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starkidsonnets · 1 month ago

Text

interpretation of ambiguous stimuli

barry milland x ghost! reader (platonic)

| contains : angst and fluff, allusions to torture, very brief blood mention, brief Keller mention, Prisoners (2013) should be a warning in itself tbh

| word count : 1686 (i am SO sorry)

| note : thanks to @rune-tisms (my beloved) for the idea ! this fic has zero dialogue and i've never written for a ghost before, so. um. yeah !

What a strange shape.

Right there, down by the radiator.

What is that?

It was warm, especially in its centre, and its heat spread to the floor directly beneath it.

Its vibrations disturbed the still air around it, and whatever it was had a tendency to cry.

It was unlike the other shapes that moved about your involuntary residence. Those shapes were fast, loud, and fleeting. Harsh. Vibrating through the air, creating crashing waves instead of the gentle ripples of this shape. This shape, which was slow and quiet, for some reason did not move from the floor until the other shapes moved it.

It shivered and shuddered, whimpered and cried, sometimes humming weaky to itself.

Sometimes you’d join in, harmonizing lowly with your own melody. But whenever you started, it stopped, and began to weep instead.

Still, you had never seen a human look so... wrong.

The people that frequented the abandoned apartment were typically the passive kind, drifting in like shadows, with nowhere better—warmer—to spend a cold and rainy night. They would huddle in corners, wrapped in tattered blankets or the remnants of their lives, their faces etched with weariness and resignation. By morning, they were gone, like wisps of smoke dissipating into the dawn.

Of course, there was the occasional junkie, a figure whose frantic energy cut through the stillness, eyes darting as if searching for salvation in the debris. They came in like a whirlwind, bringing chaos with them, but they never lingered long. The flicker of excitement or danger faded quickly, replaced by the same old weariness that haunted the place.

But it was different now. You sensed a shift, an unsettling presence that clung to the air like fog. You couldn’t quite understand what was happening, but you didn’t like it. The constant crying pierced through the silence, a sound that echoed with desperation, filling the empty spaces with a haunting melody of sorrow. You could feel the terror radiating off the poor soul. He was a fragile figure engulfed in shadows. His anguish was palpable, a thick fog that settled over the remnants of the apartment, suffocating and oppressive. It weighed heavily on your restless soul, a burden you wished you could lift.

His name was Alex, you had discovered.

Words were difficult to pick up where you were, drifting through the ether of an abandoned apartment, a space long forgotten by the world outside. Names, however, remained a curious certainty, like fragile wisps of memory that floated just beyond your reach. You clung to them as if they were lifelines in the fog of your existence. In the quiet of the apartment, you could almost feel the weight of his name around you, its energy crackling like static in the air. It didn’t suit him, you had decided. Though, who are you to judge, really – you can’t even remember your own.

You watched the shadows shift, feeling the familiar ache of longing wash over you. It was a cruel reminder of your own absence, a juxtaposition of existence and oblivion. The remains of the sink lay in chunky pieces across the dirty, cracked ceramic tile floor. Fragments glimmered in the dim light, their sharp edges reflecting the pain that had filled the room. He, you had discovered, a man full of grief and anger, had been awfully loud tonight. His voice had risen to a fever pitch, each word laced with a venom that dripped into the air like poison. It was a raw, primal sound, one that clawed at the very fabric of the night, terrifyingly loud, echoing through the desolation. You felt the tremors of his rage, the way it pierced the hearts of those around him, whether they were beating or not... As the men’s shapes finally disappeared into the night, shapes melting into the darkness, you felt the weight of the atmosphere shift. The tension that had gripped the room began to unravel, replaced by a silence that was both haunting and relieving.

It was a strange feeling, this relief mingling with the remnants of turmoil. You lingered amidst the debris of shattered porcelain, the echoes of that man’s anger still ringing in your ears. However, there were more pressing issues afoot. Alex, his name, you reminded yourself, was still here. Shaking, crying, as he was usually left. It felt as though the fragments of the sink mirrored the pieces of his spirit – broken, jagged, and full of anguish. The sight of him, hunched over and lost in his pain, twisted something within you. You yearned to reach out, to bridge the chasm between his sorrow and the solace you wished to offer. But how does a being like you, between light and shadow, comfort a man whose grief felt so solid, so real? The air around you felt charged with unspoken words, each one pressing against your ethereal form, longing to take shape. You wanted to gather him in your arms, to whisper gentle reassurances that the storm would pass. You imagined wrapping him in warmth, even if it was just a fleeting touch of air, a breath of comfort that would remind him he was seen, he was heard, he was not alone.

