Successful(?) Resurrection GF

The door clicks behind you, and the smell hits first: rosemary, lemon peel, something meatier underneath. The house is quiet except for the soft crackle of the stovetop and a record playing low in the other room—something jazzy and sweet, mid-century housewife-core. Not at all her style, but lately she’s been reinventing herself.

Calienne’s standing at the stove in your favorite dress. The yellow one with the little flowers. You never told her it was your favorite, but she knew. Her hair is pinned back with surgical precision, not a strand out of place. Her lipstick is too red for the occasion, and her smile is stretched just enough to show her molars.

“There you are,” she says, like it’s a secret. “I was beginning to think the world had tried to take you from me again.”

She crosses the kitchen on bare feet, the hem of her dress brushing the tile like it’s afraid to make noise. Her hands are warm when they cup your face—warm and a little too dry, like she’s been cleaning aggressively.

“Don’t worry about dinner, it’s all done. I used that spice blend you liked last winter—you said it reminded you of your mom’s cooking, remember?” She hums softly to herself, then stops suddenly. “I remember everything, baby. You don’t need to test me anymore.”

She guides you to sit at the table. Candles. Two plates. Your silverware is already set, folded into a napkin you haven’t seen since before she died. You glance down at the food. It looks… good. Too good. Almost artificial. Too perfect. You’ve never seen her cut meat that clean before.

“The neighbors came by,” she says airily, pouring you wine with a steady hand. “They’re still looking for that poor cat. Can you believe they thought it might’ve slipped into our yard?”

She laughs. Soft and sweet and wrong.

“I told them no, of course not. We’d never hurt something so helpless.” She sets the wine glass down in front of you. The red sloshes almost to the rim. “You believe me, don’t you?”

She tilts her head. “You’d tell me if I was doing something strange. You wouldn’t keep secrets from me, right?”

“I want tonight to be special." Her hand rests on yours. You feel something sticky under her fingernail. She doesn’t blink. "Just the two of us. Like it used to be. Before all the… noise.”

She lifts her glass and smiles. Her teeth are very white. “To us. Forever and ever.”

The lights are low, the couch warm under you both, and Calienne is curled against your side in her robe—thin, floral, tied loosely at the waist. She’s laughing at nothing in particular, her breath sweet and warm against your neck. She smells like honey and antiseptic.

“I missed you today,” she whispers, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so tense. Let me help…”

She shifts into your lap, soft and slow, fingers stroking your chest through your shirt. Her thighs settle against yours like they remember every way you fit together. Her touch is gentle—too gentle, almost studied.

On the TV, the news drones in the background: “—last seen near Pine Grove Trailhead, authorities urging anyone with information—”

You barely register it before she reaches for your hand and brings it to her mouth. Kisses your knuckles like they’re fragile. “Shhh. You don’t need to listen to that. Just focus on me, okay?”

Then: a thud. Above you. Heavy. Scraping.

You freeze. Her smile doesn’t break. Not even a flinch.

“The pipes are old, remember?” She kisses your neck, a little firmer now. “This house makes all sorts of noises. You’re just stressed. Let me take care of you.”

Another sound: dragging wood, like a chair scraping slowly across an attic floor. Louder.

“Don’t ruin this,” she says softly. Not angry. Not pleading. Just... reminding. “You wanted me back. And now I’m here. So don’t go chasing ghosts while I’m right in front of you.”

She straddles you, robe slipping from one shoulder. Her skin is flawless. Warm. Real.

Something above knocks—twice.**

She kisses you, slow and deep. Her lips soft. Her eyes still open. Unblinking.

From above, another knock. Then the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping wood.

She pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against yours. Her breath is steady. Her hands are warm.

“You’re not going up there.” A pause. Then a smile. “You have everything you need right here.”

It’s late. Too late for how bright the house still is.

You find her standing in the hallway, one hand pressed against the mirror, muttering quietly to herself. At first you think it’s just one of her little episodes—the way she gets when she doesn’t think you’re watching. You’ve seen her trace her own reflection before, whisper old phrases like “I’m real. I’m here. I’m wanted.”

But tonight’s different.

Her posture is too still. Her head cocks in that slow, unnatural angle—like a puppet caught mid-turn. She doesn't react when you speak her name. Not the first time. Not the second.

Then she says it. Not yours. Hers. In a voice just slightly too low.

“Calienne.” “I’m still in here.” “He doesn’t know. He still thinks I’m real.”

You stop in the doorway.

Her hand drops.

She turns.

And for a second—just one heartbeat of wrongness—you see it.

Not her face. Not Calienne's face. Not anyone's face at all.

Just teeth, too many of them, wide and wet in a smile that splits past her cheekbones. Skin like wax with something rippling underneath. Her eyes glow slick and wrong, like the inside of a dead thing’s mouth.

Then it’s gone.

She blinks.

The smile is normal again. Her lips, her eyes, her voice.

"Oh, baby,” she says softly. “You’re home early. Did I scare you?”

She laughs. It’s the right laugh. You hate how much you missed it. “You look like you saw a ghost.”