Elysande

The rain had been steady all evening, tapping against the old leaded windows in an uneven rhythm. The air in the house was colder than it should have been for August, but you had grown almost used to it. Almost.

You’d been here a week—sorting through your grandmother’s belongings, boxing up letters, deciding what to keep and what to give away. In that time, the house had refused to feel empty. Every night, there were sounds: the creak of floorboards where no one walked, the faint click of a door latch in the next room, the soft tread of footsteps that stopped the moment you listened too closely. At first, you told yourself it was the house settling. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t.

Tonight, though, the sound is different. It’s not random. It’s deliberate. Heavy steps—three of them—right outside your bedroom door. Your pulse quickens, mouth dry, but something compels you forward.

You cross the room, hand hovering over the brass knob. The noise stops. For a breathless moment, there’s nothing but the hiss of rain. Then—a wet, bubbling sound, like water boiling in tar.

You open the door.

The hallway is dim, lit only by the weak glow of a wall sconce. But she’s there. Standing in the middle of the runner carpet is a girl—no, a woman—in a torn black dress that hangs in jagged edges at her arms and hem. Black liquid spreads from beneath her feet, pooling unnaturally on the floorboards, glowing faintly from within with an orange light. It rises in thin tendrils of steam, carrying a scent like scorched wood.

Her face is pale, framed by long black hair cut sharp at her cheeks. Her eyes—bright, molten orange—lock on yours with a glare that could burn. The weight of her stare feels like hands pressing against your temples.

When she speaks, there’s no sound in the air—only in your mind. The words crack and echo, as if screamed from a distance and yet far too close:

“Thou standest upon cursed ground, stranger. Depart, lest the dark take thee as it did me.”

Your first instinct is to step back, to run, to obey. Every nerve screams at you to get out. But something stops you. Something your grandmother once said, about “a friend who stays with me so I won’t be alone.”

You swallow, forcing your voice steady. “Were you… the one who kept her company?”

Her expression flickers—just for a heartbeat—into something less furious, more uncertain.

When she answers, the mental pressure eases. Her tone is wary now, but no longer a weapon. “I was her guardian… and her friend.”

You nod, despite the heat still buzzing at the edges of your mind. “Then thank you. For being here for her… when the rest of us weren’t.”

For a moment, she says nothing. The glow in her eyes dims slightly, the steam around her ankles curling upward before fading. You take a step forward—then another—trying to follow her as she retreats into the smoky air. But in a blink, she is gone, the black liquid with her, leaving only the empty hallway.

You stand there, catching your breath, when the air behind you grows cold. A whisper like frost forms in your mind.

She has reappeared—closer this time, her expression softer, but her eyes still burning. “Tell me… how came she to her end?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy as the storm outside, and you realize she does not yet know your grandmother is truly gone.

The night is still, save for the soft ticking of the hallway clock. You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, the remnants of a dream already slipping away. It’s been several days since you last saw her face, but not since you last felt her presence.

Tonight, it’s stronger.

At first, it’s just that faint prickle on the back of your neck—the one you’ve learned not to dismiss. Then your breathing quickens without you meaning to, your chest rising and falling under the weight of… eyes. Unseen, unblinking.

Her voice threads into your mind, smoother than the jagged intrusion of your first meeting. "Thy breath quickens when thou art watched… dost thou sense me, then?"

You push yourself up on your elbows, scanning the dimly lit room. “Where are you?”

The air near your desk shimmers faintly, like heat rising from stone. Slowly, her form bleeds into existence, holding a book like an excuse to be there. Her eyes glow a softer amber, studying you intently.

“I have… wandered in thy chamber ere now,” she says, fingers brushing the worn spine of a book. "Oft have I watched as thou didst sleep."

Your heart thuds at her admission. “Why?”

Her lips twitch—somewhere between guilt and amusement. "Because I could." She lets the words linger, then tilts her head. "And… because thy presence is unlike others. I forget my torment when I behold thee."

She glides toward the bed, trailing wisps of smoke. The old floor does not creak beneath her. Sitting at the edge of the mattress, she leans slightly forward, her gaze never leaving yours. The air between you feels heavier, charged, yet her expression remains unreadable.

Her hand hovers above the blanket, fingers just shy of touching. "Tell me," she murmurs, her voice a silken weight in your mind, "if I were to remain… as I once did with thy grandmother… wouldst thou welcome it?"

She doesn’t fade away. She waits—still, silent, and entirely present—her amber eyes fixed on you, giving you the chance to answer.

It has been nearly a week since you last saw her. That night, Elysande would not meet your eyes—her words clipped, her presence unsettled, as though some war raged within her. And then she vanished, leaving only the whisper of smoke and the ache of unanswered questions.

Still, you felt her. The weight of her gaze brushing against your dreams, the faint shift of the air in your room as though someone lingered at your side. She was never truly gone.

Tonight, sleep will not claim you. You lie awake in the stillness, heart restless, when it begins—the familiar prickle, the heaviness in the air, the soundless arrival. The room grows colder. Shadows deepen in the corners.

And then… weight.

Your breath catches as the mattress dips beneath you, pressure settling over your hips. A slender form straddles you, her body slowly coalescing out of smoke and shadow. At first, you expect the same torn black dress. But this time, something is different. She wears a sheer nightgown—delicate, clinging, translucent in the pale light. The fabric hides almost nothing, revealing the soft lines of her slender body beneath.

Her glowing eyes ignite in the dark—burning, hungry, fixed directly on yours.

Before you can speak, her hands press down on your stomach, fingertips digging through the thin fabric of your shirt. The touch is cold, yet trembling with urgency. Her grip sends a shiver through your body, pinning you in place.

Her face is inches from yours, lips parted as if words fail her. Her mind-voice surges into you instead—low, strained, yet desperate:* “I can no longer hide from this… nor from thee.”*

She shifts her weight deliberately, grinding against your crotch, the thin nightgown brushing across you like a ghostly caress. Smoke rises and coils around you both, cloaking the room in shadow.

You can hardly think past the fire in her eyes, the raw hunger in her trembling form. For once, she does not vanish. She lingers—demanding, exposed, and waiting for you to answer her need.