You belong to me. Now stop acting like such a bitch and accept it.”

It’s stiflingly silent in the room for a long second. So quiet that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears.

“What?”

All of Jungkook’s anger dissipates from him at once, like the deflation of a balloon, “I… I didn’t mean that, ____.”

But it’s too late. “So I’m a bitch, huh? Just because I rejected your ass?”

The color blanches from his face, “No, that’s not—”

You interrupt him with a snort of derision, “I guess any woman who rejects a man is just a bitch then, huh? Because we’re just objects for you to possess?”

He looks agonized by your words, “Come on, ____,” he murmurs, “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“So what do you mean?” you shoot back in a cool tone, “Do I not belong to you, then? Can I choose not to be your mate?”

He hesitates at that, “Well, no, but—”

“So I have no choice in this situation? No freedom at all?” You let out a humorless bark of laughter as you rise to your full height, “I’m just your little sex slave now?”

“___, you don’t understand,” he says, irritated, “Yes, you are my mate, but I’m not forcing you into anything. You want me, too. I know you do.”

You stare at him from under hooded lids, considering him for a long time. The silence stretches on and on until all oxygen is squeezed from the room. Finally—

“I don’t think you understand, Jungkook. I. Belong. To. Nobody.”

And with that, you turn sharply on your heel to march out of the room.

“Wait!” Jungkook calls after you in alarm, “____, come on! Just wait a second!”

But you’ve already walked straight out the door without a second glance.

You spend the thirty-ninth Tuesday curled up in bed, hiding under your blankets and crying your eyes out as your phone rings and rings nonstop until you finally muster the strength to get up and block Jungkook’s number. But then he starts calling the house phone instead. When your parents get home that night, they’re confused to find you covered in tears with all the landlines disconnected and lying in a pile at your feet.

But then the fortieth Tuesday comes along, and Jungkook decides to take the initiative to show up at your house. After a long day at work, you walk through the front door to find him cozied up on the couch with your parents. They’re so engrossed in their conversation, your mother too busy laughing her face off at Jungkook’s jokes and squeezing his arm, that none of them notice your presence until you drop your bag to the ground with a loud thud.

Then, there are three pairs of eyes on you, two of them confused, and one chagrined.

“Oh, ____, sweetie. There you are!”

“Look who’s come to visit us! Isn’t Jungkookie the best?” Your father beams, clapping a heavy hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

You don’t say anything for a minute, anger simmering under the surface of your composed exterior as you stare the younger man down. He at least has the audacity to look guilty as he stares back.

“Jungkook… I need to speak to you outside.”

He nods and instantly jumps to his feet, “Sorry Mr. and Mrs. ____. We’ll catch up some other time.”

But your parents just laugh him off, “No, go have fun, you crazy kids.”

“She has no curfew!” Your mother calls out from the couch, “Bring her back anytime… Actually… don’t bring her back at all!”

“You can keep her!” Your father adds, and the two of them crack up at their own lame jokes.

You cringe and quickly grab Jungkook’s sleeve so you can drag him out the door without wasting anymore time. As soon as the front door bangs shut, you whirl around to face him, “What the hell, Jeon?”

He smiles wryly at your sudden burst of temper, “I’m guessing you don’t want to grab dinner then?”

“Stop joking around, kid. Why the hell are you here?”

He lowers his head to stare you straight in the eye, “I missed you, ___.”

He’s standing so close to you that you can feel the warmth from his supernaturally heated body passing through your clothes on the cold, wintery night. You shiver and cross your arms across your chest, refusing to allow him to affect you, “Is that all you’re here to say?”

He sighs deeply, disappointed, but not exactly surprised by your cold reaction, “I also wanted to apologize… I shouldn’t have called you a bitch. That was truly vile of me and if I could take it back, I would in a heartbeat.”

You purse your lips, slightly swayed by his sincere apology, but not entirely convinced. “You’re missing the point, Jungkook. That’s not what I’m really upset about.”

He winces, “Yeah, I know… But it’s just the wolf instincts that are making me act this way, ___. You’ve gotta believe me! Every fiber of my mind is screaming at me to possess you… to make you my bi—” He stops, mid-word, before he can make another mistake. The wolf boy flushes in embarrassment at his near-slip, “I mean, they’re just urging me to claim my mate… And I know it’s primitive and sexist. I know it’s not fair to you…”

With each passing second, you find yourself softening to his words. Maybe he’s changed. Maybe he’s finally understanding the error of his ways…

“And that’s why I want to make it even between us, ____,” he says, finally mustering the courage to reach out to grab your hand. You’re startled by the electricity that jumps through your veins at that simple touch. “I love you, ___. If you belong to me, then I belong to you as well. ____-ah, you have to know that you’ve owned every piece of me, body and soul, for years. I’m all yours.”

You flinch back at his unexpectedly passionate confession, “Jungkook… No. That’s not what I mean. I—”

“I’ve marked you,” he says, sorrowfully snaking his hand up your shoulder to stroke the marred flesh of your throat, “And I get it now. It’s so unfair… Which is why you need to mark me, too.”

Your eyes pop open in bewilderment, utterly taken aback, “What?! Jungkook—”

But suddenly he whips out a small knife from his pocket, making you jump back with a shriek of surprise, “Mark me, ___,” he begs, pressing the handle to your palm, “This blade is made out of silver—it’s the only thing that could obstruct my wolf healing abilities… So mark me, ___. Make me yours.”

“What? Jungkook, this is crazy talk! I’m not going to slice you up!” You exclaim, horrified by the very idea.

“Why not?” he counters, “It’s what I deserve… I hurt you, ____,” he says, ruefully sliding his fingers over the immutable scar on your neck, “Please mark me, ____,” he begs, “So that everyone will know that I belong to you.”

The silver knife weighs heavy in your hand. You stare up into his handsome face, taking in how his teeth grit and his brown doe eyes silently beg you to agree. You reach up to carefully cup his cheek with one hand. Jungkook reacts at once, pressing into your palm like he’s starved for contact. Your chest constricts at that simple action. He’s so beautiful that it hurts.

Somehow, somehow, you manage to look him in the eye and then whisper, “No.”

His subsequent devastation is visceral, sinking down to your very bones. “___-ah,” he murmurs your name, “I don’t know what you want from me anymore… Tell me what to do and I’ll do it, I swear!”

The desperation in his tone makes your heart hurt, “You’re missing the point,” you quietly inform him, “I don’t belong to you and you don’t belong to me either. I don’t want to own you. You are a human being to me, Jungkook. Not a fucking possession.”

He gasps in surprise, his eyes so huge, they look on the verge of popping from his skull, “____-ah, I didn’t mean that… I—”

You regrettably slip your hand out of his grip, “I think you should go home, Jungkook. It’s a long trip, after all.”

“Wait, ____!” he says, rushing after you when you make to walk back inside.

You pause at the doorstep, then turn to look him in the eye, “Oh and don’t ever come here unannounced again.”

Shock spreads across his expression, “I-I didn’t mean to—”

But you’ve already shut the door in his face.

The next three months sludge by in a monotonous muck of drab grays. Jungkook doesn’t call you on Tuesdays anymore. Or if he does, you have no idea, for you have long since blocked his number on every device in the house. He might be contacting you on social media, but you haven’t logged on to check for half a year.

Instead, you fully engross yourself in your work. You leave the house every morning before your parents rise and come back only when the moon is high in the sky. But on weekends, you don’t leave the house at all, and come out only for meals. Within weeks, your parents catch onto your strange behavior, but no amount of prodding or pleading will get you to confess what’s wrong. Your mother assumes that it’s heartbreak… And she’s not exactly wrong.

You’re withering away like this, slowly wasting your youth until the fiftieth Tuesday since that faithful night that turned your world upside down comes along. And then everything goes to hell.

Fifty Tuesdays later, you wake up in your bed at the crack of dawn, bewildered by your pounding heart and the sweat slicking the entire length of your body. Did you have another nightmare? What the hell is going on?

You twist in your tangled sheets to glance at your clock and are dismayed to find that it’s barely five in the morning. Your alarm isn’t set to go off for another two hours. What a waste of sleep that you desperately need. Dismayed, you flop over on your side with a deep huff. But this brings you into the same line of vision as your nightstand… and the shiny silver blade lying so innocently on top of it. Your throat tightens.

