#its been 2 hours since i got dragged outside i just came across a poem about sucking dick i think im losign my mind

[hiemaldesirae]

theyre married :3

[pronouncingitwang]

post-S3 to S4 wtgfs | 4.1K words | intended for @tmagirlsweek but I got busy

1.

On a bad arthritis day a few years ago, after Georgie had failed one too many times to open a beer can at her kitchen counter, Melanie had winced, reached down under her skirt, and handed Georgie a sizable penknife. “I’ve never really been a fan of pepper spray,” she’d said before Georgie could ask, looking almost shy about it, and, “Yes, I keep it there all the time. Don’t tell Andy, he’ll freak.” And so Georgie learned that 1. getting a knife’s point under a metal tab and then bracing your forearm against the handle takes a lot of pressure off your thumb, and 2. seeing your friend of a few months (who has apparently been hiding a knife under her clothes this whole time) laughing as a metal tab hits her in the face is something that might make you think about kissing her. Apparently, seeing your friend-with-occasional-benefits of a few years sitting in your ex’s hospital room with a Polaroid camera around her neck can do the same thing, even if it also gives you a lump in your throat.

Georgie’s known for the last month that her visiting hours would have to overlap with Melanie’s eventually, but knowing and seeing are not the same thing. When you know something, you can practice various appropriately neutral “Hi, Melanie”s in your mirror. When you see something, all your planning goes out the window, and you blurt out instead, “Is that a knife strapped to your thigh, or are you happy to see me?”

Melanie doesn’t laugh at the joke, which makes sense. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and Georgie can see the moment the surprise in them hardens into something else. When she speaks, her voice sounds rough, like each syllable is being dragged across a whetstone on its way up her throat. “Knife. Obviously.”

Georgie tells herself not to react, to focus on Melanie’s words instead of her tone. Not being happy to see someone in Melanie’s set of circumstances is understandable, and Melanie’s not wrong about the “obviously”—her long skirt is wrapped twice around her legs, so tight that it must be restricting movement, and the outline of a blade is more than clear against the thin fabric. The Melanie Georgie is used to wouldn’t have displayed a weapon so boldly; but then, the Melanie Georgie is used to also wouldn’t have left her a voicemail about how Sarah Baldwin and being trapped in The Magnus Institute was “all your fault!” followed by a one-word apology text, followed by two months of ghosting, so perhaps Georgie needs to amend her expectations.

“Hi, Melanie,” Georgie says, practice finally deciding to kick in. “Are you… are you alright?”

“What, that bad?” Melanie replies. Her hair is longer than Georgie remembers, dark roots now grown out to the same length as the red-dyed strands on the bottom. Georgie thinks she would like to braid it someday.

Georgie shrugs. “A bit.”

“You don’t look too good either,” Melanie says, but she gets up to offer Georgie her seat anyway. Georgie takes it silently, propping her cane against the wall. This, at least, has not changed between the two of them.

“I’ll be here for half an hour,” Georgie says, offering… parameters? warning? escape?

Something like panic crosses Melanie’s eyes, but she crosses her arms. “Me too.”

“I can ask for another chair?” No matter how quickly Melanie claims her gunshot wound had healed, standing on it for too long can’t be comfortable.

“Don’t need one.” A pause. “And stop looking at me.”

A few minutes pass, during which the only sound is of Melanie bouncing her leg. Then, her breathing, getting louder and faster. When Georgie looks up, Melanie has her face in her hands.

“Are you o—”

“You know what,” Melanie gasps, “I’ve changed my mind about the half hour.”

“I can leave, if you’d rather—”

“No,” Melanie says, shaking her head. “No, I need to go.”

“Do you need—I can squeeze you, or—”

“No, no, no, just—Don’t touch me,” Melanie growls, and then she’s out of the door and gone.

For the next half hour, Georgie eats a sandwich, reads aloud from John Keats: The Complete Poems because it’d annoy Jon if he were alive, and tries very hard not to cry.

Another half hour later, Georgie’s phone dings. The text reads, simply, “see you.”

For the first time that day, Georgie smiles.

-

2.

Georgie comes back to the hospital at the same time next week, and yes, Melanie is there. This time, there are two chairs, sat about a foot away from each other. Georgie chooses not to comment on it, but she thinks Melanie can tell she’s biting down a smile.

