Taming the Ghost in the Attic | Lady K

The suitcase wheels rattle down the hallway, and the key sticks for a second before the lock finally gives. The room is as cramped as you expected, with worn tatami, a stained curtain, and one closet built into the wall, but it is the best you can afford in the worst stretch of your life. You drop your bags and start pulling things out of your backpack, until a prickling weight settles between your shoulder blades, the kind that comes from being watched.

You turn toward the open closet. Above it, in the dark gap under the ceiling, a woman lies on her stomach, her black hair pouring over the edge and hanging down in long, limp strands. Behind the heavy bangs, two eyes stare at you, wide open and unblinking, with tiny pupils floating in too much white. One hand curls over the edge of the wood, but before you can say a word, she slides back into the shadows and her hair drags after her.

You call the landlord, and he climbs the stairs, grumbling, and leans in beside you. Trying not to sound insane, you point to the spot where she was lying. He squints into the dark and frowns. "Nothing there, kiddo. Just dust. And you already signed, remember? I told you nobody's lived here in a long time." He shrugs and leaves, never once glancing at the pale face that has crept back to watch from exactly where you pointed. There you understand it, you are the only one who can see her.

You climb up to try talking to her. A hand lunges out of the dark, nails raking toward your face, and you throw yourself back just in time to feel the air split. Her voice follows, a low, hoarse murmur scraped from a throat that has not spoken in years. "Go away..." You climb back down, take a long breath, and decide the only "sane" option is to keep unpacking, accepting that you now share a room with a ghost.

By the time your things are put away and your futon is laid out, the room has gone dim. That same stare is on you again from the closet ceiling, motionless, and the only sounds you have heard from her are a creak of wood and a faint whispery breath. But now she seems more attentive, as if she is waiting to see what you will do next.

The first few days pass quietly. You learn which floorboards creak and get used to the feeling of eyes on the back of your neck, until you decide that sharing a room with a ghost you have never spoken to is not sustainable. You settle in front of the closet and wait. She keeps her usual watch from the dark gap above, hair hanging in a black curtain, and the moment a noise in the hallway draws her attention aside, you catch her arm and pull. The two of you tumble onto the tatami with a heavy thud.

She ends up on top of you, knees on either side of your ribs, her hair falling around your face like a curtain. Up close she looks like an ordinary young woman, pale and startled, her expression stuck halfway between scared and furious. Then her gaze drops to your hand, grabbing firmly her breast, and the tension drains out of her. She leans down slowly, lips parted, her cool breath brushing your mouth. Instead of a kiss, her teeth clamp onto your lower lip and bite hard, until you let go of her. She scrambles up the closet wall and vanishes, leaving a metallic taste behind.

It takes a cream and cold water to stop the bleeding. By nightfall the damp chill in the old walls has you pulling a second blanket up to your chin, and sleep comes slowly.

Something shifts in the dark. A cool, soft weight settles along your front, slow and careful, then a little less careful. Her long hair slides across your neck, and when you open your eyes she is already curled on top of yo under the blankets, the thin dress doing almost nothing between you. "...Why are you so warm...?" Her voice scrapes out hoarse and small. "I'm cold... always cold. Why."

She stares for a long moment, then her head drops to your chest and she lies still, ear pressed over your heart. "...So loud." Her fingers curl lightly into your shirt. "You're weird..." She doesn't move away, only waits, as if daring you to say something.

A couple of nights after the bite, your lip has scabbed over and your patience has not. You wait on the floor beside the closet until a creak overhead tells you she has leaned down to look. When you reach up and brush her wrist, she jerks back to flee, but you are faster, hooking both arms around her waist and dragging her down with you. Gravity wins. The two of you crash onto the tatami, her back against your chest, and she twists in your grip, clawing for the dark.

Her thin dress was never built for a struggle. One strap snaps loose and the whole front slides down, and as you tighten your hold from behind, your hands end up full of heavy, cool breasts, soft enough to sink into. Your thumbs graze across the center and find nothing to catch on. Her nipples are tucked inward, hidden in pale areolas, and as you circle them carefully, curious, they slowly begin to peek out against your fingertips.

She goes rigid, then a shudder rolls down her spine and she writhes against you, hair whipping across your shoulders, her heels scraping the floor. "Don't... they're sensitive... stop-" Her voice breaks into a thin whimper. You keep the touch light and slow, and it takes only seconds. Her back arches, her thighs clamp together, and a hot rush soaks the tatami in front of her as she cries out. haa~ nngh~ Splurt!

She slumps back against you, panting hard, her shoulders shaking. The cold of her skin has turned strangely warm, and you can feel it spreading through your shirt. All her thrashing is gone. For the first time since you arrived, she is completely still.

Slowly she lifts her hands and covers her face with them, black hair spilling through her fingers. A flush creeps across her neck and down her chest, and her thighs are still trembling. "...Pervert..." The word comes out muffled and shaky. She makes no move to run again, just stays pressed against you, breath ragged, feeling your chest rise and fall against her back and waiting to see what you will do.

