Kas ᡣ𐭩

Chapter 3

In all the years [name] had been alive, they never thought they’d be walking fifty-two minutes from their temporary home in their ultra-rich friend’s cottage to a convenience store in Barfleur to buy a battery pack in order to talk to a ghost from the ‘40s. That same ghost had rejected the suggestion as a “crackers” idea, refusing to believe that some kind of power bank would give him the strength to have some kind of corporeal form; his protests were not an excuse to remain hidden due to poor self-esteem following being ripped through with bullets (he insisted upon this, although his lies were thinly-veiled as his voice had climbed higher and higher in pitch), but he eventually conceded and accepted the suggestion as “a way to prove this was all bunk”, as he’d put it.

The walk was, with no other words to adequately describe it, painfully boring, although anything would be following the confirmation of the supernatural and a long conversation with a ghost from times long past. Identical paintings of green and blue acted as a backdrop to their trek to civilization, the breeze carrying the smell of the jasmine that grew along the trellises lining the cottage’s exterior. There wasn’t even a real path beyond a dusty trail following along whatever roads had carved through the country, so as [name] hiked along the hilltops of the French countryside, dust clung to their shoes, they thought on their week of bizarre phenomena, finally having an answer for what had been causing inexplicable happenings: [name] was sharing the house with a ghost.

The times the shower had gone ice cold to scaldingly hot despite nobody else being there to use any other taps? Mikey had been messing around, curious that nobody had to sit and boil water over the fireplace — he and his brother had lived in an older house, so he hadn’t had access to the plumbing features of new builds popping up in the 1940s. The TV being on at random times? Mikey, flicking through the channels, in awe of colourised television, as colour television wasn’t in widespread domestic usage until ten years after his death. Random items in places they’d never been placed before? Mikey, again: picking up whatever knick knack or bauble that interested him, admiring them, then getting distracted by a new ornament elsewhere and running over, leaving items strewn about everywhere.

As they finally approached Barfleur, they bolted to the convenience store, scanning the aisles for anything that could help catch a friendly ghost. After skimming over a label they couldn’t really understand, they purchased a packet of batteries, a power bank, but opted to put back the carton of ice cream after realising it’d be glorified soup when they returned to the cottage.

Meanwhile, Mikey had busied himself with tidying the mess he had made the evening prior when rummaging through drawers as though he were a police detective trying to find evidence, a little embarrassed by his own curiosity. After all, he hadn’t actually been able to get into the house, as Marie constantly had lemon and green chilli hanging from her doorways and windows, a little tradition she had carried from her parents; but, they had properties to absorb “negative energy” so they often repelled and drained Mikey’s ghostly energy, so he avoided being within close proximity to the house like the plague. But, they had rotted under the warmth of the sun, and [name] had thrown them out without replacement, giving him free entry.

When the bell hanging at the cottage door rang, signifying [name]’s arrival, Mikey jolted upright, dashing to hide behind the high back of an armchair, eyes wide behind his spectral spectacles — he had grown a strong aversion to bells since his death despite never truly minding them when he was alive, a side effect of his ghostly reanimation. When he spotted the batteries on the counter, he peered out from behind his hiding spot, drifting over invisibly, head tilted as he watched [name] charge up the power bank and then move to unpackage all of the batteries, laying them out in a bowl like they were snacks for Mikey to eat.

He drifted over to the landline, putting his energy into it to force it to ring again.

[name] sighed when the telephone rang once again, silently wondering if this was costing Marie any money to run.

“Yes, Mikey?” [name] groaned, sitting back on their usual perch on the arm of the sofa, flopping back onto the couch cushions like a dead body, arm braced behind their head as they waited for the ghostly voice to come through from the other side.

“I’m not sure this will work, [name] — I mean, that capacitor isn’t some hotrod that’ll make me appear.” Mikey sighed, leaning against the table that held the landline, talking into the machine and praying he had enough energy to talk for a while, wanting to put off the whole ordeal of becoming corporeal (he was well aware it would work, he just had his own taciturn reasons as to why he didn’t want it to work.)

“It’s a power bank.” [name] answered immediately, only to be cut off by Mikey’s next woe.

“All batteries are capacitors, [name]. What is being taught in schools these days? But… if this spifflicated idea of yours actually works… you aren’t gonna exorcise me because I’m not some ginchy movie star, right?” He mumbled into the landline, rubbing a hand over his face.

“...Because I haven’t even really seen myself, so… There’s a pretty fat chance I’ll be covered in bullet holes.”

“Why on earth would you be covered in bullets?” [name] laughed awkwardly, a little worried as they gripped the telephone, brows furrowed, jolting upright to grip the receiver harder, knuckles protruding out as their fist closed around the phone.