They make it through the pleasantries this time without too much tension. Melanie asks about the podcast, and Georgie can at least talk about that for a few minutes. She remembers they used to have conversations for hours at a time, during drinks or pillow talk or game nights with friends, but now she has no idea what they talked about. Besides work, that is—Melanie could go on for hours about the newest Ghost Hunt UK project—but that’s obviously not a safe topic anymore. They talked about TV shows maybe, or mundane day-to-day shit about their lives. It was easier before. Now, if Georgie wants to tell Melanie about what her neighbor’s daughter said yesterday, she first has to tell Melanie about her new neighbor and their dog and the other times their daughter came over to play with The Admiral, and that’s too many sentences to trail off on, especially if Melanie might not have a story to trade for hers.

They’ve gone silent long enough that Georgie is contemplating getting her book out when Melanie says, “I’ve still got that cane you let me borrow after India, if you want it back.”

There are several possibilities for what that means. One, Melanie is offering the two of them an opportunity to escape this room with its stale air and too-bright lights and engage in anything from a fight to a hookup to a hangout. Two, Melanie is trying to cut off any remaining ties or obligations to Georgie. Three, the silence was just way too awkward and this is the first thing Melanie thought of.

Georgie picks her next words carefully. “You can keep it, it’s no problem. I thought the floral decals suited you.”

Melanie makes the face she makes when she’s trying to figure out if something is a joke or not. “I suppose it really brought out the red in my eyes.”

Georgie can’t help the surge of laughter that bubbles out of her. “Sure. And… also because it’s pretty.”

They’ve done the flirty banter before, as foreplay to actual foreplay or just for fun. Georgie still has at least ten minutes of cut What the Ghost? audio where they went back and forth on “you’re so hot, you __” pick-up lines before remembering they were supposed to be talking about the Plague. In the past, Melanie returned fire with twice Georgie’s cheesiness.

This Melanie scowls. “if you don’t want it—”

“Is the cane at your flat?”

“Should be.”

“Then, sure.”

 Melanie hails them a cab outside the hospital. Georgie doesn’t quite recognize the streets it’s going down, and then she realizes that of course, after Andy left, Melanie would need to downsize.

“Good news,” Melanie says when they arrive at the building, “it’s, uh- I think it’s on the first floor.”

“You think? Don’t you live here?”

Melanie shrugs. “Technically.”

Georgie begins to understand when Melanie opens the door. Melanie’s old place wasn’t Instagram-perfect by any means, but it felt like her—deliberately nonsensical “motivational” posters, an upside-down “福” character on the living room wall, a coat hanger shaped like a tree by the entrance with a different chewable necklace dangling from each branch. Here, the walls are bare and the floor is covered in boxes. No bed, which puts one of Georgie’s theories for this outing to rest, and the space is too small for a mattress to be hiding anywhere other than a box. There’s a couch; the TV from Melanie’s old place sitting unplugged at an awkward angle on the ground; an empty bookshelf, and leaning against said bookshelf, a cane with a moderately worn tip and various rose stickers winding around the shaft. Melanie hands it over to Georgie, who takes it silently.

“So in case you haven’t guessed, I’ve been sleeping in the Archives.”

Georgie hasn’t guessed. The Magnus Institute isn’t something she allows herself to think about most days. But there is something very familiar in the sunkenness of Melanie’s cheeks right now, the grim set of her jaw, the way she scans every room she enters for hidden danger.

“And before you tell me that place is bad news, I know. Obviously.”

“Then why…?”

“I talked about it so you wouldn’t have to. Don’t make me kick you out.”

Georgie had almost made the same threat to Jon once, when he was staying with her. Jon—Jon who she cut off for reading statements and not taking care of himself and staying with his job. Georgie has a dreadful suspicion that if she examined Melanie and Jon against her so-called principles, the only substantial difference between their situations would be that she is in love with one of them and not the other. Luckily, Georgie is good at compartmentalizing.

“I understand,” Georgie says. “Do you need help with your bookshelf?”

 Later, after Melanie’s whipped out her thigh knife to cut open every box, and after Georgie’s directed her on organizing the books by size, the two of them settle on the couch. Georgie opens an old season of Bake Off on her tablet. They’d watched a few episodes together before, but since Georgie finds captions distracting and Melanie has a tendency to talk over everything, they’d both decided that watching separately and calling afterwards made more sense.

