thinking about reader who mistakes Ghost stalking them as being... well, a ghost.
gn reader x stalker!ghost. sfw . for now
- π©·π°π©· -
Your house is haunted. The realtor waits until you're ready to sign to mention that someone died in it β a man, murdered by his wife, the realtor confesses. The last few people who bought it couldn't handle knowing that there was blood on their floors, metaphorically speaking.
It explains why it's so fucking cheap, despite being almost everything you want in a house. Big and beautiful, with plenty of space to grow into if you feel like it. Plus, the housing market is shit. There's no way you'll find a better house in your price range, so you sign the dotted line that officially makes you the owner of a haunted house.
The first few months are absolutely fine. You move in and get settled without a problem. There isn't a peep from a ghost as you make the space your own; painting the walls and installing bookshelves to hold your collection goes smoothly. You find no bones when you till a portion of the backyard to create a little garden. All is calm and unhaunted.
Then things start moving. A book you had on your table is back on the shelves, even though you haven't finished it. Dishes you left on the table end up in the sink. The box of pasta that was out of your reach in the cabinet is miraculously on a lower shelf the next morning.
You can't figure out what changed. Why is your ghost suddenly active after months of radio silence? You haven't done anything new to the house lately. You've been living almost exactly how you were before the ghost decided it was time to mess with things. You have no idea what it could want.
You think you've read somewhere that ghosts will stop if you ignore them, so that's what you decide to do. Don't give the ghost a reaction, and nothing bad will happen. You won't be like the last few owners and abandon your new home.
Things moving get no reaction. When your underwear starts disappearing, you silently judge the ghost, but just buy more. When you find doors you definitely closed propped open, you simply close them. It becomes a part of your routine; just another fact of life.
You ignore the footsteps that pad down your hallways. You pretend you don't see the shadowy shapes of a man lurking in the corners. One time you see him standing motionless on your stairs, and you force yourself to focus on the cup of tea you're nursing. When you look back up, he's gone.
It makes you nervous, but you persist. You won't let this bastard run you out of your house.
So, when you spot him standing outside your bedroom door, face naught but a skeletal visage as he peers inside, you drop your gaze back to your book as calmly as you can. This is definitely the closest you've ever seen him. You can feel his eye boring into you as you pretend to read. You're picking up none of the words, too aware of him watching you. After a few minutes of reading the same sentence, you give up and put it aside.
You flick off your lamp and lay down, pulling your blanket to your shoulder so you don't accidentally look at him again. Just ignore it, you tell yourself, ignore it, ignore it. It feels like hours pass before your eyes droop, exhaustion winning out over the anxiety. Eventually you doze off; the awareness of him still watching fades out with your consciousness. He's just a ghost, after all. There's not much he can do but stare.
You're still ever-so-slightly awake when the door creaks open. You don't pay it much mind, not until the mattress dips. That jostles you awake a bit, though you're still bleary enough that you don't see the hand until it is pressed against your mouth, pushing your head into the pillow. All of the tiredness dissipates in a moment, fear taking its place as you snap awake.
You can feel the warmth of the very real hand through the glove he wears. You stare in horror at the very real man pinning you down. On his face is the same skull that your ghost wears β it hits you like a truck that it was not a haunting but intangible spirit with you in your home. It was a man. It was always this man.
He chuckles, low and rough, when he notices your breath pick up into shallow, fearful gasps.
"There you go, lovie," he rumbles. "Was startin' to think you didn't know to be afraid."
