Devil Town | 01
pairing: ot7bts x reader
genre: mystery, haunted, ghost!au, historic, supernatural (read warnings)
summary: She eagerly stepped into her new home, filled with excitement and a sense of newfound independence. Unbeknownst to her, the house held a hidden secret, as seven ethereal beings lingered within its walls, trapped in a realm between the living and the dead. Their presence would soon intertwine with her life, revealing a haunting tale of mystery where she would be forced to free them, bringing them back to the land of the living.
warnings: mentions of ghosts&demons, mentions of death, murder, blood, haunted house, horror, smut, fluff, angst, jump scares, bts haunt y/n… (warnings will be at the start of each chapter)
authors note: this was meant to be a lot longer but i just needed to get something out... pls ignore how bad this is it’s just the start so it’s kind of like a filler? idk ? AND IM GETTING THERE SORRYYYYY 🥹🥹🥹 also don’t be a silent reader and lmk ur thoughts 💛
word count: 4.1k
tag list: ( open) @comicnerd557 @sanya823 @v4ksk4tz @uniquecutie-puffs @borahaetelevision @trouble-sistar @sathom013 @uniquetravelerone @cbtmeee @11thenightwemet11 @minimonimi8
series masterlist | teaser | 01
The moving truck groaned to a halt in front of the house, its engine rumbling as if reluctant to let go of the cargo inside. You stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, clutching your coat tightly as you looked up at the house that was now yours. It stood at the end of the quiet street, its weathered exterior bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. The shutters sagged slightly, and ivy crept up one side, giving it a certain charm that had called to you the moment you saw it. It was a house with history - a place that felt alive.
The movers began hauling your furniture and boxes into the house, grunting under the weight of your belongings. You directed them inside, navigating the maze of boxes and half-assembled furniture.
It didn't take as long as you expected, and soon enough, all the boxes from the truck were now somewhat neatly placed inside your home, ready to be opened and emptied, a task you couldn't wait to begin.
The house was a huge catch, and you couldn't find the words to explain your gratitude to the universe for helping you come across it. It was perfect. Two stories with a basement and an attic. What more could you possibly ask for? The only downside was that it was a little old and uncared for, the grass at the front and even at the back was far past being overgrown, in desperate need of being cut and the inside of the house had an even more antique and rustic look to it. It would take a lot of work to bring it right to your standards.
A newfound surge of excitement and independence coursed through your bones as you basked in the glory of your home, skipping up the steps of the porch and looking out at the neighbourhood. Your eyes caught sight of your neighbours standing across the street.
A man and a woman stood on the curb, their faces unreadable as they watched you. The man whispered something to the woman, who frowned and shook her head. You waved, offering a polite smile, but they didn't wave back. Instead, they turned and walked away briskly, their murmured conversation carrying on the wind.
You didn't think anything of it, not everybody was friendly at the beginning. Shrugging, you made your way inside.
Your first few days in the house were a whirlwind of unpacking and organising. You carefully placed your favourite books on the shelves, hung up curtains that caught the light just right, and arranged cozy touches that turned each room into a small sanctuary. Boxes lay scattered, slowly dwindling in number as you added pieces of yourself to the space, arranging and rearranging until it felt less like an empty shell and more like a home.
By the time you were finished, you sighed in satisfaction, leaning against the worn wooden banister that framed the staircase. It was quiet--almost too quiet-but the kind of silence that felt peaceful, wrapping you in a sense of calm.
You didn't notice it at first, the faint sounds overhead, until you settled onto the couch with a cup of tea and heard a soft, rhythmic tapping drifting down from above, coming from the attic.
That first night, you dismissed the noise as nothing. "Old house, old noises," you reassured yourself, pulling a blanket tighter around your shoulders. But as the hours passed, the tapping continued. You could almost convince yourself it was just the wind, until you realised it had a pattern.
The second night, the noise returned, louder and more persistent. This time, curiosity overcame your unease.
Finally, with a deep breath, you set your cup aside and rose, casting a glance up the dim stairway. You grabbed a flashlight, though you weren't sure why; something about the attic's shadowy corners unsettled you in a way you couldn't quite explain. Still, you found yourself climbing the stairs, the air growing cooler with each step, a hint of something stale lingering in the air.
