Lyric

“𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩 𝙣𝙤𝙬, 𝙝𝙪𝙝, 𝙥𝙪𝙥? 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙄’𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙩.”

warnings. 18+ explicit content. stalking. murder & blood kinks. coercion. yandere. obsessive behavior. fear play. dead dove: do not eat. danny "jed olsen" johnson | the ghost face / fem!reader

summary. small town journalist, hungry like a starved fox to make it big in the small town she grew up in gets more than what she bargained for when the notorious killer, nicknamed the ghost, makes a grandiose return to her safe haven. rather than feeling any sort of fear, her make-shift innocence starts crumbling when she feels her past predatory interest waken anew, and the scar on her stomach from their past exchanges tingle with recognition. and so the little game of the hound and the ghost begins once more. this time, it might be the last.

read the first chapter here! or scroll a little further down.

good to have you here! haven't given this writing thing a go for quite some time and what better way than revisiting my favourite ghostface and making our dear reader suffer a little!

any feedback is appreciated and will be considered. i'm planning on developing this story for a while. this entails the tags will change overtime.

hopefully reader survives this! of course, that's up to me, so i can just wish you good luck.

art credit: jispooks

chapter one bark no bite

It was the dead of night in a slow September when you first felt a shift—a familiar chill in the air and along your spine that ran your blood stone cold.

Since your earliest memories of yourself you had a certain knowing flooding your bloodstream that you were destined—for something, anything. A quiet possession fluttering and stirring in the deepest parts and it made you wonder what could possibly reach this far inside you to scratch the itch and need of an ambition unknown even to yourself. You grew up with the little creature uncertainty crawling underneath your skin and settling where comfort was absent.

You took many losses in your life, each one you mourned more than the last. Self-doubt stirred enough in you to make you quiet, observant and reserved to the outside world that you so wished to have in the palm of your hand—such a large appetite was fit for a starving fox such as yourself. You had more ambition than you knew what to do with in a world that felt as though it had never been quite tailored to function just right for you.

The amount of sweat you poured out into the world in the childish hopes of leaving a mark was laughable, and it only served to water the soil. Nothing more.

A girl from a town that was no bigger than her.

You often fantasized—life larger than you. Larger than anything that ever kept you up at night with your eyes glued to your reflection in your bedroo. window wondering whether this body suited you for anything other than being a mere presence. Whether the hours you spent researching academics after being the first in your family to pursue formal education was ever going to amount to anything other than a slip of paper with your shiny name on it, almost like a mockery plastered with gold.

Names ought to give power, you thought. 

Yours did nothing.

Yet, life has a way of tipping the balance. All that is needed sometimes is a small shift. A barely noticeable anomaly, a tiny speck in the symmetry of what you'd call normal.

The first time you felt a sort of... spark, yeah, that's how you'd describe it. A little spark, like the one of stars in the night sky where you consciously accept you're looking at a burning body and yet you still squint in subconscious instinct to get closer to it, see it better, feel what it's made of. Moth to a flame.

Your final year as a bachelor in Journalism, with a profile in Criminal Justice. You were fresh into taking your first internships and living in a constant, dull state of stagnancy where you felt all you were destined for was catching small-fry criminals who didn't get loved enough by their mom and so they up and went to rob the corner shop where the seller knew them since a child and simply shook their head and rang the police while said small-fry trembled with adrenaline and fear of being... a criminal?

You could scoff, and you did. It was borderline humiliating—calling yourself a criminal reporter, now graduated and the only semblance of success was in that you hadn't still went off your rockers from the sheer boredom of it. You were all smiles, politeness, consideration and a sense of honor infront of people. The picture perfect charming journalist who occasionally appeared on the small town TV channel to give a rundown, slightly exaggerated at times, of recent criminal activity and whether the perpetrators had been taken into custody. Please rest assured Roseville is safe, for you and your family, and everyone around you.

Was it, though? While people make wishes on falling stars you made a wish on the falling spark inside you. Most likely you wish you hadn't done that. It all starts with a little breeze, a little shift in the air. A little news here and there from people you've seen once or twice—a silent acknowledgement that something was stirring.

Something indeed was.