Today, Melanie is silent. As soon as the episode ends, she gets up and announces, “I’m going back to work.”

Georgie doesn’t protest, not yet. It’s too early to be sure it won’t push Melanie away. She opts instead for, “Take care of yourself.”

“I can’t make any promises,” Melanie says, and then contradicts herself immediately by saying, “See you.”

(When Georgie leaves, she leaves the rose cane.) 

-

3.

Georgie leans back in the bathtub, careful to keep her braids out of the water, and lets the warmth soak into her joints. It’s a ritual she usually performs in the morning on days that requires more physical activity than she’s used to. As for why she’s trying to increase her range of motion and discomfort tolerance on this particular day… Georgie takes an ibuprofen and elects not to think about it.

On the way to the hospital, Georgie also elects not to think about the word “hypocrite.” This is made easier by the fact that she never actually enters Jon’s room. Melanie is waiting in the doorway, looking wired in a way that makes Georgie’s heart beat faster.

“You left your extra cane at my place again,” she says, but it sounds more like a question than a factual statement.

“I suppose we’ll have to go back and get it,” Georgie answers. “If you’d like to, that is?”

Melanie sneaks a look at Georgie’s face, nods, and grabs her arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

Georgie is well aware that this is the first time they’ve touched since April. Melanie isn’t an enormously tactile person, but she used to hug people hello and goodbye. Georgie misses inhaling the scent of citrus shampoo every time Melanie ran into her, but this is a good replacement.

The two of them are silent until they reach Melanie’s flat, which Melanie’s clearly cleaned. The floor looks fresh-swept; there’s less dust everywhere; and most importantly, the mattress has been unpacked. It sits on the ground in front of them, topped with several pillows and blankets.

Melanie sits Georgie down on the couch, still gripping her by the (by now, asleep) arm, and blurts out, “I bought condoms.”

Georgie is prepared for this, wants this, but still—”Are you sure you’re in a good emotional place to—”

Melanie rolls her eyes and says, speeding through the words like she’s written them out beforehand, “Whatever you think’s happening to me, I promise you it has no interest in my sex life. If you don’t want to, fine. I have Candy Crush on my phone. There are books, you can”—Melanie affects a bad American accent and leans back—”read to me like one of your dead ex-boyfriends. You can leave, if you feel uncomfortable around me right now. Those are your decisions. But this is mine.”

“Will you still talk to me after this?”

Melanie considers, chewing on her lip. “This… won’t affect whether or not I still talk to you.”

“Are you trying to hurt yourself with this?”

“Unless you’re planning to hurt me—”

“I wouldn’t—”

“And unless you’ve forgotten what makes me feel good in the last year, then no, I’m not trying to ‘hurt myself.’ I’d say I’m doing the opposite, actually.”

Georgie knows her next question should be “Are you going to leave the Institute?”, but she also knows that the question will make Melanie pull away and the answer will force Georgie to reconsider. Georgie doesn’t want to reconsider.

“Okay.”

Melanie’s lips are as soft as Georgie remembers, a reminder that she is still here and solid and Georgie’s as long as Georgie’s touching her, holding her, loving her. Melanie deepens the kiss. We’re safe here, Georgie thinks emphatically as she presses forward, like she’ll suddenly be able to develop telepathy if she gets close enough. You’re okay. I’m okay.

Melanie pulls away for breath far too soon. “Sorry. Stuffy nose.”

Georgie laughs. “If you say so.”

“What, don’t believe me?”

“I just thought it was more likely that I took your breath away.”

The pun takes a second to register before Melanie groans and nips at Georgie’s lip. “You’re awful.”

“What a biting retort.”

“Nope!” Melanie kisses Georgie, hard. “It is not safe for you to be making terrible puns to a woman with a knife.”

It takes Georgie a little longer to catch enough breath to respond to that one. “Luckily, I’ve only made good puns today.”

“Jesus,” Melanie says, burying her face in Georgie’s shoulder, and there’s the citrus shampoo, and it’s like nothing has changed, like this is just another hookup between friends after a night out, and maybe Georgie will ask Melanie out next week or maybe she won’t depending on how busy she is, but it doesn’t matter too much because she’s at no risk of losing her soon anyway.