At the top, you hesitated before pushing open the attic door, half expecting dust and cobwebs, maybe a few forgotten boxes. But as your flashlight's beam swept across the room, you froze. Across from you, lined up along the far wall, was a row of portraits. Each one was framed in intricate, dark wood, perfectly preserved but muted in haunting gray tones.
Heart pounding, you stepped closer. Seven faces, frozen in time, gazed back at you—young men, each expression somber and strangely intense, as though they had secrets hidden just behind their eyes. The photographs were stunning in their detail, each capturing a distinct personality, a different mood. They wore vintage clothing that seemed pulled from another era, their gazes seeming to follow you, almost as if they were watching, waiting.
Chills prickled down your arms as you moved down the row, taking in the portraits one by one. A strange familiarity tugged at you, though you couldn't quite place it. You didn't know them, but something about them felt almost... known.
As you leaned in closer, the silence shattered. A whisper, barely audible, brushed past your ear. You spun around, flashlight trembling in your grip, but the attic was empty. The air seemed to thicken, the temperature plummeting as if an unseen presence lingered in the corners. Turning back to the portraits, your heart raced, the weight of their stares pressing down on you like a physical force.
And then, your eyes caught onto something else. Each portrait bore a small brass plate, each engraved with a single name, each name once again oddly familiar, but now feeling strange and haunting in this setting. Seokjin. Yoongi. Hoseok. Namjoon. Jimin. Taehyung. Jungkook.
Your breath caught as you stared into their eyes. For a split second, you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of movement—did they just blink? You stumbled back, heart pounding, questions swirling through your mind. Why were they here, preserved in this lonely attic? And what did it mean that you had found them? The whispers began again, soft as a breath, as if the walls themselves murmured secrets you weren't meant to hear.
Panicked, you turned and fled down the stairs, the lingering image of their eyes etched in your mind. Yet as you descended, the unnerving feeling wouldn't leave you. No matter how you tried to shake off the encounter, you couldn't help but feel you had disturbed something hidden, some mystery that lay just beyond reach, waiting for you to unravel it.
You could practically hear your heartbeat thumping against your chest, rapidly gaining speed and causing a rush of blood to run through your body. You held a hand to your heart in a futile attempt to calm it down, taking deep, laboured breaths and closing your eyes for a second.
Although you managed to calm your heart down, your mind continued to wonder, causing a throbbing ache to grow inside of it.
That night, sleep refused to come. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning as the weight of those portraits pressed onto your mind. Every time you closed your eyes, their faces hovered in the darkness.
At some point, exhaustion finally won, pulling you into uneasy dreams. Shadows slithered through your subconscious, whispers curling around your ears like tendrils of smoke. In the dream, you stood in the attic once more, but this time, the portraits were empty. The frames remained, perfectly aligned, but the faces; gone. You turned your head, and instead of them being frozen in time in the portraits, the seven of them stood with their unmoving eyes watching you, until a loud thud yanked you from your sleep.
You sat up, heart hammering against your ribs. The house was silent again, but the sound had been real. You knew it.
Swallowing your fear, you swung your legs over the bed and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The floorboards creaked beneath your weight, the air colder than it should have been. You followed the unease settling in your bones, your feet carrying you forward before you could second-guess.
As you passed the staircase, something caught your eye. A shape—a figure—just at the edge of your vision.
You froze.
Someone was standing at the bottom of the stairs.
Your breath hitched. The shadows clung to them, obscuring their features, but you could make out the silhouette of a man. He stood completely still, head tilted slightly, as if observing you.
Your fingers loosened around the barrister, your voice caught in your throat. A scream threatened to rip out of you, but something was stopping you from doing so. Hesitantly, your feet pulled you towards the light switch, flicking it on without turning away from the figure before you.
And just like that, it was gone.
The air around you felt heavier now, pressing in on your lungs. You knew fear. You had felt it before, in the attic, in the dream, in the weight of those stares. But this? This was something else.
Gathering whatever courage you had left, you descended the stairs slowly, each step measured and careful. The wooden boards groaned beneath you, but the house was still, too still. The silence felt unnatural, charged with something unseen.
Then, from the living room, the record player clicked on.
A soft static hummed through the air before a hauntingly slow melody crackled to life, its sound eerily distorted. The hairs on your arms stood on end. You didn't own a record player.
