Ghost whumpee watches from their old cell. They watched their body decompose and they watched as a new whumpee took their place. They’ve tried everything to get out, to escape the cell and find a way to cross over, but nothing works.
Whumpee is ice cold aganist Caretaker's skin, but still, Caretaker holds on to them. At least, in the dark, in the bed, they can pretend Whumpee's isn't blue and green all over, injuries still open and red with transparent blood spillling out and fading into thin air like mist. They can even let Whumpee's soft cries fade onto Caretaker's chest and let it turn into mere white noise, a sad song for their fate.
But there is the cold, a cold Caretaker could never imagine it could exist. They can't ignore the way Whumpee's hands burn where they touch Caretaker's back as they cuddle, they can never escape the cold. It doesn't matter the month or how long they turn the heater on or how many blankets they pile up in the bed, Caretaker is cold because Whumpee is cold, and nothing can ever warm Whumpee again.
Please, Whumpee whispers. Caretaker shakes their head and lets out a sob.
Ghost whumpee who reluctantly signs their soul over to a demon whumper, for help finding their body and who murdered them
#396
content: nonhuman whumpee, ghost whumpee, nonhuman whumper, demon whumper, lady whump, lady whumpee, lady whumper, noncon mention, choking, murder, death, revenge, lies, manipulation
It took Whumpee a while to realise what was going on. Why she could float, why she could pass through walls — at first, she'd thought it was a dream, but by now she was sure she was simply... dead.
A ghost. Trapped in this plane of existence by something traumatic.
Her memories were fuzzy, but she was pretty sure she remembered some of her last moments. The sexual assault, the choking, the way she'd clawed at the hands of her murderer as he squeezed the life out of her.
She shivered. Could a ghost shiver? Apparently so.
And so, here she was. Present but not really. Trapped. Forever, unless she found her murderer and where he'd dumped her body. And that was a far stretch; how could she ever find him? She didn't even remember his face. It had been dark.
So she floated aimlessly, passing through people on the streets, sometimes wandering into the homes of so-called psychics and trying to contact them. None of them were real psychics. None of them noticed her presence.
Until one day, someone did.
"You," came a purr of a voice from behind her, but by now, she was used to no one talking to her, so she didn't turn back. "You, in the tattered dress."
Whumpee stopped. She looked around, but there were no other people in tattered dresses. Just her. Someone saw her?
She turned around to see something she'd never seen before. A woman with blood red skin, in a black bralette and leather pants. Two horns adorned her head, and her jet black hair fell down to her waist. She was looking straight at her.
A... A demon?
The demon smirked. Whumpee immediately turned away, wanting to flee. Whatever this woman was, it was a bad omen; but before she could've fled, the woman teleported to be in front of her.
"I have a deal that might interest you," she said. Whumpee backed up.
"I'm not interested," she said emphatically.
"No, no, I think you are. After all, a victim of a traumatic murder, trapped here on earth when there's heaven waiting for you... You need to find your body, don't you? And the man who did this."
"What do you know about heaven?" she said, maybe a bit more hostile than she intended.
"I've helped a fair bit of souls," the demon replied, unbothered by the comment.
"I don't believe that."
The demon grinned. "Smart. Demanding proof. It's a shame that your smarts didn't save you from that wicked, wicked man."
"If you have proof, show me."
The demon snapped her fingers, and several rolled up pieces of parchment paper appeared. When Whumpee floated a little closer, she could see they were all contracts.
"Are these all souls you've helped?" she asked, skimming the writing. 'I hereby offer up my soul to Whumper in exchange for her services to find my murderer.' 'I hereby offer up my soul to Whumper in exchange for her to help me put my last affairs in order.' "You... You are serious."
The demon — Whumper, apparently — snapped her fingers, and the contracts disappeared. "I'm quite good at what I do, you'll find."
"If I sign a contract."
"Precisely."
Whumpee chewed on her bottom lip. To sign away her very soul? She was nothing but a soul. "Wouldn't signing away my soul kind of... make it impossible for me to move on? You mentioned heaven, but how would I get into heaven without a soul?"