It was your rise to fame, if you could call it that. Small town journalist and her unfortunate involvement with a notorious serial killer that first left his imprint on Roseville the first year of your university program. When you were still unsure, riddled with doubt. Your only run in with him had been on campus where you saw, briefly but significant, the drag of a cloak and reflection of a mask. Your breath had caught in your throat, a sort of chill taking solace on your skin and you had simply waited. You realised then how small your world was, how your ambition only rampaged in your head where it had a safety barrier cornering it incase something had gone away and the fact of it made you entirely sick. Sicker than the fact that this was where your months long cat and mouse game began that would make you bigger than the meager town you grew up in.

To chase your ambition you learned to put up a farce, and a farce put up for long enough gains sufficient truth to blur the line between lie and reality. 

Reality, for you, became calculated, carefully curated to appeal to you and your morbid interest in being recognized as an entity, more than human, that people cannot hide from. Your contribution to the Ghost case was invaluable, you were seen as the reporter who didn't think twice before going head first into shark infested waters. Turns out you had a knack for finding shit out, and people needed you for it. When was the last time you were ever needed?

A sort of predatory interest fed greedily on the satisfaction of the scales always being tipped in your favor as you unraveled cold cases and revelled in your own bloody success. 

The Roseville Hound—you found it quite ridiculous, in all fairness, a nickname you certainly doubted would inspire fear in the criminals you pursued, but you thought better than to be picky with the consequences of your glory.

With glory comes ghosts.

You remember his words to you on the rainy night, long in the past, when your pursuit of the killer first reported in a Roseville Gazette issue went as wrong as anything can go wrong on a rainy night. You were stupid, defenseless and most of all—you quickly found that a single mistake had gotten you pressed against a police car away from the sight of the police force and reporters, a cold blade and a cruel, breathy chuckle running down the side of your neck as a message before he slipped away into the woods, never to be seen again for years to come.

You had let him get away, and not because you chose to. You were out of control.

Although he moved like a ghost, he was living proof of the breach in your defense, a pulsing point of vulnerability he was able to press on with half the effort it took you to even find anything remotely traceable. Everything you knew about him felt as if it was deliberately placed by him, every meeting orchestrated.

He was far more calculating than you ever were—it was an unnatural and ghastly competition where he pulled the strings just enough to have them graze over your skin prickling with reluctance. It was a twisted game you were pulled into, more than you ever bargained for. Forced to play the martyr bait due to his sick obsession with you because as long as you kept him entertained the victim count would significantly decrease.

Little notes on your desk complimenting you.

A bouquet of white roses on your doorstep after each murder as an accusation for not paying enough attention to him.

Luring you out to places where he could chase you and reward you with a week of peace if you managed to get away. The scar on your stomach still remembers your last confrontation—date, as he called it.

The Hound and the Ghost.

Always one step ahead of you, beating you in your own predatory games for months and months and months until you felt as though you were never a threat to begin with. He made you feel small. Your scales of justice and glory began tipping an inch to the right where he always stood in your shadow, unrelenting.

It would be far more accurate to say he was the one who always found you, not the opposite.

You played a dangerous game with him and at moments you questioned your own moral compass. What, exactly, was important to you in this investigation? The safety of people, the ghoulish interest of a sick-minded individual with hands bloodier than anyone's you know? Or the kick you got each time he slipped and left you more than he initially intended? A silent reminder he was human too—that behind that silly mask was a man starved, maybe as starved as you. Yet when you snapped out of your grandeur delusions you generally felt a sense of shame for having leveled yourself with such a gruesome criminal. You shouldn't have a single connecting link to him, but then again, you shouldn't many things.

Except on a rainy September night, your little game was cut short. It seemed little more than a shattered fantasy when you thought you had him cornered, pressed to the wall. It was the end of the Ghost that tortured you so. You needed to put a finish to your little game before your walls slipped further and you got a taste of something more dangerous that you already had an inkling would become a living thing that needed constant feeding. It was the sense of triumph you felt before the blade on your neck and your heart shrunk with how wavering your greatness felt.

“Think you're hot shit now, huh, pup? The headline I’ll make of you one day will be hard to forget.”

Everyone thought it was the end of it. And it should’ve been. He wasn’t your concern anymore and you were still needed by people. Your sanctuary was upheld and you thought better than to look for a killer who only let himself be found when he thought it entertaining. You let yourself forget—maybe that was your first mistake? Or it had been the years in which you matured, got a new outlook on the life you built for yourself. Stopped wishing for a world bigger than you, and simply lived as big as you allowed yourself to be. You felt grounded, competent and unwavering in the resolve of the previously starved animal you harbored inside you that now served a purpose greater than false ambition.