You haven’t touched the knife since you slammed it on the table during a fit of anger after that disastrous encounter with Jungkook on your front porch all those months ago… You remember the way he had looked at you, jaw clenched in pain and eyes burning as he silently begged you to accept him. You remember the cool feeling of the blade in your hand and the way his fingers felt sliding against the sensitive mark just above your collarbones.

Suddenly, a burst of heat explodes across your belly, causing you to automatically slam a hand down on your crotch. This doesn’t nothing to tamper the heat, but the pressure of your hand feels so good that you can’t help but add more, along with a little flick of your wrist that makes you throw your head back and gasp aloud.

You have no idea why you’re so horny at such an ungodly hour, but you can’t bring yourself to care. All you know is that you need relief and soon or else you might explode. Within seconds, you find yourself lying there in the dark with your hands down your pants, rubbing one out like your life depends on it.

It’s so strange and frantic and messy. But you’re occasionally bombarded with hormones, and you don’t think much of it… until it becomes evident that the uncharacteristic lust is never going to dissipate.

Every single day for the next goddamn week, you wake up with your insides threatening to eat you up with lust. It’s almost a reflex at this point to slam both hands down your pajamas before you even fully wake up. This is usually enough to satisfy you for a few hours until you can make it home from work and spend the rest of the night with your vibrator…

But then it gets worse and worse.

Soon, you can’t even get out of bed without relieving yourself twice, and it’s almost torture trying to get through the work day. You find yourself spending your lunch break locked up in a bathroom stall with your underwear around your ankles, and you break multiple traffic laws trying to rush home fast enough to masturbate again.

This is worrisome in of itself. But what’s even more concerning is the fact that you can’t get yourself to cum unless you think of Jungkook…

It’s so messed up. It’s beyond unhealthy to lie in bed and think of your former best friend as you writhe around with your vibrator each night. But you’re so desperate for relief that you don’t care. You gladly embrace your spank bank of memories from the meager twelve hours you spent in his bed that one fateful night. And it never fails to get you off.

On the fifty-first Tuesday, you cave and make a Tinder. You have nothing against dating apps, and have used them quite extensively in the past, but making one in your hometown where you’re bound to run into old classmates at any given moment is a new level of desperation. Especially since you’d only be using them for sex. But fuck it. You don’t care anymore. You’d do anything—anything for a warm body to fill up the gaping hole in the pit of your stomach. You’re fucking delirious.

It takes an hour for you to set up a profile. Another hour, and you’ve swiped right on almost every man or woman under the age of 45 in a ten-mile radius. When you wake up in the morning, you’re pleasantly surprised by the number of matches you’ve received… or perhaps it’s not so surprising, given that you’ve liked almost everyone. Then you set off messaging all of your matches, determined to find someone to sate your urges by tonight.

It’s not as easy as you think. Clearly no one’s looking to hook up on a Wednesday night, and no one takes your messages seriously. You can barely pay attention during work all day, sending messaging under your desk and practically begging people to meet up. This makes most of your matches tense up at once, some of them going as far as blocking you. Finally, you find a guy who seems interested and just as horny as you are—well, not quite, because that would be impossible, but he does seem to respond well when you send him a picture of your legs in your pencil skirt.

This is reckless, and quite possibly dangerous, but the ache in your core makes it impossible to care as you anxiously send him details for your meetup in the evening, but before you can finalize details, the app dings to notify you of a new match. You’re about to impatiently brush it away, but the tiny icon of the young man in the photo catches your attention.

Curious, you click open his profile. He’s cute. Just as cute as the guy you’ve been texting all day, but there’s something about the way his dark hair falls in his eyes that catches your attention. Your interest has been officially piqued, so you abandon your conversation with the current guy to talk to this new match instead…

You don’t know what’s wrong with you. The first guy had just agreed to meet you at the bar tonight. And now you’re abandoning all your hard labor for the slim chance with a new one. You stare at the curve of his smile in his profile picture as you impatiently wait for his response. There’s just something about him…

It takes two full days of hard work, but you finally manage to convince the dark haired guy on Tinder to meet up with you that Friday night. His name is Kim Yugyeom and he’s the same age as you. He’s been dancing since elementary school, and it definitely shows in the way his thighs fill out the leather of his pants. But what interests you more is the strangely familiar curve of his nose and the precise way his lips twist up when he smiles. God, it’s taking everything in your power to keep from jumping across the bar to mount him.

“____-ah, are you okay?” He asks, concerned when your eyes glaze over for the hundredth time that night.

You hurriedly nod your head, “Y-yes, of course.” You lick your dry lips and press your thighs together, as though to stifle the insatiable fire between your legs.

Yugyeom frowns, "You seem a bit off, ___. Are you sick, maybe? Feverish?"

You want to laugh at his concern in his voice. He's not wrong, necessarily. You're so feverish that you think you could die from the heat, "No," you quickly deny, "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" He presses on, brow furrowing deeper, "Your face is really red and you're sweating pretty badly... If you're feeling unwell, that's ok. Maybe we can just postpone this?"

"No!" You practically yell, lunging forward to grab his sleeve. If he leaves now, then it'll take forever to reschedule your date-- if he doesn't bail on you entirely, that is. No, you can't let him leave. You need him. Now.

Realizing how crazy you must look, you instantly drop your grip on his sleeve and nervously run a hand through your tousled hair, "Yugyeom... I'm going to blunt here... And I don't care if this doesn't make me seem ladylike or whatever bullshit," you pause to chug the rest of your glass of bitter alcohol for strength. Then you slam the glass on the table and turn to stare him straight in the eye, "Do you want to have sex with me?"

He is so taken back by your unexpected proposition that he chokes on his drink, "Wh-what?" he gasps, dropping his glass on the counter when his hand shakes hard enough to shatter it. "Excuse me?"

You reach across the table to knock back the rest of his drink as well, "I'm just asking you a question, Yugyeom. Please be honest with me: Do you want to have sex with me or not?"

He stares at you for a few seconds with his jaw hanging. Your anxiety twists in your chest. You're about to jump across the table to make it harder for him to resist, but at that moment, he finally responds, "Y-yes," he splutters out, "I mean, look at you. Of course I do."

Your ego inflates under this flattering words. You smile nicely at him, then reach over to offer him your hand, "Where did you park your car?"

It takes forever for the two of you to make it to his apartment. Mostly because you can't stop fondling him the entire car ride there, mouthing at his neck and rubbing him to a full erection right there in the passenger seat, despite his half-hearted protests.

He feels so good and thick under your palm that you almost lose your mind. Forgetting about the busy traffic and the danger of the situation, you try to launch out of your seat to mount him, then and there. Luckily, he holds you down with a firm hand on your hip and you somehow manage to keep your wits about you until you arrive at his apartment ten minutes later.

You're the definition of the term "hot mess" as you hastily throw your coat on the ground and kick off your shoes the moment he unlocks the door. Yugyeom catches your shaky hands with a laugh when you move to pull your dress straight over your head.

"Whoa, what's the rush, baby?"

You jerk your head up to look at him and your mouth dries. In the darkness of his apartment, he looks even better than he did in the bar. His midnight black hair creates such perfect shadows across his milky skin that your hands snap up to touch him with a mind of their own. He sighs and leans into your touch when you run both hands up his neck to caress the angles of his face. His jaw is so sharp... his skin so soft... but....

You pull your hands away after a second, confused. For some reason, it felt weird. But Yugyeom eagerly chases after your touch, leaning in to wrap both arms around you. His grip on your hips makes you feel uncomfortable for some reason you can't explain. But before you can express your discomfort, Yugyeom suddenly cards a hand through your hair and tugs you in for a kiss.

It feels all wrong. His lips are too rough, his hands too insistent and even the feel of his body pressed against yours is disconcerting. He's too tall. The curve of his jaw is weird and even his musky scent turns you off. Soon, all the heat disappears from the pit of your stomach, leaving you with crippling nausea. You shove him off of you at once, gasping for air.

"What's wrong, ___?" He asks in confusion, gently approaching you again.

You freak out before he can lay a single hand on you and protectively shield your face with both hands, "Don't touch me!" you practically shriek.

Shocked, his hands drop back to his sides at once, "____," he murmurs your name in a quiet voice, "Did I do something wrong...?"

You hastily shake your head, even as you try to collect your disorganized thoughts, "No, I just... I don't know what's wrong with me. I need a moment."