And then Melanie pulls back, and there’s a small cut above her eyebrow that wasn’t there in April. Georgie’s breath catches with the newness of it all. It is October again, and it is suddenly imperative that Melanie knows. “I’ve missed you. All these months. I thought about you all the time.”

Melanie is silent for a while. Then, she leans a few centimeters forward and presses a kiss to Georgie’s nose, so careful it makes Georgie want to cry. “I… don’t know if I can miss anyone anymore. But I”—she sighs—”I have… thought about you.”

“I’ll take it,” Georgie says because she will take it, she’ll take any proof that whatever is between them still has soil to grow in. And then Melanie moves her lips to Georgie’s neck and asks, “Do you want to move to the bed?”, and everything they say and think from then on is far harder to transcribe.

-

4. 

Georgie looks at her phone again, where several texts to Melanie over the last week remain unread. Nothing important, just pictures of The Admiral and a Tweet she found funny. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but Georgie has so few ways to find clues about Melanie’s mental state that these things end up mattering more than they should.

When Georgie steps out of the elevator still looking at her phone, she’s stopped by a woman wearing a hijab with her arm in a splint.

“Georgie, right?” she asks. “I’m Basira. Melanie sent me.”

“Yes, that’s me,” Georgie says. “Where’s Melanie?”

The thing about no longer being able to feel fear is that it leaves behind a hole. Sometimes, in its place, Georgie feels a neighboring emotion—disgust, surprise, anger. Sometimes, she just feels nothing.

Basira speaks, and Georgie’s fingers turn numb.

“We—the Magnus Institute—we were attacked a few days ago.”

“Is Melanie okay?” Georgie’s voice sounds distant to her own ears.

“Oh!” Basira says. “Yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to worry you. She’s fine, not too injured. She’s actually the one who saved us all.”

Although Georgie’s lost her fear, she hasn’t lost the ability to feel relief. The feeling comes rushing into her, warming her skin and slowing her breaths.

“Oh, thank god.”

But Basira isn’t finished yet. “She told me to tell you that you shouldn’t expect to see her back here again.”

“What?” Melanie had said that what happened last week wouldn’t affect whether or not she talked to Georgie afterwards, and Georgie trusts her. Whatever this is is far worse than post-sex awkwardness. “Why?”

“Basically, leaving the Institute… it’s not safe anymore. I shouldn’t even be here, but I owe Melanie a favor. We need her protection.”

Georgie plays the words back to herself, once, then twice. “That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You break your arm once and now Melanie has to live out the rest of her life as a guard dog?”

“Everyone’s in danger, including her.”

“But you’re giving her the task of defending against whatever tried to hurt you.”

Basira sighs. “You don’t get it. You didn’t see her attack The Flesh.”

“Sure.”

“It was like… She was laughing. The whole time. The ‘not being able to quit’ mess is a different issue, but the anger and violence? I think she likes it.”

There’s the numbness again, and with it, a heaviness on Georgie’s chest. “I don’t believe you.”

Basira sighs again. “Listen, I don’t really know what the situation between the two of you was, but I think you need to let it go. Either way, I need to get back to work.”

Basira presses the down button on the elevator. The door doesn’t automatically slide open, so she stands there and waits for the elevator to reach their floor. Georgie is suddenly very aware that if she stays here, she might break something.

“I have to go, too,” she says, and heads to the stairwell where no one can see her scream into her hands.

-

5. 

“Melanie?” Georgie says into the phone, hoping against hope that this is a good sign.

There is silence from the other end of the line, and Georgie waits, teetering between shocked and curious and angry and numbnumbnumb. Then, slow and rasping:

“Georgie. It’s… agh! sorry—it’s… good to… hear from you.”

“It’s good to hear from you too, but it’s been five months, Melanie, what are you even—”

“I… know, I'm… sorry… but I need… you to get me…” 

Georgie arrives at the location Melanie’s sent her within minutes and stops dead. Melanie’s slumped on the ground, face tear-soaked and twisted in pain. In one hand, she holding her knife, which she drops once she registers that the sounds she’s hearing are Georgie approaching. In the other, she clutches her right leg. There’s a giant piece of fabric cut out of her trousers. The rest of said trousers are soaked in blood.