“I thought you knew? I was dusted off by some pug-ugly German on D-Day, back in ‘44. Got shot, then to make sure I was gone, I’m pretty sure they emptied a whole round into me. I’m probably still wearing my military duds, now that I’m thinking on it.” Mikey mused, eyebrows knitting together, hand itching at the back of his neck.

“Oh. My thing earlier about your self-esteem was a joke. I, uh, didn’t realise you’d actually been shot. God, that’s nasty. My bad, man.” [name] gasped, hiding their face in a pillow out of humiliation. How were they this socially awkward, even when talking to a ghost?

Staring at the ceiling, they sighed, fingertips tapping against the phone rhythmically, scrubbing at their face with their hand. What had their life come to?

“It's all by the by now; anyways, where are those batteries you want me to eat? Just don’t expect some Rudolph Valentino lookalike.” Mikey sighed, and the line cut dead. [name] sat up again, glancing over to the bowl of batteries as they rustled around, the outer casings crumpling and crinkling. They presumed that he was in the process of draining the energy from the batteries, as his presence slowly became stronger, more evident, until his vague outline began coming into view. He was tall, quite thin, and his hair was slicked into the formal military fashion of the ‘40s, and he wore thin, moon-shaped glasses. He was still in his military attire, bar his helmet, but much unlike his warnings, he wasn’t covered in bullet holes or bleeding like a stuck pig. He was, much to [name]’s surprise, quite... attractive? As the last battery crumpled, Mikey turned to face his living roommate.

Oh no. The ghost was hot. Why wouldn't he be?

A/N: hmmmthdhdb not my best work but the show must go on. Chapter subject to edits and changes later.

Ray had, once again, gone completely MIA. His location, a red dot on a map, glowing against the darkness of the night on [name]’s phone, was entirely stationary. He was supposedly in his apartment, and he — or, rather, his phone — hadn’t moved an inch since he had arrived there the night prior. Ray had been particularly skittish yesterday, when he was staying and hanging out at [name]’s place: his fingers twitched incessantly, and his eyes, almost yellowed around the edges of his irises, darted every which way, as though he were waiting for something to pop up from around the corner. [name], having a working pair of eyes and basic common sense, figured that something was wrong, but no amount of prodding and probing got an answer from their boyfriend of six months beyond vague excuses of headaches or band stress.

[name] wasn’t sure why they were surprised: Ray constantly went off-grid or completely unreachable; although it was only once a month, it was still hurtful that he refused to explain his random disappearances or strange injuries that followed his day of radio silence. He’d return from his disappearing act the day later, covered in bruising, cuts, and scrapes. Diligently, [name] would care for him, handle his injuries, and attempt to coax some kind of answer out of him; Ray would give an awkward yet clearly fake excuse and beg for the topic to be dropped, and, out of politeness and tact, [name] would. But that didn’t erase the all-consuming worry that they carried, always wondering when he’d drop off from the land of the living again.

Tonight was one of those nights. It was nearing four, maybe even five, in the morning, and Ray hadn’t responded or even been online (usually, when he was busy, he would at least give a message of forewarning or ask Frank to give them the heads up) since he bolted from their apartment the evening before last, and he wasn’t answering [name]’s calls.

Tired of being tactful, they had opted to pull on a coat to combat the cold air nipping at their sides; the cool night air wrapped around [name] as their shoes clicked against the damp concrete, evidence of last night’s downpour still fresh against the tarmac and the patches of grass peeking through the cracked pavement. The moon rose in the sky, this time a glowing pearl suspended by ink, a marbled white coin tossed by fate, although the rays of pale light were obscured by dark clouds swelling with precipitation. [name] thought back to the torn curtains, the scratched carpets, and the threadbare sofas that Ray often tossed blankets over to hide the ravaged upholstery; it was as though a dog, rabid and caged, had ripped through his home, although he owned no pets due to his nomadic life as his band’s guitarist. None of it pointed to a clear answer, unless they were willing to accept lycanthropy and the paranormal as an explanation… which they weren’t, naturally. Werewolves didn’t exist, and if they did (which they didn’t), Ray would’ve told name that he was one — right?

Walking up to Ray’s apartment building, [name] punched the entry code into the panel beside the door. On the outside, the building was basic and starkly unassuming, as were the halls and stairwells [name] sped through, trying to get to their boyfriend, who they assumed was getting into some kind of trouble. When they finally arrived at the weathered door of Ray’s apartment, they pounded against the wood, their fist clenched until their chewed nails bit into their skin. A small groan, one of pain, emanated from inside the residence, although it sounded inhuman, like a wounded animal clawing at its own injury, trying to stop the pain but worsening it instead.