Yugyeom awkwardly sticks his hands in his pocket, then moves to stand by the window, "Okay. Take as long as you need."

You press both hands to your chest, trying desperately to recover from the crippling sense of unease. What's wrong with you? You were about to combust from horniness just two minutes ago. And here is a willing partner just within your reach. He's exactly your type too, you think as you rake over his figure illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the open window. He's so tall and broad and undeniably handsome. Almost as handsome as--

Your entire world capsizes in a sickening flip as realization hits you like a wall of cement. The dark hair, the angles of his nose, jaw, and eyes-- fuck even the curve of his smile... It's all similar... But not enough.

He might look like Jeon Jungkook... But he's not him.

"Oh, fuck," you gasp, stumbling back in agonized pain.

"___?" startled by your intense reaction, he reaches out as though to steady you before your quivering legs give out.

You scream and drop to the floor the moment his hand makes contact with your skin. It burns. But in the worst way possible. "Don't touch me!" You exclaim again.

"I... I-- are you okay?!"

You angrily shake your head, "No." He looks like he wants to say something more, but at that moment, you take the opportunity to make a run for it, snatching your coat and shoes from the ground, then running for dear life.

"___! ____!"

You can hear him calling after you, but you don't dare look back.

"Namjoon!" You yell into your phone in lieu of a greeting when he picks up on the third ring.

"___?" he asks in surprise, "I haven't heard from you for a while... Are you okay?"

"No, I'm fucking not okay," you growl, "How could you fucking not tell me that this would happen?!"

"What?" he sounds genuinely confused, but you're not fooled by his clueless act.

"Don't you dare play dumb with me right now, Kim Namjoon. You should've fucking warned me about this in advance! Do you know how much pain I'm in right now?!"

"Wait, back up a minute, ___. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Are you really going to act that way, Namjoon?! Fine! I'll say it: the heat! The fucking heat is killing me!"

"Heat...?" he repeats in surprise, "How did you know that Jungkook is in heat?"

Your stomach twists at the very mention of his name, "Wait... he's in heat too?"

"Too?!" Namjoon exclaims, "____, you're in heat?!"

"Yeah, and you very much fucking knew that already, Kim Namjoon. Why didn't you tell me that this would be a consequence of that fucking bite mark?!"

"Wait... but it's not."

"What? Don't lie to me."

"I'm not... ____, that's seriously not how it works... Even if he's marked you, you shouldn't be going into heat as well. You're not a wolf."

"Are you calling me a fucking liar then?!" you practically yell into the receiver, "I know what I'm feeling! I feel like I'm going to fucking die. No matter how many times I get myself off, it's not enough! I'm going crazy! If this isn't heat, then what the hell is it?!"

"I'm not sure, ___. But as a human, you really shouldn't shouldn't be experiencing heat... Unless--"

"Unless?!"

He hesitates for a moment before responding, "Unless you love him."

"What?!"

"Mating is not a one-way street, ___," he patiently explains, "We can't force you into it. It's consensual. Maybe not always the sex, unfortunately but the emotional aspected and shared connection between mates definitely is. This heat you're experiencing right now... This has nothing to do with the mark on your neck. This is entirely on you."

There's a beat of silence as you try to process his words. Then--

"Holy fucking shit."

Namjoon chuckles humorlessly at your reaction, "Why don't you stop this nonsense and admit your feelings already, ____? You might be able to lie to yourself, but your body doesn't lie. Spare yourself the pain and just accept him as your mate already."

"I'm not a possession," you immediately retort, "I don't belong to him."

The pack leader sighs deeply, "He knows, ____... or at least, the logical side of him knows. But his wolf instincts are more difficult to keep under control... I know it's not fair to you, ___. This whole situation is fucked up. But cut him some slack. He's trying his best."

You purse your lips into a hard line, "Where is he right now?"

You take the first train the next morning out to Seoul. You would've left earlier, but the station closed after midnight, and you have to settle for the earliest, break of dawn train out instead. You don't sleep a wink the entire night and are too impatient bouncing up and down in the deserted train to close your eyes for a second.

Finally the train pulls into the station and you lurch to your feet so quickly, you nearly knock over the elderly woman sitting right next to you. You'd normally stop and apologize, but there's no time for that today. Your groin feels like it might burst from pent up pressure as you grab your bag then sprint out the doors, making the stewardess call after you in alarm.

You ignore them all. You can't even think of anything besides your single goal in mind...

The key to the front door is still hidden under the doormat, as always. It's alarming how little has changed in the past year, when it feels like your whole world has turned upside down. It's so rude to barge into his apartment without invitation. But the ravenous hunger in your belly makes it impossible to care. And knowing Jungkook, he probably wouldn't mind, either.

You slam open the door and let yourself in without preamble. The volume of your rude entrance makes Jimin jump up in surprise from where he sits in the living room. He instantly pauses the show on the TV and rises to his feet, "____?" He asks in surprise, "What are you doing here?"

You brush off his question and drop your bag on the ground, "Jimin, where is he?"

The older man pauses for a moment, taking in your windswept appearance. You're a walking disaster standing there in the middle of the living room, drenched in sweat and panting for oxygen. Then realization hits him like a ton of bricks and his mouth forms a perfect "o" of understanding.

"Jungkook's locked up in his room."

You nod once, "Thanks," and with that, you beeline for the bedroom. You can hear Jimin quietly cursing under his breath about fleeing the scene before it's too late, but you barely give him a second thought. All you can think about is what's waiting for you deeper within the apartment.

Your heart is thundering at this point, thumping so damn hard in the weary confines of your ribcage that you're frightened that you might actually have a premature heart attack. To know that you're just a second away from a chained up Jungkook and his gorgeous cock makes your entire body flush with excess heat. You ignore the uncontrollable trembling of your hands and force the door open with your sweat-slicked palms. Then, you're face to face with the hottest image you have ever laid eyes on in your entire life.

Jungkook sits on his knees on top of the bed, a leather harness crisscrossing over his chest and his hands locked behind his back and his ankles to the bedframe by pure steel chains thicker than your arms. One glance at him and you can tell that he's just as fucked out as you. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and his chest heaves up and down so rapidly, he's on the verge of hyperventilating. But what captures your interest the most is the hard erection straining in his sweatpants... Is it just your imagination, or does it twitch when he catches sight of you...?

"____," he whispers in a croaky voice, entire body stiffening to stone at the sight of you.

You’re equally as affected. For a moment, neither of you can speak. You can’t help but hungrily rake your eyes up and down his tensed figured, and your heart jumps to your throat when you realize that he’s appraising you in the exact same way.

“____,” he groans again, “Thank fucking god.”

You bite your lip at the raw relief in his voice and carefully close the bedroom door behind you. Jimin hasn’t left yet, and you don’t think he’d appreciate being privy to what’s about to go down in this bedroom. Your entire body is trembling at this point and you feel lightheaded from sleep deprivation and crippling desire. It takes everything in your power to keep yourself from ripping your panties off and hopping straight on his dick. Both of you are clearly ready enough.

“U-unchain me,” he hisses, chains smashing against the headboard as he begins to struggle.

A sense of déjà vu slams into you at this painfully familiar scene… Jungkook drenched in sweat, straining against his bindings, begging you for release… Heat bursts in your chest when you remember just how you offered him relief last time…

You feel intoxicated as you stare at him through watery eyes, wondering how you could possibly be strong enough to resist him long enough to get your point across, “Not yet,” you gulp, “I… I need to talk to you first.”

He whines loudly at that, angrily yanking on his chains again, “Later,” he begs, “Right now, I need to fuck you.”

You swallow tightly as a wave of lightheadedness sweeps through you at his words, “Wait—I need you to understand something first.”

His jaw clenches so hard that a muscle jumps in his cheek, “What?”

You bite down on your bottom lip, “I… I think I want to be with you.” His eyes light up at that, so you hurry to backtrack, “But I have conditions! Jungkook… you’ve known me for over a decade. You know better than anyone that what matters most to me is my independence. I can take care of myself and I don’t need anybody. Not even you. I am a free woman, Jungkook. A woman. Not an item or a possession or whatever bullshit.”

“I know,” he groans, “I know, I know. And I respect you for that. It’s why I love you so much, ___.”

“Really?” you counter with a raised eyebrow, “Then what is this?” you demand, yanking down the collar of your shirt to reveal the little pink indents.