Your breeze felt comfortingly cool against his smouldering skin, a gentle caress that brought with it a fleeting sense of hope. Alex looked up, his form becoming clearer to you as you pushed for a connection. His eyes went wide with a mixture of longing and despair, searching for a sign that someone had come for him. The swing of a door, the crack of a window; anything to break the suffocating silence that enveloped him. But there was nothing, just the echo of his own breath mingling with the distant sounds of the night. Yet, the breeze persisted, wrapping around him like a tender embrace. It swirled through the room, whispering soft promises of comfort, less like a breeze now and more like a cool blanket of air. It dried the tears and blood that clung sticky and streaky to his cheeks, easing the rawness of his pain. You wished you could do more, to take away the source of his suffering, but this was the extent of what you could to affect a world you technically no longer existed in – this soothing presence, this quiet reminder that he was not alone. That there was someone, somewhere, who cared for him. As your cool air enveloped him, he could feel the weight of his grief momentarily lift, if only just. It was as if your essence flowed into him, mingling with his sorrow, offering a sense of calm amidst the chaos. You drew closer, willing your energy to merge with his, hoping he could feel the warmth of your intention: a silent promise that you were there, watching over him.

With every shiver of your essence, you conjured memories of light, moments of joy that had once danced in his eyes. You wanted him to remember the simplicity of normal life, to feel the warmth of the morning sun, to know that even in the depths of despair, there was a flicker of hope waiting to be rekindled. You could mirror his grief, having lived through it, having died with it. Each wave of sorrow that washed over him resonated within you, a familiar echo of a life once filled with love and laughter that had been abruptly severed. You understood the depths of his despair because they mirrored the abyss you had stared into yourself, the moments when hope felt like a distant memory.

With a flicker of intent, you shifted the atmosphere, causing the air to thrum with electricity. Suddenly, the window that hung just above him rattled, the glass trembling as if a gust of wind had swept through. Alex’s gaze snapped to the sound, confusion mingling with the slightest glimmer of hope. Encouraged, you pressed on. The hammer that had been stuck into the wall slowly tilted, nearly turning upside down entirely before you let it fall, letting it hang as it was. You could almost feel the way his breath caught in his throat, a mixture of fear and curiosity. You wanted nothing less than to scare him, so you left it at that.

Speaking and having anyone hear was beyond you, a boundary that felt insurmountable. Yet, you couldn’t help but wonder if he would still shy away from you when you sang. It was a notion that filled you with a quiet determination. And so, you let your essence shift and take form, weaving together a gentle melody, a lullaby of sorts that floated through the air like a soft caress. The notes emerged from the depths of your being, light and airy, filling the abandoned apartment with a warmth that contrasted the cold shadows. It was a simple tune, one that carried the weight of longing and comfort, echoing the very emotions you wished to convey to Alex. You poured your heart into each note, hoping they would reach him, wrapping around him like a soothing blanket.

As you continued to weave your song, the walls seemed to respond, absorbing the melody and echoing it back in gentle waves. The shadows flickered in time with the rhythm, creating a soft light that cast dim shapes across the floor, like moonlight through a prism. You felt the atmosphere shift, the heaviness that had clung to the room beginning to lift, replaced by a silent invitation for him to join you, as you have joined in on his quiet melodies before.

Softly, his voice worked in his throat, broken little hums that accompanied your echoing song. The sounds emerged like fragile wisps of smoke, tentative and uncertain, but they added a depth to the melody that warmed the air around you. You held him tenderly, and he shivered, but didn’t seem discomforted. He simply leaned his head back against the wall, his breathing slowing until he was too tired to hum with you. So, he listened, holding onto your gentle presence, a fragile whisper of comfort in the quiet of the night.

#star's sonnets #barry my sweet angel :(#wanted to write ghost reader for spooky season #huzzah!#barry milland #alex winterman jones #barry milland x reader #alex winterman jones x reader #prisoners 2013 #danonation #danocel

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