"Oh, it's nothing but a formality. See, what I'm after is your essence." She reached out, her fingers gliding through Whumpee's chest. She grabbed onto something in there, and Whumpee felt like someone was fondling her heart. "That's your essence. That's what you're signing away. The rest of your soul goes to heaven." Whumper pulled her hand back, and Whumpee immediately floated back, away from her, hands on her chest. The sensation of someone grabbing her 'essence' had been not just uncomfortable, but strangely intimate.
"Never do that again."
The demon laughed. "A prude. Makes your death and its circumstances all the more tragic. Were you saving yourself for marriage?"
"I believe that is none of your business," Whumpee snapped. Whumper was making fun of her being raped? Just how distasteful did demons get? "I'm not interested in your contracts."
"Not only do I offer to track down your murderer, but I can also take him out," Whumper said just as Whumpee turned away to leave. It made her stop.
Did she want that?
She wanted him not to hurt another woman, sure, but...
"Is that all you have to sweeten the deal?" she asked, fists clenching and unclenching. Thinking.
"It's a pretty good offer as is," Whumper said from behind her. "And who wouldn't want to see their murderer dead?"
"I won't sign a contract with a demon. How could I ever expect to be let into heaven if I did that?"
"You'll find many kindred spirits there," she said, slowly circling her and coming to a stop in front of her. "You saw the contracts yourself. No more wandering the earth, no more misery. Being a ghost is miserable, isn't it? No one to see you. No one to touch you. No one to—"
"Stop. I will find that man myself."
"And you'll haunt him until he breaks down and leads you to your unmarked grave? Possibly the river he threw your body in? Oh, come on. You don't know the first thing about interacting with humans."
"Well, I'll figure it out!"
Whumper stepped closer. "Let me help. I might be a demon, but I find what he did to you despicable. Maybe it's selfish, but I want to help you. I want to take him out."
"So do so in your own free time."
"If I do, you'll never find him. You'll be stuck here forever."
"If you want to help me that bad, why force a contract on me?"
Whumper grinned. "Well, I'm not that selfless."
Whumpee didn't like being a ghost. She didn't like wandering the streets, looking for a mystery man and her own body. Whumper clearly knew something about his whereabouts. And if she really just wanted this 'essence' thing...
"Okay," she said quietly. "I'll sign."
"Wonderful!" Whumper said, summoning a piece of parchment with legal jargon on it. "Sign at the bottom."
Whumpee swallowed but took the leap. She signed. Whumper rolled the paper up, and with a snap of her fingers, it disappeared in a small flame.
"Very well," Whumper went on, like a cat that got the cream. "Let's look for your murderer."
How Whumper knew where to find him, Whumpee had no idea. But she led her to a back alley behind a pub, where the man was on top of a helplessly drunk woman.
He was going to do it again.
He was going to assault another woman, possibly murder her.
"Help!" Whumpee screamed, for a moment forgetting that no one but Whumper could hear her. But that was enough. Because Whumper took out a dagger and walked over to the man, then stabbed him in the back. Then did it again. And again. And again. Blood was coating the asphalt beneath their feet. The man rolled off the woman, gasping for air, getting none.
Whumpee covered her eyes, the violence too much for her to bear. Even if it was for a good cause.
"Well, half the contract is already fulfilled," Whumper said cheerily as she walked back to Whumpee. Whumpee peeked out from between her fingers, and she saw the corpse, then the innocent woman still lying on the ground, covered in the man's blood. She looked too out of it to comprehend what had just happened. Maybe she'd been drugged.
"Can you help her?" Whumpee asked. "Clearly, you can interact with the world. Can you—"
"Helping her isn't in the contract," Whumper said, and Whumpee had to remind herself that she was a demon at the end of the day, not a charity service.
"Fine," she said, still shaken by what she'd just witnessed. She paid for this. For him to be assassinated. With her very soul. "Then... Then just show me where my body is."
Whumper snapped her fingers, and the two of them were transported to the bank of a river. There was something on the shore. Whumpee slowly floated towards it.
It was a body.
It was her body.
Bloated and blue. Her hair floating in the water like weed. Face down. In one piece. She was naked from the waist down. It was so... humiliating. So tragic.
"That's where I've ended up?" she asked brokenly.
"I told you; he was a wicked man," Whumper said. For a moment, Whumpee didn't feel bad about getting Whumper to kill him.