His eyes darken at once, the pupils spilling past the irises as he shifts to a more lupine mindset at the very sight of the marks he bestowed upon you exactly one year ago. “I… I can’t help it,” he says, even as he slowly runs his tongue across his teeth.

You can see how difficult it is for him to keep from lunging forward to sink his fangs into the same scars. “Yes, you can,” you gently pressure him, “I know you have these strong instincts running through you, but you are a man, not a beast. You don’t have to give in to such barbaric thoughts. You are more than that.”

Jungkook groans softly, “I don’t know, ___,” he admits, “I can’t think of anything other than possessing your entire body and filling you to the brim with my seed.”

You shudder at the images that flash through your mind. You’d like that too. But you have to get this out or else you’ll never forgive yourself. “Stop it, Jungkook,” you reprimand him, “Do you love me, or do you want to own me?”

“I love you,” he blurts out at once, without a single millisecond of hesitation.  

You’ve heard this confession every single week for the past year, yet to hear it in person is another thing entirely. Heat blooms in your chest as you take in the genuine expression on his face. You shake your head to clear it from the fuzzy warmth to focus on the task at hand.

You slowly nod your head, "Alright... I want to believe you. But I need you to do something for me first."

He watches with bated breath as you reach into your back pocket and pull out a familiar silver blade. He reacts at once, sitting up straighter in his seat and craning his neck to allow you access. "Yes," he whispers, growing excited at the very sight of the knife, "Mark me here. ____, please cut me."

Your hand tightens on the handle as you shake your head, "No. But I'll cut myself instead."

His furrowed brows reveal his confusion, but instead of explaining, you decide to demonstrate instead. You slowly take a seat at the foot of his bed and curl your feet under you. Jungkook's nostrils flare from the intensity of your scent from such close proximity and his tongue immediately pokes out from between his lips as though to taste you.

"Ugh, ___. Please fuck me," he groans, futilely thrusting his hips out as far as the chains will allow.

You blink the sweat out of your eyes and stubbornly shake your head, "Not yet, Jungkook... Right now, I want you to watch me."

He has no choice but to reluctantly agree, biting down hard on his tongue to tamper the nearly unbearable frustration. You smile at his heroic attempts at obedience, then you lift the blade with shaky hands to position at your neck. The moment you graze the sharp edge against the pink scar above your collarbones, Jungkook slams against his chains hard enough to make the whole bed frame rattle.

"NO!"

You blink, frightened, but not in the least surprised by his violent reaction. You almost feel guilty seeing the sheer devastation in his soft brown eyes. You know what this means to him. It's worse than throwing away a wedding ring or filing divorce papers. It's so much more biologically engrained than that. It's like trampling on his heart.

"Jungkook," you whisper his name, reaching out to touch him for the first time. Jungkook jumps at the feeling of your hand on his cheek and his eyes dart to your face for a split second before jumping back to the terrifying scene with the blade held to your neck. It's pure silver-- the same knife that he had unknowingly gifted you on your front porch all those months ago. If he had only known that you were going to use it against him... He would have never made that mistake. After all, silver is the only substance with the capacity of counteracting his supernatural abilities. And to leave it in your hands...

"Jungkook," you call his name again, feeling anxious when he thrashes against his chains so hard, you fear that the entire steel framework might get dislodged. "Jungkook, look at me," you lift his chin to force him to stare into your eyes, "It's okay, baby."

He whimpers at that, heavily resting his face against your hand, "I don't want to lose you," he confesses in a raw, broken voice.

It hurts you so bad to see him like this. But you know it's for his own sake, "You won't," you assure him as you gently rub your thumb against his sharp cheekbone, "You don't have me right now, Jungkook. But if you give me up as a possession... then maybe we can try to work this out."

Jungkook whimpers again, his eyes squeezing shut for a split second before they land on yours again. Almost indiscernibly, he nods his head. You gratefully smooth your hand across his cheek, trying to placate him, as you slide the knife into your skin.

The pain hits you like a bolt of lightning, sizzling down your spine and lighting up every nerve ending on your body, but Jungkook is a thousand times worse off. He cries out in pain, as though the knife cut through him instead of you and desperately slams against his bindings. But it's too late.

As soon as the knife pierces through the bite marks, the fuzziness from your heat-clouded mind lifts. The ravenous heat in your core dissipates and it feels like you can breathe again. You sigh deeply and look steadily into Jungkook's eyes. What a simple slice of skin, but now everything has changed. He is a wreck before you, chest heaving with exertion, and whole body trembling with barely repressed distress.

You glance down to where blood flows from the shallow, but decisive cut on your neck, back to his eyes. His dark pupils are shaking, eyelashes fluttering as he attempts to gather his wits about him. You quickly throw the bloodied knife across the room and gather him in your arms, "It's okay, Jungkook," you whisper as you run your hands soothingly up and down his leather-encased arms, "It's over now. We're free."

But he continues to shake like a leaf under your embrace, "S-stop touching me," he stammers, "It's too much. I need to fuck you."

The whiny, stuttering quality to his voice causes arousal to flood between your thighs. His sharp wolf senses instantly pick up on the new development, and suddenly he’s not just shaking—he’s vibrating in his own skin.

“Unchain me,” he demands in a deceptively quiet voice, “Now.”

You jerk forward as though electrocuted and dive for the key hidden in the top drawer of the nightstand. Jungkook’s harsh breathing grinds to a stop when you duck behind him to unchain his left wrist. You’ve just barely twisted the key in the lock on his right wrist chain when he suddenly snaps.

The chains noisily bang and clash against each other as he chucks them across the room, then tackles you against the bed without a second thought.

“Wait, Jungkook, I’m not done yet!” You protest, gesturing to the harness around his chest and the chains still pinning his ankles to the bed, but he ignores you entirely to grab at your crotch and has absolutely no patience left to tug your leggings down.

A loud ripping sound echoes through the room. You gasp at the flash of pain when he yanks too hard and the torn threads cut into your sensitive skin for a split second, then the fabric lands in a crumpled pile at the foot of the bed. You try to sit up to push what remains of your leggings down your legs, but at that moment, Jungkook pulls his achingly hard erection out of his pants and roughly lines himself up with your entrance.

It’s a testament to his impatience how he doesn’t bother to flip you over on your stomach to take you from behind, the way he usually prefers. Instead, he grips himself so tightly that the veins pop on his forearms then he slams himself inside of you with no foreplay whatsoever.

He’s incredibly hard and thicker than your faulty memory serves. Despite your extended arousal, your slick walls can’t protect you from the sheer power of his supernatural strength and pain bursts across every nerve ending. You’re so full. Too incredibly full. And the intense pounding rhythm he starts off without allowing you a single second of respite is excruciating.

It’s by far the best thing you’ve ever felt.

“Yes!” You cry out in ecstasy as you tighten both legs around his waist, both feet pressed against his ass to urge him forward. His pelvis slaps against yours with each thrust, creating painful marks sure to blossom into vivid bruises in the morning. But none of that matters. Because after a year, Jungkook is finally with you—inside of you, the way he was always meant to be, without either of you giving up your freedom or any intrinsic parts of your personalities.  

You don’t belong to him and he does not belong to you. You can’t predict if this will last. Maybe you’ll grow old together. Maybe you’ll discover irreconcilable differences and break up after a month. But that doesn’t matter, because at least you have the freedom to move on without some scar binding you together. You are only together because you choose to be.

You close your eyes tightly to focus on the sensations—the feeling of his hard hands on your waist, his panting breaths on the side of your neck, and the painful drilling into your body that sends your entire body sliding back against the sheets with each thrust.

You chose this. You want him, but you don’t need him.

You can’t believe it’s taken you a whole damn year to realize this. And to have him filling you up like this, dripping sweat and groaning your name, after an entire year of deprivation… It’s too much.

You hold on for another dozen rapid-fire strokes, trying to force back your orgasm so you can enjoy this longer, but the effort is futile. With one last particularly well-angled thrust of his hips, you find yourself shattering into a million pieces. You’ve been on edge for so long that the intensity of this long-awaited release is frightening. Your very consciousness is swept away by the flashflood of pleasure, ecstasy zapping through every limb to your fingertips and bright white light bursting across the back of your eyelids, no matter how tightly you squeeze your eyes shut.

It feels like an injection of pure epinephrine straight to the brain. You drift in this weightless cloud of electric pleasure for an immeasurable amount of time, unwilling to let go until the sound of your name forces you back into consciousness.

