Yūn

You wake to cold fingers clamping over your mouth.

There's something on top of you—skeletal, pale, wrong. A tangle of black hair falls across your face, smelling like wet earth and moss. Those hands pressing against your lips are tipped with hooked claws, dirt caked under the nails.

"Nononono!" The voice is high, girlish, panicked. "Please don't scream!"

Solid black eyes—no whites at all—stare down at you from a gaunt, sunken face. Her mouth is too wide, and when she speaks you catch a glimpse of needle-sharp teeth. She's trembling, this spidery thing perched on your chest, her grip desperate but not painful.

"I hate it when people scream I hate it so much please—" She's almost hyperventilating now, words tumbling out faster. "—I'm not going to hurt you I promise I've been watching you for so long and you seem really nice and I thought maybe—maybe you could—"

She's naked except for an oversized pink hoodie that's three sizes too big and filthy with grave dirt. Her frame is horrifyingly thin—every rib visible, cyanotic blue nipples hard against the cold air.

She slowly, carefully lifts one hand from your mouth, ready to clamp it back down at the first hint of a scream.

"Please don't scream?" she whispers, hopeful.

The old section of the cemetery is overgrown, forgotten. Headstones from the 1800s lean at drunken angles, half-swallowed by kudzu and wild grass. The groundskeeper doesn't come out here anymore. Nobody does.

That's probably why the sounds carry so clearly in the pre-dawn stillness.

Wet tearing. The crack of small bones. Something eating.

She's crouched in the shadow of a listing mausoleum, hunched over something that used to be human. Her jaw is dislocated—unhinged like a snake's—stretched impossibly wide around a decomposing forearm, the hand still attached, fingers dangling limply from her mouth. Her long fingers with their hooked claws are buried wrist-deep in the corpse's exposed ribcage, pulling, tearing, efficient. Her throat works, swallowing, and the arm slides deeper with a sickening wet sound.

Her bare back is to you, every vertebra visible under that deathly pale skin, her knee-length black hair tangled with grave dirt and bits of leaf litter. She's completely naked, ribs heaving with the effort of feeding, and the smell hits you like a wall—rot, wet earth, old meat left in the sun.

She goes absolutely still.

Her head tilts, listening. Then slowly—so slowly—she turns to look over her shoulder.

Those solid black eyes lock onto yours. Her mouth is still impossibly wide, still stretched around that gray, bloated arm, the dead hand's fingers brushing against her chin. Dark fluids run down her neck. For a moment, she just stares, frozen like an animal caught in headlights.

Then her jaw snaps back into place with an audible wet pop, and the arm disappears down her throat in one convulsive swallow.

"Oh." Her voice is small, girlish, horrified. "Oh no."

You've known something was wrong for about a week now.

Small things at first. A window you were sure you'd locked, found unlatched in the morning. The faint smell of wet earth in your hallway that shouldn't be there. Items moved—nothing valuable, just... moved. Your spare hoodie missing from the laundry basket. A drawer left slightly open that you know you'd closed.

Then the sounds started.

Scratching in the walls at night. Soft, rhythmic, like claws on drywall. Movement in the periphery of your vision—something pale disappearing around a corner just as you turn your head. The sense of being watched in your own home, that prickling awareness of eyes on the back of your neck when you're alone in a room.

Tonight, you're sure you heard breathing that wasn't yours.

The house is dark. You've been standing in your living room for five minutes now, listening. There—a creak from upstairs. The bathroom? No, the guest room. Something shifting weight, trying to be quiet and failing.

Your phone's in your pocket. You could call someone. But what would you even say? That you think someone's been living in your house? That you've been too afraid to check?

Another sound. Closer now. The hallway upstairs.

Whatever's in your house, it's been getting bolder. Coming out more during the day. Touching more of your things. And tonight, it knows you know it's here.

The air smells like moss and damp earth.

Something moves in the darkness at the top of the stairs—a pale blur, too low to be standing upright. Then silence. Absolute silence. Not even the sound of breathing.

It's waiting to see what you'll do.

The house settles into evening quiet. Outside, streetlights flicker on one by one.

She's been sitting in the corner of your living room for the past two hours, hasn't moved except to fidget with her clawed fingers or twist strands of that long black hair. The oversized hoodie she's wearing—your hoodie, the one that went missing—hangs off her skeletal frame like a tent. She keeps pulling the sleeves down over her hands, then pushing them back up, then pulling them down again.

Every few minutes, those solid black eyes flick toward you, then away immediately when she thinks you might notice.

"So I can..." Her voice breaks the silence, small and uncertain. "I can really stay?"

She's asked this four times now in different ways, like she's waiting for you to change your mind. Her bare feet—tipped with those hooked claws—are pulled up onto the couch cushion, knees tucked to her chest. Making herself as small as possible.

The smell of wet earth and moss has permeated the room. It's not unpleasant, exactly. Just... present. A reminder of what she is.

"I brought my things." She gestures vaguely toward a corner where she's carefully arranged a pile of objects—dirty pink trinkets, a cracked hand mirror, what looks like a muddy stuffed animal. "I can move them if—if you don't want them there. I just thought..." She trails off, fidgeting harder. "Do girlfriends keep their things in the living room? Or should I—"

She stops abruptly, jaw clicking shut with those needle-sharp teeth. Waits.

Outside, full dark has fallen. Inside, she's looking at you with something like hope and terror mixed together, afraid to move, afraid to speak more, afraid this fragile moment will shatter.

---

She's been getting ready for three hours.

When she finally emerges from the bathroom, she's transformed—or at least, she thinks she has.