"Can we somehow... draw attention to this? That I'm here? My body, I mean."
"We have to," she said with a sigh. "You won't find rest unless the body is laid to rest."
"What do we do, then?"
"Leave it to me. You just stay here for a bit." With that, Whumper disappeared.
Whumpee floated even closer, crouching down next to her body. She wished she could've at least arranged her dress a little more modestly. She didn't want others to find the body like this. But Whumper was right; she didn't know how to interact with the world. Unlike Whumper, who could will herself to touch others in the world, and could probably show herself to those still alive, Whumpee had no idea how to do any of that.
So she just waited there. Mourning herself.
Soon, a group of tourists showed up.
"Hey, there's something washed up on shore," one of them said.
"Yeah, that looks like..."
"Oh my goodness."
"Somebody call the police! Right now!"
Whumpee waited by the body as the police and ambulance arrived. She watched her body be loaded into a car, and floated with them to the morgue. She listened in on conversations between police officers who wondered who could've done such a thing. She smiled to herself sadly.
"All that's left to do is wait for them to identify you," Whumper said, suddenly appearing behind her. Whumpee startled.
"Don't just sneak up on me!"
"I teleported. I thought you'd be used to it by now."
"How are they going to identify me?" she asked instead, changing the subject.
"They'll send out a photo. Your family will recognise you."
"My family has to see my dead body?"
"That's the only way. Killer man didn't throw your body into the river along with your purse and ID."
Whumpee nodded. This was a nightmare.
"Hey," Whumper said, gentler. "Do you want me to wait here until they arrive?"
"It's not in the contract," Whumpee said.
"I'm not that legalistic."
"You certainly seemed to be with the woman in the alleyway."
"I didn't know her."
"And you know me? We met an hour ago."
"We have a contract. I'd say that's more than just acquaintances."
"What, we're friends because I sold my soul to you?"
"Just tell me if you want me to stay."
Whumpee looked away. She stared at her own lifeless body. "I'd like you to stay."
Being a ghost was lonely. Maybe that was why she allowed herself to get attached to the first person who saw her.
Whumper stayed.
When Whumpee's family finally walked through the door, they were in hysterics. Her mother broke down, her father comforting her. They confirmed the body was Whumpee's, and they left to make funeral arrangements.
Whumpee floated out of the morgue, with Whumper walking behind her.
"I can't believe they had to see that," Whumpee muttered.
"That's just how it goes," Whumper said. "But look on the bright side — a few more days and you'll be free."
"I suppose."
The funeral came sooner than expected. It was a small one, and Whumpee expected it to be more... impactful than it ended up being. Whumper accompanied her, but stayed back while she hovered around her family.
When the body was lowered into the grave, Whumpee expected to finally see the light. When the first shovelfuls of dirt were thrown onto the coffin, she really expected to see the light. But the funeral was over, her parents left, and she was still stuck. Stuck on earth.
"What's going on?" she demanded from Whumper. "You promised me heaven!"
"Oh, that?" Whumper said nonchalantly. "You signed over your soul. You're never seeing heaven."
"But you said—"
"I'm a demon, Whumpee. I lie, cheat, murder. You're bound to me now."
"I'm... stuck?"
"But hey, at least the gross fucker who did this to you is dead."
Whumpee collapsed onto her knees. She'd made a mistake. She'd made a terrible mistake.
"Oh, come on, Whumpee," Whumper said, grinning ear to ear. "You're in a better position than before you signed. You would've never found your murderer or your body, had it not been for me."
"I'm stuck," she repeated, broken. "I'm truly stuck. Forever."
Thinking about a whumpee that died and came back as a ghost, but because they're a ghost there's no way to patch up their injuries so they're forced to float around with gaping wounds and gashes on their body for all eternity.
Ghost whumpee who has to relive their death again every night + living Caretaker covering their head with a pillow every night to block out the screams.
They meet in a place that never finishes forming—but that hasn’t stopped it from becoming familiar.
A corridor that keeps trying to be a stairwell, reconfiguring itself every few seconds like it’s embarrassed it can’t commit. Steps grow, flatten, tilt, then remember they were supposed to be steps in the first place. Light pools in odd places, catching on invisible corners, flickering as though it’s recalling how illumination works rather than actively doing it. Heaven’s records still label the space transitional. Hell’s maps mark it with a scribbled note that translates loosely to don’t bother.