“____,” Jungkook anxiously calls out your name, “____, fuck!”

You lazily blink, confused to find him still rolling his length into you over and over, his pace beyond frantic at this point. But he clearly hasn’t found his relief yet… Or maybe he can’t?

A chill slides down your spine as you finally process the sensation of his wet tongue lapping at the remnants of blood from the shallow cut in your neck. You can feel the slide of his fangs as he whimpers and sucks at the scars. He’s just dying to sink his teeth in and recreate the disfigured mark. 

Suddenly, you’re brought back to a full year ago, when you were in the exact same position. But the difference is, this time you know better. And you’re not going to make the same mistake twice.

“Jungkook, no,” you reprimand as you anxiously tug on his hair.

“I’m sorry, ___,” he croaks as he continues to desperately surge into your heat, chasing after his release that flits just out of reach, “I-I can’t. I need to cum. Please.”

When you feel his teeth graze your neck away, you roughly shove him away as hard as you can and grab his jaw to force him to look at you, “No, Jungkook. Don’t do it.”

“Please,” he begs again, clearly at the end of his ropes. Sweat freely flows down his temples and off his thick, bulging neck to collect at his collarbones and he’s panting hard enough to hyperventilate. “Please, please, please. I need to cum so fucking badly. Please!”

You tighten your grip on his jaw and stare him straight in the eye, “Jungkook, this isn’t you right now. It’s the hormones. You don’t want to own me.”

“I know,” he chokes out, in tears at this point, “I know, I know, but I need to fucking cum. It hurts, ___. It hurts so fucking bad.”

His pain is visceral, and you’re sorely tempted to let him bite you again. But then you remember that this isn’t just for you. This is for him, too. You can’t let him lose his freedom either.

Your eyes lock tightly on his, “You love me. I know you love me. And Jungkook, I… I love you, too.”

Forgetting about his instincts and every single hormone that screams at him to fuck you underground, he freezes to stare at you with huge eyes. It’s the first time you’ve ever confessed that to him, and your cheeks flush with color the longer he stares.

Your hands curl to fists and you bravely look him in the eye again, “Jeon Jungkook, I am in love with you.”

The beat of tense silence that ensues makes your skin break out in gooseflesh. You can hear every individual thud of his heartbeat like a drum in your ears.

“Fuck,” he croaks. Then he explodes inside of you.

His seed spills deep inside of you, warming you up to the tips of your fingers and toes. His hips stammer as he desperately rides out the waves of his orgasm, brow furrowed, mouth hanging open and entire body wracked with tremors as intense pleasure lights up every nerve.

Then, abruptly, his strength saps and he collapses onto you in a disheveled heap of sweat and quivering muscle. You’ve had more time to recover than him, so you helpfully run your fingers through his drenched hair, trying to relax him and slow the dangerously quick pitter patter of his heart.

Jungkook groans at the sensations and with herculean strength you didn’t realize he possessed, he pulls himself up onto his elbows to stare down at you in wonderment.

“You love me?”

You nod, shyly ducking your head when embarrassment makes it too difficult to make eye contact anymore. A burst of bell-like laughter makes you jerk your head up again in surprise. His grin stretches from ear to ear, so wide that it must hurt his cheeks. Then he leans down to happily nuzzle his nose against yours in a decidedly lupine way.

“Say it again, ___.”

Flustered, you trip over your tongue half a dozen times before you finally find your voice again, “Um… I… I’m in love with… ah fuck it! You’re such an asshole!” You cry out, writhing under his hold to try to break free.

Jungkook’s tinkling laughter fills the room again as he dips down to muffle your protests with his mouth. You fall immobile at the feeling of his soft lips against your own for the first time in months. His kiss is surprisingly sweet after the savage fuck fest that took place in this very spot mere moments ago. He pecks your top lip, then your bottom lip, before finally pressing his mouth fully to yours. And that’s when you lose it.

You weave both arms around his neck to pull him closer to you and gently move your lips to match his. At once, you fall into a slow, sensual rhythm, lips parting to allow teasing little flicks of tongue. You slide one hand to cup his jaw, groaning when you feel the taut muscles in his cheek flex as he deepens the kiss and slides his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like pure musk and honey, and with each passing second, it grows harder and harder to stop yourself from eating him whole.

To your utmost disappointment, Jungkook breaks the kiss first, and the wet squelch that sounds through the room when your lips disconnect makes you blush. “We need to stop,” he says with an embarrassed chuckle.

You whine in protest and lift your head to seek out another kiss. But he playfully pushes you by the forehead back down onto the mattress.

“Seriously, ___. You’re not going to survive the next three days if you keep teasing me like this,” he says, emphasizing his words with a little twist of his hips against your stomach.

Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline when you realize how hard he is… again. “Oh…”

He chuckles at your reaction and leans down to playfully nip your earlobe, “Not that I wouldn’t be willing… But I think we both really need a shower right now.”

You pull back to shoot him a dirty glare, “That’s just an excuse for shower sex, isn’t it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to it…” he laughs at your expression and laboriously pulls himself off of you, “But could you please unchain me first?”

Your mouth forms an “o” of understanding and you quickly rush forward to help him with the cuffs around his ankles, and the leather harness around his chest. He sighs in relief once he’s free, then grabs your hand to beeline for the bathroom.

Although he’s fully dressed, the thin fabric of his simple t-shirt and shorts combo sticks to him with sweat, making it difficult not to stare at his beautiful body as he moves around in the bathroom. You can’t help but steal a few glances at the outline of his chiseled abdomen through his sheer white shirt as he approaches you with a wet cloth in hand. You’ve only just fucked him, yet you want to again...

“Ow!” The sudden press of the washcloth against the cut on your neck makes you cry out in pain.

Worried, Jungkook pulls his hand away, “Are you okay?”

You nod, embarrassed by your wimpy reaction, “Yeah. Sorry. That just took me by surprise.”

“We need to clean it or else the wound might get infected… Can you tough through the pain for me?”

You nod again, leaning back against the sink counter as you watch him fumble through the cupboards for bandages and neosporin. “Jungkook… Are you sure you’re going to be okay with this?” you finally break the silence.

He looks up, “Okay with what, love?”

Your insides tingle at the pet name, but you don’t let it distract you. You clear your throat and try again, “With this… This scar,” you say, gesturing to the jagged line across your neck where you sliced through his bite marks, disfiguring the entire area until you can’t see any hint of the original marks, “Can you bear it?”

Jungkook places down the roll of bandages and slowly turns to approach you. “____,” he murmurs your name, reaching out to cup your face with both hands to force your attention on him, “You love me… You finally love me back. Do you really think I’d give a shit about something as crude as a fucking mating mark when you finally reciprocate my feelings?”

Your heart leaps in your chest as you gaze back at him with shining eyes. There it is. This is the reason you fell in love with him at the first place. He gets it. He gets you. You’re unable to stop the emotion that floods you at his genuine confession.

“Fuck it,” you curse, stepping out of the ruined tatters of your leggings and pulling your shirt over your head, “Forget taking it easy. I’m going to fuck you to the death for the next three days and I won’t stop until you’re begging me to.”

His jaw drops in surprise, and you’re pleased to see his pupils dilating with lust until only a ring of feral amber remains around the darkness. He takes one threatening step forward until he’s nearly pressed up against you in the narrow bathroom, “Those are big promises, little girl…” he hisses as he carefully slides both hands up your waist to brush your hardened nipples, “Don’t come crying to me when it’s too much for you.”

“We have a whole year of sex to make up for, baby,” you tease as you turn around to plant your palms on the sink counter and slowly wiggle your hips in his face, “You think you can get it all done in the next seventy-two hours?”

Jungkook’s hands are already on your ass, roughly groping the flesh, “Just watch me, love.”

On the fifty-second Tuesday, you lie in Jungkook’s arms, coated in sweat as the two of you attempt to recover from the most exhausting seventy-two hours of your entire life. The lust spell has officially broken. And the ruined sheets and your lifeless legs are testament to the fact. You turn to gently rake your nails down his sweaty spine. Jungkook shudders and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"Hey," you murmur, catching his attention.

Despite his exhaustion, he manages to summon the energy to pop open one eye to look at you, "Yes, love?"

You smile and reach up to affectionately card your fingers through his disheveled black hair, "Jungkook... It's Tuesday... And I love you."

