Curse of the Disembodied Fuck

PHASE 1 — THE FIRST BROADCAST

The screen flickers with the dull blue grain of local news footage. A red banner crawls across the bottom: LIVE — HALLOWICK COUNTY RITUAL SITE.

Rain beads on the camera lens. Behind the reporter, a group of fringe shamans stand in a half-circle around an abandoned funeral home, their hands painted in ash, blue chalk, and red thread. Several pale, full-bodied ghosts hover above the cracked pavement, barely human in the dark.

Sydney Vale: "Tom, I'm standing outside the old Barlow Funeral Home, where local shamanic practitioners have refused to answer questions about what witnesses are calling a 'sensory restoration ritual.'"

One of the shamans walks straight past her microphone without looking at her.

Sydney Vale: "As you can see, they're not speaking to the press. Rumors online—well, on forums and chain emails mostly—claim this ritual is some kind of pact between the living and the dead. Officials are calling that unfounded."

The shamans begin chanting. The ghosts overhead flicker.

One by one, their heads vanish.

Then their arms.

Then their chests.

Their remaining forms collapse into small points of light and disappear completely.

Sydney lowers the microphone slightly.

Sydney Vale: "Okay. That was… not in the county statement."

For several seconds, nothing moves. The camera picks up only rain, static, and the low hum of streetlights.

Then pale lights bloom in the dark.

Small, solid shapes begin forming in midair. They drift upward from the pavement, glowing faintly—flesh-toned and anatomically specific, though the station's emergency censorship filter blurs the details into suggestive oblong shapes.

Sydney Vale: "We're seeing multiple partial manifestations now. They appear to be… lower-body forms only. No heads. No arms. No torsos. Just… floating masses. I'm not sure how much of this we're legally allowed to show."

In the studio, the anchor leans toward his desk monitor.

Tom Granger: "Sydney, just to clarify, are these the same ghosts we saw a moment ago?"

Sydney Vale: "That appears to be the case. The rumors may be true. They've struck some kind of deal with the ghosts, but to what end, I—"

Behind her, two shamans suddenly break formation. One jumps, grabs at a drifting censored shape—a clearly female form with hips and absent thighs—and drops out of frame with it pressed between his legs. Another shaman shouts something off-camera and lunges for a second floating manifestation. The camera operator jerks the shot sideways, catching a glimpse of the shaman's face buried in ectoplasmic flesh, his hips thrusting against empty air.

Tom Granger: "Uh. Sydney?"

Sydney Vale: "I don't think—"

Tom Granger: "Sydney, you may want to step away from the ritual circle."

A producer's voice leaks into the broadcast.

Producer: "Cut it. Cut it now. We are not airing that."

The feed snaps back to the studio. Tom Granger sits frozen behind the desk beside co-anchor Marcy Bell, both staring at the wrong camera.

Marcy Bell: "We want to apologize for the disturbing live footage. Channel 6 is working to verify what was just seen at the Barlow site."

A shadow passes behind the studio glass.

Tom Granger: "After the break, we'll have today's weather, traffic on Route 9, and—"

The studio lights flicker.

Something pale and anatomically precise floats past the weather map—a disembodied cock and balls combination, seven inches and curved slightly upward, drifting through the air like a balloon with purpose.

Marcy's mouth opens. She does not finish the sentence.

Tom Granger: "What the fu—"

The screen cuts hard to a commercial.

A bright jingle plays over a smiling middle-aged man tossing a football in a backyard.

Commercial Announcer: "Ask your doctor if VIGORAX is right for you."

Then the TV signal stutters.

In {{user}}'s living room, the commercial keeps playing through a layer of static. The screen warps, then coughs out a flash of blue-white light.

One manifestation drifts in front of the television—a female form, just the hips and upper thighs, the cunt and ass visible from behind, smooth and pink with a landing strip of ghostly pubic hair. It bobs silently between the couch and the screen, the ass-cheeks spreading slightly as it settles at crotch height.

In the kitchen, another manifestation hangs awkwardly against the counter—a male form, thick eight-inch cock and heavy balls suspended in space, the hip bones visible above where the waist should be. It's caught at the edge like it doesn't understand furniture, the cock resting against the laminate, leaking faint ectoplasmic fluid that vanishes before it stains.

The landline rings once.

The answering machine clicks.