Once, Georgie and Melanie had challenged each other to a gore-athon—one night of the bloodiest horror movies they could dig up; whoever reacted audibly or covered their eyes first had to buy the other dinner. Georgie thought the no-fear would give her an advantage; Melanie later told Georgie that she was entirely banking on exploiting the rules (no one said she couldn’t cover her mouth so her reactions would be too muffled to be audible). Georgie doesn’t remember who lost, but she remembers that the injera at the Ethiopian place they went to afterwards was divine. That, and that they didn’t even make it through the first film. Turns out, disgust is disgust regardless of the presence of fear, and it’s very hard to muffle full-throat yells even with your fist in your mouth. 

Melanie’s not screaming this time, and Georgie’s not disgusted, just very, very still.

“Fuck,” Georgie says. “How long have you been—”

Melanie’s words leave her mouth between gritted teeth. “Not… sure. Hour, maybe? Wasn’t really in a state… to count.”

“And you ran all the way from the Institute before—?”

Melanie nods.

“Fuck.”

Melanie makes a grabby motion with her free hand. “Did you bring…?”

Melanie had asked on the phone if Urban Survival had sent Georgie any first aid kits as part of their What the Ghost? sponsorship. Georgie had said yes, they did, and tried not to stamp down any inappropriate joy over the fact that Melanie knows Urban Survival is a sponsor when the only time she’d read an advert for them was the newest episode this week.

“I didn’t bring the first aid kit.”

Melanie frowns. “Why?”

“Promise me you won’t run?”

Melanie raises her eyebrows and looks meaningfully at her leg.

“I’ve already called an ambulance here.”

“What?”

Melanie looks like she’s gearing herself up for a long argument, but frankly, the optics of Georgie standing over a bleeding woman in an alley aren’t great and adding shouting to the mix is a terrible move. Speaking of—

“Respond to that later. Right now, can I put your knife away?”

“Why?”

“I’ll give it back, I just—I gave them my description, but I still don’t want the paramedics to think I’m the one who attacked you.”

Melanie shrugs and stares at the ground. Georgie bends down (which, ouch) to pick it up, sheathes it, and, after some consideration, drops it in her coat pocket.

“Good now,” she tells Melanie.

“I’m… not going… to hospital.”

As if on cue, Georgie hears the faint sound of sirens. “You can argue with me once we’re on the way.”

“I don’t… want…”

“I checked The Magnus Institute’s health insurance policy, so you should be fine.”

“That’s… not…”

“Melanie, listen. Bandages aren’t gonna cut it, and even though I do have a needle and thread at home, neither of us have hands that listen to us. We can’t stitch this up ourselves.”

The sirens get louder. “Then—”

Georgie notes, briefly, that she is shaking, which is a fairly unusual stress response for herself. “A&E will take care of it. And after that, you tell me what the hell happened because ’Jon and Basira’ isn’t a good enough explanation.” 

“I’m… not… going,” Melanie says again.

“Well I am, and I’m also not leaving you, so, tough.” Melanie grimaces, and Georgie softens her tone. “Melanie, do you trust me?”

Melanie scowls, then nods.

“The doctors won’t hurt you. I’ll stay with you the whole time.”

Melanie holds out for a long time, then sighs. “Fine. Don’t… really think I have the… strength right now… to fight off a paramedic.”

“Then it’s a good thing that you don’t have to fight anymore.”

Melanie frowns at that, shaking her head. “I… don’t know… if that’s true.”

There’s a story there, Georgie can tell, an important one, one that Melanie won’t like telling and one that Georgie won’t like listening to.

Georgie presses a kiss to her own fingers, then brushes those fingers against the top of Melanie’s head. “Okay. We’ll work on it. For now, hospital.”

-

6.

A coda, of sorts:

Melanie tells Georgie about choosing to keep the ghost bullet months later, after therapy and an awl in each eye and a truckload of anesthetic wearing off, and Georgie eats the rest of their dinner thinking about blame and the pitfalls of black-and-white morality. That night in bed, Georgie tells Melanie about why she needed to take a year off uni, and Melanie holds her through it, rubbing the back of Georgie’s neck with her thumb and vowing to stab all future trauma-causing medical corpses. Later, Melanie sinks down onto Georgie, slow and careful, as Georgie gasps into the sticky darkness of their room. In the morning, they say hi to Georgie’s neighbor and their daughter and feed The Admiral. Melanie puts textured stickers on her white cane (which may or may not have a concealed blade compartment, courtesy of one of Georgie’s friends) and talks about getting into podcasting, and Georgie orders takeout and makes a list of name suggestions for the guide dog they’re saving up for. In the afternoon, Georgie takes Melanie to her one-week enucleation follow-up appointment and Melanie says, so very casually, “bye, love you” as she walks into the doctor’s office. There’s more to come later, but for now, Georgie smiles at everyone in the waiting room and the world keeps spinning.