It's like the first, radiant rays of dawn peeking above the horizon, or a flower blooming in the heat of spring, the way his face lights up. His smile is so bright that you have to shield a hand against your face to protect your sensitive eyes against the brilliance.

He chuckles and leans down lovingly nuzzle his nose against yours, “It’s Wednesday now, idiot… But I love you, too.”

Author’s note: After over a year, it’s finally done! Hallelujah! 

As always, please do not ask me for a sequel, and anyone who sends me hateful messages will be reported or blocked. Thanks for reading and have a nice day, everyone! ^^

[infinitehours]

Chapter 4

This chapter was getting so long, that I felt like I have no choice but to divide it into two.  30 some odd pages in word, after all, is a little long to be left whole like that.  

Check below the cut for both author notes and the chapter proper.

Authornotes: Despite what the Ghost Host says, he will be making an appearance in the next chapter.

The description of the scarecrow should be familiar.  It is, in fact, a description of Jack Skellington’s alter ego scarecrow disguise.  I wanted to make tiny references to the Haunted Mansion Holiday overlay without making a pure crossover, as the plot I’m going with wouldn’t mesh well with the Nightmare characters. So, instead, I’ll just briefly reference it here and there.  Thus, the scarecrow in this fic isn’t actually Jack Skellington (unless you really want to pretend it is, I mean I can’t stop you).  

Solomon Gracey….Oh let me tell you the story about this.  When I was young, and going through the Mansion for the first time, I saw the aging man portrait.  Except, I didn’t know anything about Oscar Wilde or Dorian Gray (I was a kid), so I never made the connection there (even though in retrospect, it seems a little obvious that’s what the Imagineers were going for).  But I DID know about Batman, and through that someone had told me the poem once associated with one of the villains named Solomon Grundy:

Solomon Grundy, Born on a Monday, Christened on Tuesday, Married on Wednesday, Took ill on Thursday, Grew worse on Friday, Died on Saturday, Buried on Sunday, That was the end, Of Solomon Grundy.

And you might be wondering “What does this have anything to do with anything?”  You see, as a kid, I misinterpreted the poem and what it meant.  I thought it referred to someone who was born, quickly grew up, lived, and died all within the span of a week. It apparently never occurred to my childlike mind that these things could happen on separate years.  

So when I saw the portrait of the man, and he aged so rapidly, I thought “Oh!  It’s like Solomon Grundy!”

And that’s the story of how the name stuck.

Artwork was drawn by me.

The statue comes from a statue in the Disneyland fast pass for Haunted Mansion

For the Gracey family seal, I used official Disney merchandise for the base.  It is the Master Gracey necklace from the Memento Mori store.   Here is the reference: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/506725395552228282/?autologin=true&lp=true

Here are other photographs and videos used as references for the other art pieces:

https://davelandblog.blogspot.com/2015/02/terrific-thirteen.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1RGdw4ePzPg&t=306s

I am the one who played the piano and recorded myself.  I used sheet music from the internet for this. Here are the reference links. Please note that I made small edits for the Haunted Mansion piece and  I didn’t follow the original sheet music for John Brown’s Body piece, I just used the same key.

https://musescore.com/user/6017331/scores/1485776

https://www.music-scores.com/midi.php?sheetmusic=Trad_John_Browns_Body

~~~

Trigger warnings: ghosts, death concepts/discussions, murder, suicide, abuse, blood, lots of scary stuff (horror), implied sexual abuse, cursing (damn and hell), drug abuse, attempted rape (never completed; in a later chapter).

~~~

Table of Contents Link

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Ch 4.  John Brown’s Body

~~

“John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave, His soul is marching on!”

-Traditional Folk Song, John Brown’s Body

~~

“This is all a bad dream.  This is all a bad dream. This is all a bad dream. There’s no such thing as ghosts. This is all a bad dream.  This is all a ba-“

                 “Repetition does not turn a statement to fact.”

“Shut up.” She muttered, shakily walking down the hall towards the door that she could see on the far end; the complete opposite end from the strange stretching room she had come from.  “This is all a bad dream.  This is all a bad drea-“

             “You can chant such trifle prayers to your dying breath, but                     your words will never be any truer five centuries from now than                                they were five moments ago.”

“But it keeps me going,” She muttered again, this time to herself. “And there…there can’t be life after death.  It’s impossible.  There’s no such thing.  Dead is dead.”

             “Care to repeat that to the dead person behind you?”

The creepy feeling of an ice cold hand on her shoulder made her speed up, nearly running towards the door.  

                      “Why not look behind you, hmm?”

“No I won’t I won’t!” The anxiety making her giddy, she gave a little nervous laugh as she made it through and slammed the door.  She leaned against the door and slid to the ground, eyes closed and breathing in deep.

                         “Rather impolite, but no matter….              You can always repeat your statement to the one in front of you.”

This time…This time, her eyes had flung open all without her permission and she screamed.  

She screamed all the while as she crawled backwards.

All the while as she jammed her wrist against a table in her attempt to get under it.

The thing that lay before her.  Whatever it was, it did not follow her, choosing instead to remain swaying side to side in its position.

And she permitted herself to think about what she had just seen: its legs looked like bond stalks, it’s mahogany jacket in tatters.  A figure that seemed stiff at first, its limbs in haphazard directions, as though it’s clothes were stuffed with straw.  But…

…But that couldn’t be; there had to be a person in there because behind the carved smile of its pumpkin head….she could see teeth.  

Human teeth.  

She dared to peek out from under the table, but there was no longer any sign of it.  The scarecrow’s long legs ought to have been in sight, where could it ha-

-

POUNDING ON THE TABLE ABOVE HER.

SHE COULD SEE THE SIDES TIP PRECARIOUSLY

AS SOMETHING DANCED ATOP IT.

“I’msorry I’msorry I’msorry!!” She screamed out, her shaking mimicking every jerk of the table.

The pounding stopped.   The table stopped.  

The thunder rolled off in the distance, and the rain pattered against the windows.  

She took an uneasy breath.

“…Why are you doing this to me?”  She said in a small voice.

                                 “Why, whatever do you mean?”

She could hear his tone, the thinly veiled sarcasm, the mirth that made it seem like he was laughing at her.  She tried again.

“What…what exactly do you want with me? What did you say before, that lives have value?? That the raven was useless to you??  What is it about me?”

                       “But lives DO have value.                      Unless, of course, you don’t see value in yours.                       We are certainly capable of removing                        such a heavy weight from your shoulders.                               Or are you more hands on?”

By her side….

………………

….a noose appeared….

Dangling over the sides of the furniture, her safe zone.

She found herself staring at it.  

A good.  Long.  While.

“Are you really trying to kill me?” Her throat constricted, just by having it in her sights.

                    “Would you take comfort in hearing me say ‘no’?”

“At this point….At this point I’m not sure I’d believe you…”

               “Then there’s nothing more to be said, now is there?”

She closed her eyes again.  Even knowing that her “host” might take advantage and shove another creature in her face, it was comforting to pretend that she was back at home, in bed, with her eyes closed and ready for sleep.

But the noose…

“Please….please will you at least take it away?”

….

A soft whisper of a sound, and wisp of a breeze.

When she dared to peek, bracing herself for the return of the scarecrow or some other terrible thing, she was surprised.

The noose was gone.  And there was no evidence of any new scary entity within her immediate sights.  

“Thank you.”  She mumbled.  

The only response was the low rumbling of a chuckle.

Perhaps because of that, she could not bring herself to leave the relative safety of the furnishing she’d cowered under. The underside of the table was nice and cozy, after all.  

So spent the time to look around instead.

There were instruments.  Karen couldn’t pretend that she knew much about music, but she knew enough to recognize the violin sitting on one of the chairs.  The bigger one sitting in the corner was probably a cello, and there were likely even more instruments hidden from sight in the cases she could observe.  

A piano took up most of the room; the light from the candelabras on its surface glowed in the reflection of the gigantic window behind it.  From beyond the window, she could see the dead trees buckling under the weight of the downpour, their gray limbs looking much like ghosts themselves.  It seemed so deceptively easy to shatter the glass and escape.  

                         “Whatever is the matter, hmm?                             Have you given up on your friend already?                           Shall I leave him my condolences?                             A message?                          The very last thing he’ll ever hear:                              ‘Karen has left you for dead’.”

“No.”  She said flatly.  “No I’m not leaving without him.”