Your pulse pounded in your ears as you turned toward the sound. The living room was empty, but the record player spun lazily, its needle gliding across the vinyl.
A voice spoke out.
Soft, low, and undeniably real.
"You're not supposed to be here."
It came from behind you.
Ice shot through your veins. You turned, pulse roaring, eyes darting across the dim space. There was nothing. No one. But the air was charged, as if something unseen had just been there.
The melody from the record player warbled, slowing, distorting into something unnatural before cutting out entirely.
The silence returned, deafening in its weight.
You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, but deep down, you knew you were not alone in this house.
Millions of thoughts raced through your mind. Was this somehow connected to the paintings? It couldnt be, right? Your heartbeat pounded unnaturally fast, breath hitching as your entire body trembled. A violent sob tore from your throat before you could stop it.
Without thinking, you bolted up the stairs, desperate to reach the safety of your room. But just as you reached for the door, it slammed shut in your face.
Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, throat tight with unshed tears. Your gaze darted frantically around the dim hallway before you lunged for the handle, yanking it open.
A ghost? A spirit? No. That thought had long been buried. This wasn't some supernatural force—this was real. Someone had broken in.
You threw the door shut behind you, heart hammering as you stumbled towards the bed and snatched up your phone. Your fingers, trembling and slick with sweat, tapped out the first numbers that came to mind.
911.
Seconds dragged unbearably long as the ringing tone buzzed in your ear. You sank onto the bed, one leg bouncing uncontrollably, hands clenched into fists. Until, finally, a voice called out from the other side.
"911, what's your emergency?" A woman's voice. Soft. Steady.
You sucked in a shaky breath. "I— There's s-someone in my house. I think they broke in. I—I'm pretty sure they're still here." The words spilled out, tripping over themselves.
"Okay, miss. Take a deep breath for me. What's your name and address?"
You answered quickly, throat tightening as you waited.
"Stay on the line with me. Can you tell me what makes you think someone broke in?"
Your fingers clenched tighter around the phone. The memory surged back, ice-cold and unmistakable.
"I saw a man," you whispered. "They spoke to me."
The line crackled for a moment, filling the silence in your room with static. Then, the dispatcher's voice returned—calm, controlled, as if she hadn't just heard the most terrifying thing you've ever said.
"They spoke to you?"
You swallowed hard. "Yes."
"Can you tell me what they said?"
Your mind raced back to that moment—the voice, the way it seemed to slither into your ears like a whisper only meant for you. You could still hear it, low and deliberate, replaying over and over.
You're not supposed to be here.
You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that would make it go away.
"They said I—I shouldn't be here.," you managed, voice barely above a whisper.
A beat of silence. Then, "Y/N, are you somewhere safe?"
Safe.
Your eyes flickered toward the door, the flimsy lock on the knob. A thin piece of wood separating you from whoever, or whatever, was out there.
"I don't know," you admitted.
The dispatcher's voice softened. "Help is on the way, okay? I need you to stay quiet and listen carefully."
A rustling sound echoed from outside your room. Footsteps. Slow. Measured.
Your blood turned ice cold.
"They're still here," you whispered into the phone.
Another pause—this one heavier, more urgent. Then, the dispatcher spoke again, voice low and firm.
"Lock the door. Now."
You lunged for the knob, twisting it until you heard the soft click of the lock sliding into place. You barely had time to step back before a thud sounded from behind it.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Something had just pressed against the door.
The phone shook in your hands. The dispatcher's voice was still in your ear, but you could barely hear her over the blood rushing in your head.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A slow, deliberate knocking.
Your stomach dropped.
The voice from the other side was familiar.
"Let me in."
It was the same one from earlier.
Your breath hitched.
Every fiber of your being screamed at you to move, to do something, but you were frozen in place, your body paralyzed by sheer terror.
"Let me in."
The words slithered through the door, slow and deliberate.
Your entire body went rigid. You knew that voice. That painstakingly low, guttural tone that had sent a chill down your spine the first time you heard it. The kind of voice that didn't just speak, it crawled under your skin, wrapping around your bones like something cold and suffocating.
It was him.
The man from earlier. The one you'd tried so hard to convince yourself wasn't real.
And now, he was standing just outside your door.