Tyell has claimed it anyway.
Not officially. Not with wards or declarations. Just by existing there often enough that the place has started to expect him.
He’s sprawled half-sideways on a step that refuses to stay the same height for more than a breath. One leg dangles through open air that drops into nothing recognizable; the other kicks lazily, heel brushing against reality with soft, deliberate taps. He’s corporeal today—solid enough that the step complains faintly under his weight—but his edges still glow wrong, light bending just slightly around him like the universe hasn’t decided whether to treat him as present tense.
He looks… good.
Too good, really, considering everything.
Sleeves rolled up, hands ink-smudged from helping Stara redraw a ward earlier. His hair is exactly as tousled as it always was in life, the kind of messy that suggests effortlessness but actually requires stubborn consistency. His smile is bright, easy, permanently hovering between amused and unserious—the same smile he wears at game nights, during arguments about music, when Daveed burns dinner again and insists it was intentional.
He’s humming under his breath, off-key on purpose.
Rook arrives quietly, because that is how Rook arrives everywhere now.
Wings tucked tight, feathers pulled close to their spine not out of fear but habit. They step carefully, as though the architecture might take offense if approached too boldly. This is not their first time here. Not their second, either. The corridor has learned the shape of Rook’s footsteps just as it’s learned Tyell’s sprawl.
Tyell notices anyway. He always does.
“Oh good,” he says without looking up, grin widening. “It’s you. I was worried it’d be one of the auditors again.”
Rook exhales, tension easing from their shoulders. “You antagonized them.”
“I asked questions,” Tyell corrects. “They just didn’t like that I remembered the answers.”
Rook steps closer, glancing down the drop beside Tyell’s dangling leg. It goes farther today than it did yesterday. Or maybe not. Hard to tell.
“You’re early,” Rook says.
Tyell shrugs, still humming. “Daveed’s asleep. Deep one. The kind where his empathy finally shuts up for five blessed minutes. Figured I’d give him that.”
There’s something gentle in the way he says Daveed’s name. Not possessive. Not aching. Just… present.
Rook watches him for a moment longer than necessary.
“You’re still not leaving,” Rook says finally. It’s not a question anymore. It hasn’t been for a while.
Tyell swings his leg, boot slicing cleanly through a ribbon of light. “Still here. Still annoying. Still violating at least three metaphysical guidelines.”
“I was told—” Rook begins, then stops themself, because Tyell already knows.
“Yeah,” Tyell says lightly. “Everyone was.”
He sits up a little, palms braced behind him. The step firms under his weight, as if encouraged. “Turns out love doesn’t care much about policy. Or jurisdiction. Or whether you filled out the right forms before dying.”
That lands harder than it should, even now.
Rook studies him the way they have before, the way they always do when Tyell says something like that: the faint shimmer around his outline that never quite dissipates, the density of him. He doesn’t feel like a memory replaying itself. He feels anchored. Rooted.
This isn’t a ghost clinging out of fear.
This is someone who chose to stay—and was allowed to.
“You know who I am,” Rook says, not testing, just stating.
Tyell beams. “Of course I do. You’re the one who brings snacks to game night and pretends it’s not an offering.”
Rook’s mouth twitches. “That’s not—”
“You’re also,” Tyell continues, unbothered, “the one he looks at like the ground finally agreed to hold him.”
That still hits, no matter how many times Tyell’s said it.
Rook’s wings tense despite themself. “And you’re the one he loved.”
Tyell hums, tipping his head side to side like he’s weighing options. “Still does.”
Rook nods. No argument. Just acceptance. That part has grown easier with time—hard-won, but real.
“That doesn’t bother you,” Rook says. Not accusing. Trying to understand.
Tyell snorts softly. “Why would it? Love doesn’t expire. It just… changes job titles. I used to be ‘the person who kept him afloat.’ Now I’m more like… ‘the person who makes sure the past doesn’t bite him when he’s not looking.’”
He hops down from the step.
His boots thud against the corridor floor. Solid. Deliberate.