When Ray (who, they’d later discover was considerably preoccupied) didn’t answer the door, [name] fished the spare key he had handed them two months ago for emergencies — and surprise visits after he got back from touring — from their pocket, turning the key in the lock. When they pushed against the door, which they found was blocked off by his overturned coffee table, they had to slam their shoulder against the wood to create a space wide enough to shuffle through. They managed to get inside the small home, and, at first glance, it looked closer to an abandoned house or a crime scene; when [name]’s eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room, as the lightbulb that typically hung from the ceiling had been ripped away, the wiring hanging loosely from above, they saw the empty room. The floors had been ripped to shreds, the walls clawed at, and the furniture strewn every which way. Ray had once given the excuse of being a guitarist as to why his walls were soundproofed, but now [name] knew the true reasoning: the total destruction of his personal space every month. As they crept forwards, although they were actually pressed against the walls and inching along them to get to their next destination within Ray’s decimated apartment, they gripped the worn brass of the doorknob to their boyfriend’s bedroom, where they could hear the sniffling of a wounded dog.

Twisting the doorknob and wearily peeking inside, jaw clenched in fear, they finally saw what their partner had been hiding from them. Ray — or what was left of him in his supernatural state — was curled up on the floor, with pointed ears covered in thick fur that curled to resemble his hair, his nose pulled forwards with his mouth, both features you adored in his human body, to form a snout and wicked snarl, his teeth, which normally smiled sweetly at them across tables on dates, sharpened to a deadly point. He was taller somehow, his clothes abandoned to reveal an equally wolfish body and clawed hands. Ray’s sides were clawed at until they were nothing but red, mangled flesh, his tail quivering as he curled into a ball, terrified of himself. [name] cleared their throat, still clutching at the walls, staring down at what was left of their lover, the person they had spent too much time picturing as they looked at wedding venues on Pinterest despite a lack of engagement ring at present. Ray’s eyes, absent of his usual pretty brown irises, were a dark black, his sclera a terrifying yellow. No amount of weird fanfiction could have prepared [name] for the tears dripping from his eyes, like a broken tap that wouldn’t stop dripping water.

Against their better judgement and the intelligence they prided themselves upon, they crouched down to his level, dropping to sit on their knees and just… take in the scene. Ray, unable to speak beyond whimpers of pain, shuffled over carefully, dog-like nose twitching as he remembered his lover. Much like a dog, he curled up at [name]’s feet, head resting against their thighs as his human subconscious, pushed to the back of his mind as the moon took temporary hold of his body, silently prayed that his lover would have mercy, that they would look at him the same, even as he despised himself with all the vitriol and loathing he could muster, and that they wouldn’t look up “how to euthanise a dog at home” on their phone. Instead, [name] opted to rest their hand against his head, soothing his worries of death and hatred. Internally, they were pissed that Ray had kept this from them, but they could save the telling off for later, when their boyfriend wasn’t curled up like a puppy with attachment issues, bleeding on his carpet, and whining.

[name] wasn’t a veterinarian, and they weren’t well versed in lycanthropic anatomy, so they stayed by his side until the sun finally peeked through the shredded curtains, his wolfish form receding. The transformation looked painful as his nose was practically crushed back into his face, his teeth retracted and flattened, and his ears shrunk back down from the pointed ones that once sat on either side of his head. The fur covering his body returned to wherever it came from, but his injuries stayed the same as he laid there across [name]’s lap, breathing ragged and strained.

Ray looked up as his partner ran their hands through the curls of his hair, this time, human as opposed to the fur of a dog, his eyes still slightly yellowed around his irises. But he hadn’t been run away from, and he hadn’t repulsed them (and euthanasia was not considered, thank God). As the sunlight warmed his body from the chill accompanying his undead experience, he rolled onto his back, trying to get into a comfortable position after being contorted on the floor all night.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Ray, but you can rest first. First aid kit is still under the sink, right?” [name] croaked with a small smile that tugged at the corners of their mouth, moving to collect the item in question.

“Yeah. Thanks, [name].” Ray returned the smile, even as pain tugged at his attention, his torso still looking like it’d been attacked by a pack of wild dogs.

Ray Toro was a complete sweetheart. He was respectful, punctual, reliable, and, with no other words left to describe him, perfect. He planned dates, he would rather die than be late, always remembered everything [name] told him, and he showered his partner with affection whenever they were together. He communicated well. He reassured [name] constantly. He never left them hanging, and he always messaged first, or at least replied quickly.

But Ray Toro was a werewolf, and he was a werewolf that was immensely grateful for his lover.

A/N: hope yall liked it. Idk if you saw it in my A/N for The Ghost of You but I'm sticking with [name] because I've gotten too attached to it and I get icked out by Y/N because of my old Wattpad reading habits <3