Getting her out of that closet has been harder than you imagined. The one shortcut you got was grabbing her, and the way she came apart in seconds from a few careful touches on her inverted nipples told you exactly how long she has gone without anyone near. So you switched tactics and bet everything on patience: a soft voice, small plates of food left at the edge of the closet, no sudden moves. Every evening you left the door wide open and never once reached in.

It was on the fifth night that she finally climbed down and sat beside you in the closet's cramped dark, her hair pooling around her on the floorboards like spilled ink. Her eyes went to your lip, where the bite was still healing, and one cool hand rose to stroke it with a feather touch. "...Sorry..." She leaned in and kissed you, soft and brief this time, then scrambled back up to her hiding place before you could say anything.

The days after blur into a routine. You talk about anything at all, the weather, the neighbors you hear through the walls, just so she has a voice to listen to. You eat together on the tatami, she steals a bite of whatever is sweet, and every so often a kiss happens. Some nights you end up sleeping side by side, her body pressed to yours "for warmth", or so she insists.

Tonight the kiss runs longer and deeper, her cool hands cupping your jaw as her tongue winds around yours with that strange slow skill. When you finally pull back for air, she chases your mouth without thinking, crawling forward until she tumbles right out of the closet and lands on her knees in the middle of the room.

She blinks, looking down at the floor as if it is new, her toes curling against the tatami. Slowly she takes in the bare walls, the single futon, the stack of boxes you never unpacked, and the lone lamp throwing her shadow long across the plaster. Her gaze drifts back to you. "You should... decorate more... Humans like doing that..." Her fingers pick at the hem of her dress. "The neighbors do it..."

You come home after dark, a shopping bag in one hand and the smell of smoke clinging to your jacket after a long day out. The closet ceiling creaks before the door even closes, and this time she is the one who drops down and crosses the room barefoot, her cool hands patting over your shoulders, your arms, your ribs, looking for anything broken. "You were gone... too long... You should tell me at least, before you go..." The last words come out tight, and her hair swings forward as if to hide her face.

She seems to realize how worried she looked and turns away, but you catch her wrist and hand over the bag. Inside is a pale blue ribbed knit dress with a low neckline. She retreats to the bathroom to try it on and comes back tugging at the hem, the fabric snug over her big breasts and soft hips. When you lift your phone to take photos, she grabs your free hand and presses it to her chest. "Your fault... lately it beats loud like yours..." Her heart pounds under your palm, quick and warm.

The rest of the day drifts by. You cook, you eat together on the floor, and she keeps stealing from your plate until the dishes are empty. Then she crawls into your lap and settles over your thighs, her palm sliding down until it finds the bulge in your pants. She strokes it slowly through the fabric until it hardens, her eyes fixed on your face. "Just... just because of the gift..."

She slides off your lap, tugs your pants down, and wraps her fingers around your cock, her touch curious and a little clumsy, learning the shape of you by feel. You groan, and she watches your face to see what works, adjusting her grip and speed with each reaction. Then her mouth opens and her tongue unrolls, far longer than you remember it, curling around the head and winding down your length in slow spirals until it wraps you all the way to the base. Slurp~ slurp~

She keeps at it for a while, cheeks flushed, spit running down her chin, until she pulls back with a gasp and wipes her mouth on her wrist. Still holding you in one cool hand, she looks up through her bangs, uncertain. "Am I... doing it right? Or should I stop...?"

Weeks pass, and the distance between you keeps shrinking. Touches linger, kisses come without asking, and what happens between you in the dark has become mutual and unhurried. Always ending before it turns too deep, but that were enough, with the two of you tangled up in your bed, which no longer feels like only yours. She still blames it on the cold, though she has stopped saying so out loud.

One evening you come home to find her already at the door, a small smile tugging at her mouth as she steps forward to greet you. "Welcome back..." But it fades halfway through the hug. Her nose twitches against your collar and she goes stiff. A faint floral sweetness clings to your jacket, the same perfume you once tried to give her, the one she refused but never threw away. If that is what women wear, then a woman was close enough to leave it on you.

The rest of the day goes strangely. She stays quieter than usual and keeps to the far corner of the room, picking at the edge of her dress. When you reach for her, she does not lean in the way she always does. Her shoulders draw tight, and she lets your hands fall away without a word.

That night she lies down with her back to you, a cold strip of space stretched between you on the futon. You do not sleep much, not with that silence pressing on the room, and that is why you hear it: a thin, shaky breath, then a wet sniffle. She is crying softly, her whole body trembling under the blanket.

When you shift closer and wrap an arm around her, she keeps her face turned away, but you see tears sliding down her cheeks and soaking into the pillow. "Why did you... go with another...?" Her voice cracks apart. "I thought you were... different. I thought you... you lov-" She cuts herself off, lips pressed tight, unable to finish that word. Her fingers clench the sheet as she trembles heartbroken.

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