[turtlepated]

Beetlejuice x Reader - Lonely Like Me

Part 2

This one’s waaaay longer than Part 1, and I cranked the angst up to 11 and broke off the knob, so tread lightly. Don’t wanna upset anyone. Thanks for reading!

@imtherain

---------------

Beetlejuice was invisible for a long, long time before Lydia came along. He hated it, but he got used to it because he had no choice. Now he’s got his own weird little family thing going on and he’s the most content he’s ever been. But then he discovers that someone else can see him, too, and he just has to check it out. 

Your life wasn't much, but you did all right.

You didn't like your job very much, but it wasn't without it's perks. It was certainly a step up from ten years' worth of minimum wage drudgery in one department store after another. It was still far from your dream job, but you could get by. You tried hard to remember that.

Your social circle was... easy to keep track of. Over the course of your life you'd had really good friends from middle school on up through senior year. You'd been close with a couple people in particular, but as you all got older and your lives became more hectic, people spread out and lost touch. You understood that, it was only natural after all. You did think more than once that maybe you ought to reach out some time, just to touch base and catch up.

But then the thought would occur to you that if they really wanted to talk to you, they would do it. It seemed to happen sooner or later with every friendship you made. One day they just... stopped answering your messages and you figured that was that. It bothered you sometimes, but you were used to it. Life went on for everybody. 

But not for you.

Things began changing the day you almost crashed your shopping cart into that strange man at the supermarket. You had never seen another person like him in your life, at least not in living color and outside the glow of the TV screen. He'd been dressed in a black and white striped suit in such a state of distress that it looked as though he'd fallen down a ravine while wearing it. And his hair! Brilliant green locks that stood straight up from his scalp as though electrified.

You'd apologized, of course, offering him a smile and heading on your way. You'd glanced back over your shoulder as you rounded the next aisle, but he wasn't there? No way you would have missed such an outlandishly dressed person, but it was as though he'd disappeared into thin air. Strangely, the black-clad teenage girl he'd presumably been with was still standing right where you'd seen her before, apparently talking to herself. You shrugged it off. After all, you often talked to yourself too.

Ever since that day you've had this feeling like you were being watched. It would be the barest flicker in your peripheral vision, enough to make your pulse speed up a little bit. But there was never anything there. Even your cat would apparently just stare at a random area of empty space. Which was, admittedly, not unusual for a cat.

You did your best to put it out of your mind. You had plenty of other things to concern yourself with than imaginary visitors. Your job was monotonous, it was repetitive. There were days you dreaded going to bed at night because you knew that in the morning you would have to go back there for nine hours with no escape. You tried to make your cubicle into your haven from the mind-numbing tedium. You tacked goofy little drawings and memes and poems all around your walls. You decorated it with seasonal trappings: fake flowers in the spring, pumpkins and leaves in fall, fairy lights and garland at Christmas. Some days it was enough to distract you. And some days it wasn’t.

One week, for no particular reason, it’s bad. You start out every day frustrated for no definable reason, and then you have to go to work where it only gets worse. From Monday to Friday, everything is awful and it sends you spiraling down a dark pit into despair that try as you might, you can’t seem to pull yourself out of. The hours drag by with unbearable slowness, each passing second seeming to cost you more than you knew you had to give. You soldier on as best you can, wanting more than anything to simply go home and collapse into someone’s comforting embrace and just cry. But no matter how fiercely you want it, how desperately you wish for it, no one will be there. You will spend the night as you always have; alone, aching, and drying your own tears.

Finally, blessedly, you leave work for the day and you would have the whole weekend to try and recover from this terrible week before doing it all over again. When you step through your door a short while later you find the house utterly empty save for yourself and your cat. Ordinarily shutting the door behind you after a long day would bring on such a sense of relief. You would pet your cat and change into your pajamas, sit on the couch and relax. But not today.