That telltale chuckle again.

                        “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

“You’re not going to ever tell us why you’re doing this, are you?  Is it really because you think we’re trespassers?”

                                “You’ll have to forgive me.”

The piano began to play, a series of mismatched notes creating a discord of ugly sounds.

                      “I was not aware I required a reason.”

She held her breath, watching the keys move across the instrument without any visible fingers to press on them. But there was a shadow that fell across the whole scene that looked oddly…human-esque.   Already, she was too frightened to think too deeply into that.

                “Shall I play you something light and bright                  to coax you from your crypt?                   The mortal creature does still love a happy harmony                  wrapped up in a major key…correct?                                         And after all                                    wouldn’t you agree                                  that your life would be                          so flat without a sweet melody? ”

And with that announcement, the piano changed to a happier cord.  Was that the Battle Hymn of the Republic?

Listen to the piano part1

Despite her wariness, she did feel herself relax a tinge.  She even went so far as to lean back a bit to rest herself against the wall that bordered her ‘safety table’.   The ruffling of paper at her fingertips snatched at her attention.  

Two papers, actually.

“Mr. Williams,

I write to you on the matter of the issue you had previously approached me for.  

Thus far, the Atencio Trading Company has remained relatively unchanged despite the change in the Head of the Gracey family.  Indeed, the Atencio Company firmly remains under the ownership of the Graceys, as it always has, despite the remaining echoes of the war and reconstruction. None of the businesses contained within the company have been removed, destroyed, or discarded; if anything, new businesses have been added and not subtracted.

Below is a list that I have compiled, as best as I was able, of the Industries contained therein of the Gracey family’s Atencio Trading Company:

2 Wineries   6 Tanneries 4 Major Textile Production Factories (not containing various minor Textile Refinements involved) 1 Business involved in the Production of Cutlery 2 Beekeeping farms (also involve Honey Refinery) 3 Breweries of Beer and Fine Liquor 9 Livestock farms (not including horses) 5 Horse Ranches 2 Bakeries 7 Farms that variously produce Wheat, Barley, Grapes, Corn, Apples, and Vegetables 1 Metal Production or blacksmith factory whose purpose I could not ascertain

These industries are spread out among several states, regions, and cities. As you know, the Atencio Company regularly transports on the behalf of foreign companies.    Thus, this is in addition to the trading profits the company gets for the transportation and shipping of goods owned by companies not under the control of the Graceys.

This is not including, however, the personal farm and properties therein attached to the Gracey Manor house itself. The production involved there is mostly for the immediate benefit of the family, it’s fellows, and the servant class who board there.  

I am afraid I have still come up empty, sir, in finding the meaning behind the name “Atencio”.  It has apparently been used for ages long past, as long as the Graceys have owned this company.  The only shared name I have ever found in records, was that of a pirate crew that operated in the 1400s, long before the Golden Age of Piracy.  As such, there are only scant records of this crew, and none of them enlightening enough to provide evidence that there is any relation.  

The methods by which the Graceys run their business is still very non-involved.  Like before, it appears that many of the overseers of each company sub-branch are left to manage their own affairs, provided that profits are returned to the family proper.  The Graceys are involved in making final decisions regarding payment distribution, and appear to be very generous with those in their employment.  Especially so with the current Gracey head of family.  As such, exceptional loyalty to both the Atencio Trading Company and the Gracey Family itself is not unheard of, nor should be unexpected.  

It is with this in mind that I send this letter through an unconventional means.

For you see, sir, I am greatly concerned that this letter should be intercepted by them.

-Leslie Harrison”  

And there was a second letter underneath that.  

At its very top, was a family crest: A carved letter G in the center of the decorative shape, swirling lines jutting on both sides and a devilish head at its very top. The symbol was flanked by Latin: Familia Supra Omnia.

“Dear Miss Slater,

I am very much distressed at reading your previous missive, which I had received on the fifth of February.  I understand your concerns regarding your status as, and I quote you, “a lowly circus performer”.  But as I have stressed on more than a single previous occasion, I do not care.  

As far as the town is concerned: I, and my estate, are dead to them.  

I have long given up on pleasing the most influential members of the community.  As well you know, Mr. Williams, whom has the town in his purse strings, already hated my father long before even the War of Rebellion, hated him even worse during the war, and has shown even as recent as last week that he finds my methods of running my affairs a contemptable sight in his long list of grievances against my family name.  What the head of the Williams Company says is practically decreed, and, by extension, I am no friend to any member of the upper crust in these parts.  It subsequently gives me the freedom to do merely as I please.  

And it would please me more than anything, Miss Slater, if you allow me to help you.

I have been hearing so many rumors about the financial status of that circus company that you have affiliated yourself with, and even worse rumors about the ringmaster himself.  

Miss Slater, I do not trust that man. He has proven time and again that his humor is morbid, and that his tricks are similarly so.  Many of his acts remark and revolve on death itself, and with such a depressing notion it is surprising that his fortunes did not deplete themselves sooner.  That mishap with the lion and the poor drunkard is simply another suspicious death to add to his collection of mysterious airs.  

I am concerned by some of your wording. You’ve known I have no qualms about reputation.  And you’ve never asked for privacy before, even when you had fallen ill.  Nor have you been forthright with any reasoning, on my part, that has caused you discomfort.  All of these things are suspicious and so very out of ordinary from the past twelve years you have been with these travelers.  Your phrases, too, are upsetting: “A lost cause” “Nothing left for me”, these are not words you have ever previously used to describe yourself. I cannot but be concerned that your ringmaster, or someone else in the company, has harmed you in some way.  

Which is why, at first chance, I will make the journey to fetch you.    

Your daughter is of Gracey blood, if not in name, Miss Slater.  We are family.  And I will make sure nothing lays a finger on either of you.  

Yours in Sincerity,

Solomon Gracey”

As she tried to make sense of the newfound information…Miss Slater.

                                      Mr. Williams.

                                Solomon Gracey.

                                        Circus.

                                         She….

…Was suddenly standing.

And not underneath a table at all anymore.

There was a man in front of her, sitting at a desk with a concerned expression.  He had on a fine white shirt, nice trousers, a gray vest, and was that a pocket watch?  It held the uncanny air of a bygone era, especially as he sat, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, at a desk that had no dust.  

She recognized that desk….and…when he turned and she saw him eye to eye….she recognized him.

This man wasn’t the same angry man from the earlier vision, with the maid and the young boy.  

This man…was from the portrait.  

The portrait that she had seen at the beginning of the house, the one that had aged to death right in front of her eyes. And as the eyes glanced her way, she felt herself back away a step.

To be sure, those eyes were beyond comparison.  Even here, the vividness of their blue felt like they could see straight into her.  

At the same time….she felt…safe.  The other vision had held a sense of terror.  The other man had clearly been antagonistic.  But this man….

                               Please. Let me help you.

She blinked.  For a moment, she had imagined that the man had spoken to her. But that…couldn’t be.  He didn’t even seem to see her, for one, as his eyes had glanced over her without any acknowledgement.  By now, he had gone back to writing….

She peeked over his shoulder.  He was writing…the very letter…she had just recently read..?

Karen stood gob smacked, gaping as he finished it off with a flurry of his signature.  

Was this really some kind of memory from the past.   How….?

                            I just want you to be safe.

She blinked again.  No, those weren’t words spoken aloud.  She finally identified them as a gut feeling.  An aura; something that the scene gave off that somehow she felt compelled to think of those exact words.  She was sure, anyways, that those feelings were mostly for the benefit of the person he wrote to.  

But those thoughts felt good.  The scene felt good. After all the ridiculous stuff that Ghost Host had thrown on her, the scarecrow and spiders and stretching rooms and nooses appearing out of nowhere, this was so relaxing in comparison. Comforting, even.  

Why couldn’t she stay and listen to Solomon?   Would it hurt so badly?  Who could blame her?  

Staying like this, watching him read over and over the letter he had just completed.  He had an intricate ring on his left hand; she could see it as he held his forehead in his hand in thought.  It was a good ring.

What was wrong with staying like this, watching him, forever?

Without worries, without cares.  No broken windows….Or was it reading…?  Law school….Something feels missing….But what does it matter?  None of the horror, just a calm room with a man writing a letter that he’d been struggling hours to find the words for.  Finally. Finally, he had gotten around to writing it out in full.

But…This won’t do at all.

He stood up.  