You let the Ghost and the memory remain a scar that at times reminded you how perilous lusting over what's not yours can be.

The grip you had on your newspaper tightened almost unnoticeably, steadying your breaths as you’ve learned among the years.

Three found dead on the campus of Atlas University, Roseville.  Accident, or premeditated murder?

Your eyes struggled to stay in focus while scanning the article’s title on your computer screen. The chill along your spine seemed to grow claws as your whole body went stiff—was it him? No, he most definitely had made his escape out of Roseville, that is how these psychopaths are presumed to function. He got too close to getting caught last time, he wouldn’t risk it. Is it a copycat? 

Your mind was racing with possibilities and, for the first time, none of them thrilled you. On one hand you knew better than to give hasty opinions on newly opened cases, but the details of the gruesome murders had been far too familiar for comfort.

The article had been written by Jed Olsen, the new, and somewhat, annoyingly, rivaling journalist for the Roseville Gazette. A cunning and charming man with a sort of puppy look that was hard to say no to. Naive, but resourceful with how far his mouth could run when he wanted information—in that he was useful but that is as much credit as you’re willing to give him. Or, however much you were capable in that moment where you felt the bile rise to your throat in subconscious warning that something was wrong.

If someone asked you about Jed Olsen you wouldn't have much to say. You don't let people close enough, and it didn't help that your observations note the slight deceit in his cheerful nature and the discomfort in your belly when you had to be in his presence for long. He didn't give you any conscious, sensible reasoning to avoid him, but your intuition has saved your skin more times than you can count over the years. Better safe than sorry.

He sure made it all the more hard when he, you presumed, noticed your tendency to avoid him. He noticed too much for your liking, but so did you.

Jed knew your schedule almost to a T under the pretense of gaining valuable experience from the head journalist of Roseville Gazette herself. Ma'am, please don't file a report on me. I mean— of course I might have overstepped some personal boundaries, but listen, let's grab a coffee this weekend—

To put it nicely, he was a pain in the ass.

You liked your solitude, could think better in it. And most of all, you couldn't have your new assistant, so you liked to call him, snooping about your sacred premises when you performed your duties that were more or less discouraged by the head chief. You had an odd way of finding scoop and unraveling its twisted knots that regular reporters would undoubtedly avoid to dodge possible life threatening scenarios.

Jed, frustratingly so, seemed to be no better. 

The maddening, and uncomfortable, difference between the two of you, however, was that where you were calculating the danger and consciously putting yourself infront of the lion's den to get some sense of the criminal's mind—he was doing it almost as though it was a game. He was always sickeningly confident and all honey dripping smiles while he struggled and stuttered to explain why he comes back from questionings with a black eye and slightly torn collar in the exact time you were the only one remaining in the office and would be morally obliged to tend to your assistant.

"You should see the other guy." He would say with a slight slur as you wiped the blood from his mouth with an alcohol pad, keeping the biggest possible physical distance as if he was contagious with some part of his personality you wished not to catch. "Anyhow, got the lil' bird to talk. Wanna hear it, ma'am? Got the whole scoop for ya."

Your eyes were still scanning the article, a little absent mindedly as your phone rang, the little hairs on your neck standing up. You took note of the caller ID—Jed (Work)—and hesitantly picked up as if it was Ghost himself who had called you.

“You’re reading it, right?” A cheerful tone echoed across the line.

“You sound far too entertained. Surely even a dimwit such as yourself can understand this could mean something.”

“Ouch, ma’am—” he audibly winced, and you could imagine him rubbing his own chest in makeshift pain. His dramatic mannerisms had been engraved into your mind for the short time you've known him, and whether it was a phone call or eye to eye meeting made no difference to you. “You sure know how to twist a knife into a wound. Wrong occupation?"

“Not in the mood for jokes, Jed.” you uttered.

“Fourty-seven stabs across the three bodies.” You could hear rustling on the other line, the sound of a lighter and a barely audible puff. From your line he could only hear your knee bouncing until it hit the bottom of your desk and tipped your cup over, spilling its contents across your lap—drawing out a mumble of something between shit and fuck from you. 

