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“Let me take you,” the ghost says.

You’re not real, she thinks, but she wants this badly. Her boyfriend has been dead for two months now, and this is how she spends her nights – hiding in her room drunk, staring out a window, and imaging a ghost is here to fuck her again.  

The illusion of it is nice, though lately her mind is changing the ghost. He’s harsher now, more willing to hurt her.

Misplaced guilt, her friends would say, if she hadn’t gradually cut them all out of her life.

This is good. She regrets things now, and the illusion blaming her only reminds him to be more careful in the future.

(And if she has no one to be careful with anymore, because she chooses the ghost, that is an improvement too.)

“Let me in you,” the ghost says.

You’re not real, she thinks, but I still want this.

Her boyfriend enters her.

Her eyes turn black and she falls backwards on the bed, screaming.

This time is different. She screams and the illusion breaks, her boyfriend’s face grinning ghoulishly at her as it never would in life, but still her boyfriend.

She begs for forgiveness and isn’t given it.

She begs for death, and this the ghost does grant.

(The ghost is her boyfriend, kind and merciful towards her.

The ghost is also a ghost, harsh and changed by death, losing ever more humanity the longer he is a ghost.)

She rises from the bed, leaving her body behind, wide eyes staring blanking into nothingness.  

The ghosts smile at each other, reunited.  

(She will lose her humanity too, and future occupants of the house will also scream as they leave life.

The thing about ghosts is they don’t love like humans do. They love like death, all consuming and unstoppable.)