based off this nasty thought I had
!Ghost Simon Riley x Reader (can be read as GN-- reader painting tootsie's is mentioned)
Your house is haunted.
But she's cheap, doesn't need much maintenance, and the moment you pulled up into the driveway to meet the landlords--you knew you had to rent.
That should've been the first sign.
A one-bed, one-bath this close to work, for that price? You jumped at the offer. Even if it meant living out of boxes for a few weeks, even if the walls sometimes groaned like they were settling. You told yourself it was fine. Old pipes. New paint. No big deal.
You've never imagined living with a poltergeist--though if you had, you might of expected worse. Something sinister. But this ghost? It must like you. That, or maybe it's just bored.
It starts small.
Cold spots, easily brushed off. Things going missing--your fault, probably. Time feeling strange, like the air itself gets heavier when you're home. And the whispers--like warm breath fanning over your ear.
You don't really think about it, deciding that having a ghost isn't so bad.
Until one night.
Painting your toes red on the couch your friend lent you, half-watching your comfort show while she babbles through the phone speaker.
"I'm telling you," she says, voice fuzzy through the speaker, "he likes you. Can't keep your name out of his mouth. Just invite him over already!"
You hum, distracted, trying not to smudge your polish as you set the remote down--and knock over the bottle.
"Shit," you hiss, grabbing tissues, blotting up a dark red puddle on the coffee table that looks a little too much like blood under the light.
You stare at the paused TV screen, eyes growing wide at the sight of a tall shadow standing in your kitchen behind you from the reflection. You whip your head around to find nothing, blinking rapidly at the empty space as a buzzing gust of air breezes past your skin.
You feel something light, almost phantom-like ghost over the flesh of your ankle. You curl up on the couch, painted nails forgotten as you peer at the screen for another sign. Another glimpse.
Is now the time you should start questioning your actions?
"C'mon," your friend presses, breaking you out of your trance. "he dumped that hoe. Everyone knows you're ten times better anyway."
You laugh, cheeks and face starting to burn hot. With all this supernatural stuff going on, company might ease you. Could be just what you need. "Yeah, maybe I will invite him over..."
Only the words barely leave your mouth when a sound booms--almost like a sharp crash--behind you. Loud enough to make you yelp.
"Hey! What was that? You okay?"
"Yeah--yeah, sorry," you stammer, staring over your shoulder. Something's not right. "Uh, my tax guy's calling. I'll talk to you later."
"Hey, I'd scream too."
You laugh, a shaky one, and end the call.
The house feels different now. Charged.
You stand slowly, hand braced on the couch as you trail towards the kitchen--where your brand-new potted plant lies in ruins. The pot split clean in two, soil scattered across the hardwood like a crime scene.
"Oh, come on," you groan, stepping closer. The little cactus (or whatever it was--something leafy, something you didn't know how to keep alive anyway) sits bent and broken, roots exposed.
You glance around the empty room. "Jealous much?" you mutter as you grab the broom.
It's too quiet.
Every sweep of the bristles seems too loud, echoing off the walls. The air feels heavier again, like someone's standing behind you--watching.
But there's nothing.
You try to ignore it. Focus on the dirt. The mess. The little scrape of ceramic shards. Anything to shake the feeling that whatever it was, this was just the beginning.
Then, a unsettling creak breaks your attention, one of the cupboard doors flying open.
You freeze.
Cold air rushes out and blankets over you like a sigh.
And somewhere, in the stillness between heartbeats--
--you swear you hear it.
Low. Rumbling. Almost vibrating through you.
A gruff, amused whisper, throat raspy from years of not being used.
A man.
"You think so, love?"