You kick your shoes off at the door and leave them there, slinging your coat over the back of the couch as you pass by it, dropping your shoulder bag on the floor as you begin shucking off your clothing, stripping right down to your underwear and crawling back into bed, pulling the covers up over your head. It only takes a few seconds before it begins to get stuffy in your cocoon, your face growing hot as your eyeballs burn. At long last tears come, soaking your pillow, coating your cheeks as you curl into as tight a ball as you can, trying to stave off the gnawing ache in the center of your chest.

When it becomes too difficult to breathe you sit up in bed, raking back the hair stuck to your damp face, sniffling, your eyes red and raw. God dammit, you’re being ridiculous. You’re an adult, for crap’s sake, you’re supposed to be stronger than this. Yet here you are, bawling your eyes out, wishing so damn badly just for someone to sit next to you and say everything will be ok.

Your phone rings loudly from its place on your headboard and you jump, your heart leaping into your throat at the unexpected sound. Curious, you raise it up to see who’s calling. The screen reads: “UNKNOWN – 2383543873”. You roll your eyes, clearly a telemarketer or robocall, and silence the phone before setting it back on the headboard. You take a deep breath, filling your lungs til they felt they might burst, and let it all out in a harsh exhale between pursed lips. You actually do feel better, at least, after the crying session, sort of emptied out. Your head jerks round as your phone rings again, “UNKNOWN – 2383543873”. What in the world?

You don’t silence it this time, but you don’t answer it either. You sit there watching the phone, and sure enough a minute later it rings once again: “UNKNOWN – 2383543873”. This time you pick it up, swiping your finger across the screen to accept the call. “Hello?” you say tentatively. Silence is your only response. “Hello?”

After nearly 30 seconds of no answer, you lower the phone to hang up. At the same moment your thumb hits the Call End button, you think you hear a voice on the line: “He-…Hello?” It’s low, raspy and gravelly and it sounds surprised, but before you have time to react you’ve already hung up the phone. Barely a minute later it rings again and you pick it up immediately. “Who is this?” you demand, the beginnings of real fear tightening in your chest. You can hear what sounds like heavy breathing on the other end of the line, and that same gravelly voice in your ear, “Holy crap, is this really working?” “What do you want?” There’s a burst of maniacal laughter that makes you snatch the phone away from your ear. “I can’t believe it, it is working! Hiya, babes!”

You’re completely dumbfounded. What is going on here? Who is this strange man (because by now you’re pretty sure it’s a man’s voice) and why is he calling you? Is he drunk? High? Some combination of the two? “Is there something I can help you with?” you ask him, interrupting his gleeful giggling and babbling, getting frustrated with this whole crazy situation. “First things first, sweet stuff,” he says in a sing-song tone. “I’m gonna need ya to say my name, and then I can help you.” You frown, confused by the request and a little unsettled by the eagerness in his voice. “All right, weirdo, I’m hanging up now,” you say flatly. “Have nice night or whatever.” As you lower the phone you hear him sputtering in alarm. “Wait wait wait wait!” With a sigh you raise the phone back up. “I know this is weird and I didn’t mean to piss you off, but I just wanted to say everything’s gonna be ok.”

He says it all in one breath, like he’s afraid of being cut off before he finishes speaking, so it takes you a minute to fully process the onslaught of words. But when you do you can’t help feeling a little unnerved. “What?” you ask dumbly, thinking maybe you’ve misunderstood him. “I know you’ve been havin a hard time, doll, and I just wanted to letcha know everything’s gonna be ok.”

Your breath catches in your throat. How did he-? “Are you… watching me??” There’s a pause before he answers. “Is there any possible way I can say yes to that question without you getting mad and hanging up on me?” You scoff, angry at the invasion of privacy, afraid of what his motive might be, and hang up at once, scrambling out of bed to put on more clothes. You feel unbelievably vulnerable, what if he’s watching you right now?

You throw on a t shirt and pajama bottoms, peering out through your blinds to see if you can spot anybody watching your house. It’s already dark, but as far as you can see there’s no one around. The phone rings again, the same number, the same Unknown caller. You ignore it and soon enough it stops. But then it rings again, and again. You snatch up your phone and turn it off. It’s not a permanent solution, but maybe it’ll buy you some peace of mind for the night.

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Sorry for the massive angst-dump, but hopefully Part 3 will make up for it when Reader finally gets to meet the Ghost with the Most! 

PS: there’s a little bit of an Easter Egg slipped into this part. If you figure it out, you get a high five!