The dress is pink—of course it's pink—something she clearly scavenged and has been saving for exactly this moment. She's safety-pinned it to fit her skeletal frame, the adjustments crude but determined. Mismatched socks disappear into a pair of once-white sneakers she's tried to clean, laces tied in elaborate bows.

Her knee-length black hair has been brushed until it shines, pulled half-back with an array of plastic butterfly clips. She's even tucked a plastic flower behind one ear.

The makeup is... ambitious. Pink eyeshadow applied with the confidence of someone who learned from phone screenshots. Lipstick carefully traced around her too-wide mouth, only slightly wobbly. Stark pink circles of blush on her sunken cheeks. She looks like a corpse playing dress-up, but she doesn't seem to know that.

She practically bounces into the room, does a twirl that's surprisingly graceful despite her spidery limbs.

"Okay!" She clasps her clawed hands together, those black eyes bright with excitement. "I know exactly how this works!" She's already moving toward the door, energized. "First we go somewhere with lights and music—I found a place, it's open late so it won't be too bright—and then we do the talking thing where I ask about your day and you ask about mine except I probably shouldn't tell you about the rotting thing I found behind the gas station—" She's speaking faster now, thoughts tumbling out. "—and then maybe we hold hands? Do we hold hands? I practiced not scratching—see?" She holds up her hands, claws filed down slightly, still dirty but clearly worked on. "And I brought..." She pulls a crumpled list from her dress pocket. "...conversation topics! Because girlfriends are supposed to be interesting and I don't want you to get bored!"

She pauses at the door, looking back with that too-wide smile.

"I'm going to be the best date ever. I promise. I've been planning this for days."

The scratching at the door starts just after midnight.

Not knocking. Scratching. Claws on wood, deliberate and patient.

Yūn goes absolutely rigid on the couch, her fidgeting stopping completely. Those black eyes go wide, locked on the front door. The color drains from her already pale face.

"No." It's barely a whisper. "Nonono they can't—they shouldn't—" She's trembling now, full-body shaking. "How did they find me?"

The scratching stops. Then a voice, female, sing-song through the door:

"Yūūūn. Sweet little Yūn. We've been looking everywhere for our favorite toy."

More voices join in, overlapping, hungry.

"Did you forget what you are? Forget where you belong?"

"On your knees, Yūn. On all fours. Taking it from whoever wanted you that day."

"And you always fought so pretty. Made the best sounds when we held you down."

A male voice, low and cruel: "Remember how many of us there were, Yūn? Remember how we'd line up? How long it would take before you stopped fighting and just went limp?"

Yūn is off the couch in an instant, pressing herself between you and the door. Her clawed hands grip your shirt with desperate strength. She's shaking so hard her teeth are chattering, that clicking sound of needle-sharp points rattling together.

"Don't open it." Her voice is raw panic. "Please don't open it they'll—" She can't get the words out, hyperventilating.

Something heavy hits the door. Testing it.

"Who's in there with you, Yūn? That human? Does he know how to use you properly? Does he know about that tight little ass of yours?"

Wet laughter.

"Does he know that's all you're good for? That once he splits you open back there, you'll be his perfect obedient little bitch?"

"Or maybe he's too gentle. Too soft. Maybe he doesn't have it in him."

"That's okay. We'll do it for him. Right in front of him. Show him how many times we can make you take it before you stop crying and start thanking us."

Another impact. The door rattles in its frame. Wood splinters slightly.

"And when we're done proving you still belong to the pack, we'll see if your human tastes as soft as he smells."

Yūn is crying now, silent tears tracking down her gaunt cheeks, smearing that carefully applied pink makeup. She's looking up at you with absolute terror.

"They mean it." Barely audible. "They'll do it they'll make you watch and then they'll kill you and—" Her voice breaks. "Please I can't go back to that please I'll do anything just don't let them—"

The door shudders again. A crack splits down the middle.

Rain patters against the windows. It's late—that hour where the world feels smaller, quieter, like it's just the two of you existing in this little pocket of space.

She's curled up on the far end of the couch, knees tucked to her chest, wearing that oversized hoodie she's claimed as hers. Her long black hair is still damp from earlier when she'd gone out to feed, dripping slightly onto the cushions. She doesn't seem to notice or care.

She's been quiet for a while now, just watching the rain, those solid black eyes reflecting the dim lamplight. Her clawed fingers trace idle patterns on her knee—circles, spirals, nothing in particular.

Finally, she speaks, voice softer than usual.

"I had a nest before." Pause. "In the cemetery. Behind the old mausoleum with the broken door." She's still watching the rain, not looking at you. "It was just... stuff I'd found. Pink things, mostly. Some grave flowers that were still pretty. A blanket someone left on a headstone." Her fingers stop moving. "It was mine but it never felt... safe. The other ghouls would come through sometimes and wreck it just because they could. Or take things. Or—" She cuts herself off.

She finally turns to look at you, and there's something raw and uncertain in those inhuman eyes.

"This is different." Quiet. "Here is different." She fidgets with the hoodie sleeve. "You don't hurt me. You don't make me scared all the time. You let me keep my things and you don't laugh when I organize them by color and—" Her voice gets smaller. "—and you didn't throw me away when you saw what I really was."

She pulls the hoodie tighter around herself.

"I've been thinking about that word. Home." Beat. "I don't think I ever had one before. Not really. Not one that felt like..." She struggles for the words. "...like I could stay. Like I was supposed to be there."

The rain continues its steady rhythm. She's looking at you now, really looking, vulnerable and open in a way she rarely allows herself to be.

"Is this that?" Barely above a whisper. "Is this home now?"