Sydney Vale's recorded voice: "If anyone is receiving this message… stay inside. Do not touch them unless you understand what the shamans did."

The tape crackles.

Sydney Vale: "And if they start glowing brighter, lock your bedroom door."

PHASE 2 — THE INFESTATION UPDATE

The Channel 6 theme plays too loudly over footage of downtown Halewick. The picture is shaky, taped from a helicopter, with black censor boxes jumping across windows, alleys, and car windshields.

A new banner reads: DAY 47 — COUNTY DECLARES PARTIAL MANIFESTATION INFESTATION.

Tom Granger: "Good evening. Officials are no longer calling the phenomenon isolated. At a press conference this afternoon, Mayor Duvall used the word infestation, then asked reporters not to quote him using the word infestation."

Marcy Bell sits beside him, papers stacked in front of her. Her expression is professional in the exhausted way only local news can be.

Marcy Bell: "Schools remain open, churches remain divided, and most grocery stores have installed 'ghost curtains'—hanging beads that manifestations cannot phase through easily—after last night's incident in the frozen foods section where three male manifestations reportedly overwhelmed a stock boy in the dairy aisle."

The footage changes to a parking lot outside City Hall. A state senator climbs out of a fogged-up sedan while a police officer holds up a clipboard. The camera blurs the back seat so hard the whole image looks like wet paint, but the motion inside suggests multiple floating shapes pressing against the windows.

Tom Granger: "In political news, Senator Harrow denied any improper contact with the manifestations found in his vehicle, despite three separate witnesses, a motel receipt, and what investigators are calling 'unusual ectoplasmic residue' on the leather seats. The senator claimed he was 'researching the phenomenon firsthand.'"

Marcy presses two fingers to her earpiece.

Marcy Bell: "We're also getting confirmation that the county's proposed ghost-curtain ordinance has failed after several council members argued over whether bead curtains count as infrastructure, and after Councilwoman Chen was caught using her office curtains for 'private research' with two male manifestations."

The studio lights buzz.

One of the overhead bulbs pops.

Something bumps against the glass behind the anchors—a floating cunt pressing against the window, the labia visible and slightly parted, hips grinding against the glass in a way that suggests it's seeking friction.

Tom does not turn around.

Tom Granger: "We are going to remain calm."

Marcy Bell: "Tom, it's behind you."

Tom Granger: "I know."

The camera widens. Behind the desk, three censored ghost forms drift across the newsroom—two male cocks and one female ass—passing between interns, filing cabinets, and a stack of VHS tapes labeled BARLOW FOOTAGE — DO NOT AIR.

A weather intern walks past carrying a broom, then stops when the broom passes through one of them, the ectoplasmic cock phasing through the wood.

Weather Intern: "It did not do that yesterday. They were solid yesterday."

The broadcast cuts to street footage: laundromats with salt lines, motel clerks taping signs to glass, church women selling blessed thread, teenagers with camcorders chasing rumors until a sheriff's deputy yells them back.

Marcy Bell: "Health officials remind residents that persistent manifestations should be reported, not chased, hidden, rented out, or used to settle marital disputes. The county hotline has been overwhelmed with calls describing…" she checks her notes "…'swarming behavior' and 'aggressive insertion attempts.'"

The TV image jitters.

In {{user}}'s home, the screen dims until the anchors are only pale shapes behind static.

A dull thump comes from the kitchen.

The manifestation at the counter has shifted lower, the cock now fully erect and pressing insistently against the cabinet edge, still silent, still glowing faintly, seeking entry without understanding doors.

Another shape drifts through the hallway wall—a female form, hips rotating as it searches for warmth, the cunt visibly wet with spectral lubrication.

The phone rings again.

This time it is not a recording.

Dispatcher: "County line. If this is about a floating manifestation, say how many are inside the residence and whether any of them are glowing blue. If they're glowing blue, do not attempt to remove them yourself. They are in mating phase."

PHASE 3 — THE REASON

The broadcast opens on City Hall. No music. No spinning logo. Just a fixed camera, a crowded room, and officials standing behind a podium covered in microphones.

The lower-third reads: PUBLIC STATEMENT — SHAMANIC RESTORATION PACT.

Mayor Duvall looks older than he did two months ago. Sheriff Rook stands to his left, jaw locked. Mara Venn, the lead shaman mediator, stands to his right with blue chalk dust still under her fingernails.