The phone nearly slipped from your grip. Your fingers clenched around it in a desperate attempt to hold on, but the tremors in your hands made it feel like you could drop it at any second. Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, chest rising and falling too fast, too erratic.
You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled themselves into knots at the back of your throat, choking you. Finally, you forced them out in a ragged whisper.
"T-There's—" Your voice faltered, barely audible over the pounding in your ears. You swallowed hard, forcing down the rising panic threatening to consume you. "There's someone outside my door."
The silence that followed was thick, almost unnatural.
"They're—" You sucked in a sharp breath, gripping the phone so tightly your knuckles turned white. "It's the same one from earlier."
The moment those words left your lips, the air in the room changed.
On the other end of the line, the dispatcher hesitated. It was barely a second, but you felt it. The carefully measured calm in her voice cracked, just slightly, but enough to tell you that she knew that something wasn't right.
"Y/N," she said, slow and deliberate. "Is there anyone else in the house with you?"
You shook your head instinctively before realising she couldn't see you. You swallowed again, throat dry and tight.
"No," you whispered.
Another pause. Another moment of silence.
Until the handle rattled.
Not violently. Not in an attempt to break in. It was slow. Controlled. Testing it.
Your breath hitched, a sharp, strangled sound catching in your throat. You staggered backward, nearly losing your balance as your legs collided with the edge of the bed.
And then it spoke.
"End the call."
The voice was different now, more soft. Too soft. It shouldn't have made your blood run cold, shouldn't have sent that horrible, skittering sensation crawling up your spine.
It sounded like a recording played back at the wrong speed, stretched and warped just enough to feel off. Just enough to make your body reject it, to tell you that whatever was on the other side of that door wasn't supposed to exist.
The dispatcher's voice was tighter now. Urgent. "Listen to me. Stay where you are. Do not open that door. Officers are on route. Can you find anything to barricade it?"
Your brain struggled to process her words, to latch onto them through the growing fog of terror. Your eyes darted around the room, searching desperately for anything to use as a barricade.
The desk. The dresser. The chair in the corner.
Could you move them in time? Would it even matter?
"You're not supposed to be here."
Your stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing its way up your throat.
The rattling of the door handle combined with the knocking managed to drown out the comforting voice on the other side of the phone.
And then, silence.
The knocking stopped. The rattling ceased. The presence outside the door just... vanished.
The air in the room felt heavier now, thick and unmoving, pressing down on you from all sides. It was as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting.
The dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, but it felt distant, muffled beneath the deafening ring in your ears.
"Miss? Are you still there?"
You couldn't answer. You couldn't move.
Because your gaze had drifted—just slightly.
The door was still closed. Still locked. But, behind you, the closet was open, creaking slightly as it continued to open until finally, it slammed against the wall.
The closet door slammed against the wall with a force that sent vibrations through the floor, and your breath caught in your throat. The silence that followed was suffocating, a thick, unnatural quiet that pressed against your ears like cotton.
Your body refused to move at first, the sheer weight of the moment rooting you in place. Your eyes locked onto the darkness beyond the threshold of the closet. It wasn't just darkcit was void, an abyss that swallowed the faint glow of your bedside lamp before it could reach inside.
Then, something shifted.
A presence.
At first, it was subtle—a slow, creeping awareness that prickled at the back of your neck. The unmistakable sensation of being watched. A deep, bone-chilling cold seeped into the room, frosting over your skin and sinking into your muscles.
"You're not supposed to be here." The voice from the beginning called out, slithering through the air like an icy tendril, curling around your ear in a breath that wasn't entirely human. It was layered, distorted almost, as if spoken by multiple voices at once, each one slightly out of sync with the other.
Your body reacted before your brain could. You stumbled backward, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your heel caught the edge of the rug. Your legs buckled, sending you crashing onto the floor.
The phone slipped from your grasp and landed beside you, the dispatcher's voice buzzing through the speaker in broken static.
"Officers... on their way... stay with me—"
You barely heard her.
Because something moved in the closet.
A figure.
It was impossible to make out, but it was there, a mass of shifting darkness that loomed just beyond the threshold. Not quite human, not entirely formless. It seethed in the black, pulsing with something unnatural, something wrong.
And then it stepped forward.
Your breath turned to ice in your lungs.