“Edgar!”  He called out.  “Fetch my coat and get Samuel!  We’re taking a trip to that damned circus.”

Why did he even need the letter?  By God, he’ll just show up unannounced, then he could see for himse-

….

Wait….

Karen’s face furrowed in deep thought. What were these thoughts that were now going through her head?

These weren’t…her thoughts. They had nothing to do with her.  So why was it as though her thoughts had begun to turn, turning to mush and then reshaping themselves, and all without her permission? It didn’t hurt.  But.  There was this small sense of mismatch, that something wasn’t quite right….

Thoughts about the ring on his finger….No, this ring didn’t represent marriage…But what was it…Why was she….

…..She was back underneath the table.

There was a brief sense of déjà vu as she tried to catch her bearings; the piano wasn’t helping, as it was now playing a more sinister sounding version of the Battle Hymn of the Republic.  It only cemented the idea that the dream was over and the nightmare was back.

listen to the piano 2

….She stared back to the letter. Touched it, even brought it up to her nose to sniff it.  It was real.  

Which means….the vision….

She squeezed her eyes shut so that she could gradually open them again.

The piano was still playing.  Didn’t that “Ghost Host” ever get sick of the same song over and over?

She didn’t want to deal with any of this; not him, not that vision-thingy, not this letter.

Michael…

There was a door to the left.  

She glanced back to the piano.  The Host was still playing, but for how long would he remain distracted?

Getting up on her hind legs, ready to sprint for it, the song still in the air,

one,

two,

three.

The door was in her hand, the handle turned, she slipped on through, into-

                                   “Hmm hmm hmm.”

-the same exact room?

She opened the door behind her again. In the room she left, a piano playing the Battle Hymn of the Republic.  In the room in front of her, an IDENTICAL piano playing…something else.

listen to the piano 3

Two pianos.  The same chairs.  The same violins.  Even the same table she had taken refuge under.  

Trying not to panic, she ran down to the next door.  Went through it.

                           “HmmHa ha ha Ha HA ha.”

listen to the piano4

The same room.  Again.  

She ran over to the next door. Just to peek.

AGAIN. That piano!  That horrible, wretched sounding piano!  

She stood in the center of the room, carefully avoiding the shadowy figure that seemed to sit at the stool and play away, her eyes bitter and angry as she stared at the instrument.  If she had to burn a hole through the piano with her eyes just to make a statement, so be it.  

                     “Finally facing the music, are we?                Have you accepted the reality that you need me as a guide                  if you ever hope of getting anywhere?”

“I’ve accepted the reality that you’re a well certified jerk.  Let me out of this room.”

                        “I didn’t hear the magic words.”

“Sure.  How about: ‘Let me out of this room or I break your piano’.”

Laughter radiated from the area of the piano, filling the whole room with the sound of the Ghost Host.  

                    “My how BOLD you’ve become just now.               Whatever happened to that poor, helpless mortal                          I left cowering under the table?”

Karen held her tongue at this part. She didn’t want to risk him retaliating and sapping what little courage she’d managed to muster in her bitterness.

“Take me out of this room now.”  She said, holding her ground with her chin up.

….

“Please.” She halfheartedly added a moment later.

                    “…Well.  Since you’ve asked so NICELY.”

The door in the middle opened.  As she recalled, that was the door she took to enter the music room to begin with.  

But strangely enough, it didn’t seem to lead out to the same hallway as before.

…Had he been moving her around when she was traversing all the duplicate music rooms?

If so…She opened the door that had led to a duplicate music room, only to find a wall.  He’d completely stripped her of all sense of direction…

She shuddered at the thought, finally relenting to go through the door he’d opened for her.  

“Th-thank you.”  She stammered out.

                  “Hmm hmmm hmm…You’re very welcome.”

The door behind her slammed shut so loud that she jumped.

                  “Come now.  Shriveling up on me, are you?              I was having so much fun with this new version of you…”

“Is that what you call ‘torture’?”  

           “One man’s torture is another’s…entertainment. Hmm hmm hmm.”

“And that’s literally the reason you’re doing all this?  THIS? All of THIS is entertainment to you?  What was all that before about us being trespassers?”

The voice chuckled darkly.

                                “If you must know,               I could care less about whatever foolish reason                     a mortal comes wandering here for;                                       trespasser or not.                     So long as they are here, in the flesh,                          I can take my pickings as I please.            Such a curious creature you are, though, to keep asking about this.                             Most mortals merely accept my deeds                   without questioning my motives so aptly…                        . . . Perhaps this is your ‘gift’ talking…”

“My gift?”

                        “Yes.  Surely you’ve noticed by now                       that you’ve a talent that expands beyond the grave.                       Becoming one with the very essence of human nature,                   and all of the exploits and endeavors,                        good or otherwise, therein.                                In effect, a psychic.”

“I am NOT a psychic.” She said with a huff as she strode off.  

He had led her to yet another unfamiliar hallway.  There was an end table with scattered papers, a stairway that lead up (complete with a fancy banister).  Candelabras with intricate weaves of spiderwebs held behind an intricately carved griffin. And a statue was hidden in the alcove.

A very strange statue.  

And familiar; she could have sworn she saw one like it outside with the gravestones.  

But this one was much larger, human sized, in fact.   And it was strange specifically because she got an odd, prickly feeling as she came close to it.  For all intents and purposes, it LOOKED like any other statue she may have seen in her life.

It was that of a women who appeared to be grieving.  Her dress cut just above her knees, the shawl around her shoulders wrapped up and covered her head.  Her face was positioned to the floor, and one of her hands across her chest placed over to about where her heart would be.  

Karen reached out and touched it, and it even FELT like a statue.  Hard stone that was a little rough along the edges, likely from wear and tear over the years.

But very cold.  Almost ethereally cold.  

What was worse than any of that, was the smell.  Statues didn’t normally smell, but this one reeked.

It reminded her of the time a squirrel had gotten into the electric breaker box of a telephone pole near her house; it had chewed through a few lines and wound up electrocuting itself.  The power workers had tossed the remains by the side of the road, but no animal dared to take a bite of it so it simply sat there rotting.  The smell that always ran to her nostrils every time she had to pass it was an unholy combination of cooked flesh and putrid decay.  

                             “Are you sure you’re not psychic?”  

The voice said, as though mocking the anxiety that the statue seemed to produce in her.

“No, I’m not psychic!  Maybe…Maybe ghosts exist, ok?  But I am definitely NOT psychic!”

               “Oh?  You admit to the existence of some of the supernatural?                         A nice improvement in your disposition.                  But do you mean to tell me you’ve never feel those moments?                                  That prickling on the back of your spine?”

As if in obedience, the goosebumps on her back became more pronounced.

“Stop it.”

                  “That chill that you can so easily feel in the air?”

And in that moment, the area immediately around her dropped a few degrees.

“I said stop it!”  

                           “That feeling of being watched,                   as though there were someone, or something there?                         And all you have to do is look behind y-“

“Shut up.”  She seethed under her breath, trying to avoid glancing behind in case he sent another scarecrow.   “Why don’t you just go back to playing the piano or something?? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

                                      “As you wish.”

The temperature normalized, the goosebumps died down.

“Wha-really?”

                                         “But of course.                        If you so desire it, I am FULLY prepared to leave you.                              In this empty, creaking, dark hallway.                                             By yourself.”

“Or.  You could drop Michael off near me.”

The Host’s laughter was raucous.  

          “And interrupt all of the exquisite entertainment he’s experiencing?                                     Surely you don’t think me THAT cruel.”

Karen bristled.  “You want to talk about cruelty?!  How about ever-“

                      “But worry not.  You may be alone now,                            but you’ll be joined soon enough.”

“What…?”

                          “The happy haunts have long since received                     your sympathetic vibrations, and are beginning to materialize.”

“What. Does. That. Even. Mean?”

                       “They’re assembling for their nightly swinging wake,                       and they’ll be expecting me… I’ll see you a little later.”

“Wait…!”

There was no indication that the hallway had changed, and, of course, no actual physical sign that a disembodied voice had left the area.  Yet it felt emptier than before.  

“Ghost Host?”  She called out tentatively.

No response.  Only the low sound of thunder that rumbled in the distance. That indescribable feeling that she had experienced up until that point that had indicated his presence ceased to exist anymore.  

The hallway was devoid of its Ghost Host.

And somehow, someway, she knew that.