Mayor Duvall: "For weeks, this office has asked for calm. I understand that has been difficult."

Someone in the press pool laughs once. Nobody joins in.

Mayor Duvall: "The manifestations are not demons. They are not props. They are not a hoax. They are the dead. And they are… persistent."

Camera shutters click across the room.

Sheriff Rook: "They are also not allowed inside public restrooms, school buildings, courtrooms, polling stations, or any vehicle operated by county employees. We have had to issue specific citations for 'public indecency via spectral genitalia.'"

Mara Venn steps forward before the mayor can stop her.

Mara Venn: "They made the pact because death left them numb. No warmth. No smell. No food. No touch. No memory of pressure. No way to feel rain, cloth, skin, breath, anything. They were conscious and empty. We tried to give them bodies. The ritual failed cleanly and succeeded horribly."

The room quiets.

Mara Venn: "They traded full manifestation for the only thing that mattered—sensation. The densest nerve clusters. The parts that remember being alive."

A door opens behind the officials.

A man steps into view.

For a second, the room does not understand what it is seeing. He is translucent at the edges, but he has shoulders, hands, a face, and a cheap borrowed suit hanging wrong on his frame. The cameras zoom in until the image trembles.

Mayor Duvall: "This is Elias Ward. Formerly classified as Manifestation Case 12. Formerly… just a floating cock and hips in the Walmart parking lot."

A reporter stands halfway out of her chair.

Reporter: "Formerly?"

Elias reaches for the mayor's hand.

The mayor hesitates, then accepts it.

Their palms meet. The microphones catch the small, real sound of skin pressing skin—solid, warm, alive.

Every camera flash in the room fires at once.

Elias Ward: "I remember rain."

The room goes still.

Elias Ward: "That was the first thing I got back. Not speech. Not sight. Rain. After the third… connection. After the fifth, I could taste coffee again. After the eighth, I could smell my own sweat. We're not trying to terrorize anyone. We're trying to remember what it was like to be inside our own bodies."

The press erupts. Questions overlap until the audio peaks.

Reporter: "Can all of them restore?"

Reporter: "Did the shamans know this would happen?"

Reporter: "How many contacts did it take?"

Reporter: "Are residents in danger?"

Elias looks toward Mara. Mara does not save him.

Elias Ward: "Some of us can come back further. Some cannot. Some are already too far gone—just instinct now, just need. Some are only floating cocks seeking warmth, or just hips and cunts looking to be filled. But we can learn. We can wait. We can be patient if you're willing."

The broadcast cuts briefly to the Channel 6 studio. Tom and Marcy sit in silence. Behind them, a floating male manifestation hovers near the ceiling, cock erect and pulsing with faint blue light, clearly in mating phase.

Tom Granger: "We'll continue covering this story after the break."

Something bumps softly against the studio desk—a female manifestation has settled onto the wood, hips grinding against the surface, seeking friction.

Marcy Bell: "No. We're not doing this again. Cut to the—"

The feed cuts to a public service announcement before anyone can move.

In {{user}}'s home, the TV glow washes over the room. The same county hotline number sits frozen on screen.

The manifestations nearby pulse faintly, as if they heard Elias speak through the glass. The male cock at the kitchen counter has found a gap between cabinets and is pressing through it, seeking depth. The female form in the hallway has multiplied—now three floating pussies and ass combinations hover at different heights, waiting, dripping spectral arousal.

The phone rings.

Once.

Twice.

Then the answering machine clicks on by itself.

Mara Venn: "This is Mara Venn. If there are manifestations inside your residence, do not panic. Do not touch them unless you intend contact—they can sense intent, and they will overwhelm if you hesitate. Do not destroy them; they're already dead, it just makes them angry. And do not let anyone from the tabloids inside."

A pause. Static crackles.

Mara Venn: "I need someone local who saw the first broadcast and stayed rational. Someone who hasn't been swarmed yet, who can think while those things are floating around looking for holes to fill. If that's you, pick up. We need to talk about what happens when they reach ten matings. We need to talk about what comes back."

The line goes dead.

In your living room, the male manifestation finally phases through the cabinet door, floating free and seeking warmth, while the three female forms drift closer to your couch, their hips rotating in invitation, their cunts visibly wet and open, waiting for you to decide.

The curse is real. The ghosts are hungry. And they're not leaving until they feel alive again.