“Shitfuck is right, I mean, a little unclassy. Could show a little respect for the bodies.” Jed observed in, according to him, good taste and a completely sensible and polite approach to murders. “Do you thi—”

“Do you think it’s him?” You interrupted him, unable to focus on his tasteless report. Your blood stirred and reached your ears in a coalesce of panic and twisted chance at doing what you should’ve done a long time ago. Your scar panged in recognition. No one except you know what you went through, you covered it well enough to the point where it became a memory far enough to be scarcely visible. Jed wasn’t about to be the first one to find out.

He must’ve heard the little shake in your voice as he sharply exhaled, scrambling with a stutter. “Let’s not get hasty, alright? Could be any fella, really, who’s to say?” Another puff. “Though, wouldn’t it be a lil’ nice if it was him? Makes a good headline. Ghost returns to town. Could be our first case solved together."

The single pale, fluorescent light in your bedroom glimmered across your desk, light dancing on the spilled water as your mind swirled with opportunity, primal fear and a sort of excitement. Were you as sick in the head as the Ghost once left you? Could he have left something of himself within you? How else would you explain these feelings—and if you were to choose someone to lay the blame on for how wayward they were, who else would it fall on?

Did you even want to get involved?

Did you have a choice?

You had an inkling crawling in the back of your mind—allowed yourself the idea that if it was him you would eventually be pulled back into his game. You also allowed yourself a moment of familiar, yet long forgotten and immature confidence.

“Thought he’d be smarter than to walk back into the wolves’ den.” You slipped out of your skirt while supporting your phone on your shoulder, pressed against your cheek, still indulging in a string of curses at the inconvenience, “Lucking out twice seems unlikely even for a psycho killer like him.”

Jed was silent for a moment, “Luck, huh,” you heard a thud on the line but before you could ask what that was, he spoke once more, “We could all use some.” The switch up in his voice made you pause for a second, but he wasn’t a stranger to wavering moods. In the same manner, he suddenly perked up again, “Made a mess? You two might be more alike than you think. You need to be in the mind of a killer to catch one.”

That drew a breathless laugh from you, “I would prefer not to be compared to him, Mr. Olsen, my thanks. And how did you know? Can see me or something?” You found it a miracle to be able to joke around still, but the feeling of not being alone this time gave you a false sense of comfort that you revelled in for the time being. No one had ever offered to get involved with the freaks you did—cowardly, yet understandable all the same. You hadn't much to lose and you didn't reckon you yourself counted as a worthy bargaining token.

“Only what you show me.” You heard presumably the last puff, the faint sound of rubbing his cigarette out transmitting over the line. Being observant is a habit that is seldom forgotten.

Before you were forced to indulge him and his ambiguity, you intercepted with a thought that you had to admit was not the greatest idea you’ve ever had—

“We will wait for him to make the first move. He got our attention, and now he will act. He works in patterns—a flashy entrance begs for an audience. An audience begs for mistakes.”

Jed chuckled quietly, “You sound as if you know him personally.”

You wish you couldn’t have sounded like that, “Enough to know that even if it is not him, someone like that wants to get noticed.” This time I won't let him slip away, you thought. "And, Olsen, next time? Let me write the report. Your structure is, putting it nicely, lacking."

You weren't sure whether this momentary fog was put up by the you from a past in which you didn't think to return to, or the you from this present with alerting, pulsing danger that showed itself in the crevices of what by your standards had been peaceful little Roseville.

You also weren't sure if the shiver under your skin warranted worry, or a sick little excitement that bubbled in your belly.

Jed was on the other line, one hand holding the phone, the other one, bloodied and dripping from squeezing the cup in his hand a little too hard to the point of breaking, an amused expression gracing his features and a smile too wide to seem natural.

The way you spoke about the Ghost, he felt a little jealous, admittedly. If you were this fond of cruelty, why did he have to hold back so much? He was so nice and caring, offered to drive you home every day he saw you at the office. And all he got in return was you, clearly unnerved, pulling away from him for reasons unbeknownst to him.

Yet here you were, opening up to him on the phone, could hear you shuffle out of your clothes while you talked about a psycho killer you were infamous for dealing with years ago and that alone gave him ideas.