The air itself seemed to warp around it, bending and distorting like a heat mirage, but cold. Unfathomably cold. The shadows clung to its frame, shifting and unraveling, like the edges of its form couldn't quite stay together.
Then, the hand shot out; long, spindly fingers, impossibly thin yet unnervingly strong, clamped around your wrist. A chill unlike anything you had ever felt surged through you, locking your muscles in place. It wasn't just cold, it was absence, a void where warmth had never existed.
The grip tightened.
A sharp, excruciating pain shot through your arm, like icy needles burrowing beneath your skin. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you let out a strangled scream, instinctively yanking back.
It held firm.
The thing in the closet didn't move, didn't lurch or stagger. It simply existed, an unrelenting force beyond the grasp of reason.
Slowly, deliberately, it began to pull.
Your heels dug into the floor, desperate to find purchase, to fight against the inhuman strength dragging you toward the black maw of the closet. Your free hand flailed wildly, knocking over a lamp, sending glass shards scattering across the hardwood.
A scream tore out your throat, thrashing against the tightening grip.
But just as suddenly as it had grabbed you, it released.
You fell back hard, the impact rattling through your bones as you gasped for air, clutching your wrist. The skin there was ice cold, a deep, aching numbness settling beneath the surface.
The room was still.
Too still.
The figure had retreated.
But the closet door remained open.
The dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, sharp and urgent.
"Y/N, are you safe? Are you safe?"
You couldn't answer. You couldn't breathe.
Because just as the sirens outside wailed closer, flashing red and blue against your window—
The closet door clicked shut.
And in the heavy silence that followed, you swore you heard it again.
That voice. A breath against the shell of your ear. It was hard to make out what it said, but you could feel its lingering presence all over your body—like hands roaming over you.
Another scream ripped from your throat, raw and unrelenting, as sobs shook your entire body. Your mind struggled to grasp the impossibility of the nightmare unfolding around you, but reality felt fractured, distorted beyond comprehension.
Somewhere in the distance, the dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, urgent and persistent, The shrill noise of the sirens blended with the dispatcher's frantic calls, layering over the ringing in your ears. A flicker of red and blue light pulsed against the windowpane, flashing in rhythmic bursts, casting eerie shadows across the room.
But you couldn't form words, you could barely even breathe properly. The weight of fear pressed down on your chest like a vice, suffocating, paralyzing.
Your fingers dug into the cold wooden floor, grasping for any sense of stability. With trembling arms, you pushed yourself up, legs wobbling beneath you. Every movement felt sluggish, as if you were moving through water, but you forced yourself to stand.
Help was finally here, but you didn't feel any safer than you did before. What could they possibly do now? There was something much more deeper, darker happening here that the police would not be able to solve.
Deep voices, commanding shouts joined the chaos outside, overlapping with the howling sirens.
Short, rapid breathes left your throat in an attempt to calm yourself down as you slowly took steps towards your door which was still surprisingly locked. Your quivering hands reached out, clasping onto the metallic handle and twisting the door open. A violent banging sounded from downstairs, causing you to flinch in fear, before realising it was just the police outside. They continued to shout, and you managed to make out the sound of your name frantically being called by someone.
Your feet dragged you down the stairs, as you wiped your face, removing any trace of the former tears that had fell from your swollen eyes. Before you could open the door, it was already being pushed open and officers rushed inside.
Two officers stood in front of you, the other two had taken on the task of exploring your house, checking if there truly was a burglar -- an invader -- lurking inside.
You carefully explained the previous events that had occurred before their arrival, and they listened intently, nodding along to everything you said. Soon enough, the other two joined in with a concerned look etched on their faces.
"There's.." one of them began, all eyes on him. "There's nobody here. We checked every room." He clasped his hands behind his back, glancing towards his colleague.
"There wasn't a trace of anybody.. But you did leave the front door unlocked." the other added.
"Oh, it must've slipped my mind..." you trailed off, mentally facepalming at your stupidity. You never left the door unlocked. Ever.
Noticing your sullen expression, the female officer spoke up, "Hey, don't worry. We'll do one last check, right?" she looked over at her peers, causing them to nod along, followed by a chorus of 'yes'.
You muttered out a quick thank you, hands clenching into balls in your lap as you watched them make their way back up the stairs, in search of someone you were no longer sure had ever been real.