Rook notices. Of course they do. And Tyell absolutely notices Rook noticing.
“Oh yeah,” Tyell says, rocking back on his heels. “Got that down a couple weeks ago. Took forever. Freaked out a Seraph when I shook their hand. Thought they were going to combust.”
“You shouldn’t be able to remain corporeal,” Rook says, not accusing. Just reciting doctrine out of long habit.
Tyell grins wider. “And yet.”
They stand there together—this has happened before, too. Two figures bound by the same name, spoken differently in their chests. Love-that-was and love-that-is, occupying the same impossible space without collapsing it.
“He never told me,” Tyell says after a moment, casual as if discussing weather. “About you. Not at first. I had to piece it together. The way his grief stopped circling and started… pointing somewhere.”
Rook’s voice is quiet. “I worried I was replacing you.”
Tyell barks a laugh. “God, no. You’re not a replacement. You’re a continuation. Sequels get a bad reputation, but sometimes they let the story breathe.”
That cracks something open in Rook’s ribs. Not pain—release.
Tyell tilts his head, humor receding just enough to reveal sharp perception underneath. “You love him in the way that lets him speak,” he says. “Ask. Admit. Exist out loud.”
Rook swallows.
“I loved him in the way that let him survive not speaking,” Tyell continues. “Different skills. Same goal.”
Rook nods slowly. “He carries guilt about you.”
“Yeah,” Tyell says lightly. “He would. It’s kind of his thing.”
“There was…” Rook hesitates. They’ve rehearsed this, once or twice. “…an unfinished sentence.”
Tyell’s smile flickers—but it doesn’t fall. It never does.
“I know,” he says. “That’s okay.”
Rook looks up sharply.
Tyell taps his chest, once, twice. “Right here. And wherever it is I’m supposed to be now. Turns out being seen does wonders for closure.”
They lapse into a quiet that isn’t awkward. Just full. The corridor steadies around them, steps aligning properly for once, as if relieved.
After a while, Rook asks, “Why do you stay?”
Tyell looks toward nothing in particular, eyes softening. “Because the first time he looked at me after I died—really looked—he wasn’t drowning. He wasn’t begging. He just… saw the love. All of it. No apology. No bargaining.”
His voice stays light.
It still hurts.
“Once love’s been witnessed,” Tyell says, “it doesn’t dissolve. It lingers. Gets stubborn. Gets corporeal, apparently.”
Rook nods. “He loves me in a way that keeps him alive.”
Tyell smiles, gentle and sincere. “Good. That was always the goal. I didn’t fall in love with him so the universe could collect him early.”
They share something then—not rivalry, not jealousy. Recognition. Respect. The strange kinship of people who love the same soul without tearing it in half.
Tyell steps back, hands in his pockets. “I’m not going anywhere, by the way. But don’t worry—I’m not here to haunt your relationship.”
Rook allows the smallest smile. “You’re impossible.”
“Daveed has a type,” Tyell says brightly. “Emotionally devastating, but polite.”
Rook huffs despite themself.
Tyell starts to drift—not fading, exactly, just shifting to the side, the way he does when he knows he’s no longer needed in the center of the room.
“Take care of him,” Tyell says, then immediately adds, “Or don’t. Let him be weird. He likes that.”
Rook inclines their head. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For loving him when he didn’t know how to ask.”
Tyell’s grin turns soft, luminous in a way that has nothing to do with light. “For loving him when he finally does.”
He salutes, utterly unserious.
And when Rook leaves, Tyell stays—sitting on the unreliable stair, humming off-key, solid as memory, bright as love that was never wasted.
Whumpee who was taken, tortured, and killed. Now, their ghosts hangs around Caretaker, and they can't move on until they come to peace with what happens.
Caretaker is the only one who can help, because they're the only one who can see and talk to Whumpee. So now they're dealing with a traumatized Whumpee, who is also dead.
And Caretaker tries, they try so, so hard. But they break down a little more every day. How are they supposed to help Whumpee, when helping them means they'll be gone? How can they look at Whumpee and not think about how everything is not okay? How Whumpee is dead and they failed them. How Whumpee is so scared, how they cry and scream in terror, even in death?
What happens when Caretaker succeeds? Who is there to help Caretaker?
