The rain was a liquid curtain, blurring the world outside the passenger window of Ben’s beat-up Honda Civic. Each drop seemed to carry the weight of the mid-September humidity, splashing against the glass and racing down in frantic, crooked lines. Ben, his chin resting on his fist, watched it all with a grin that was part excitement, part pure, unadulterated mischief.
“This is perfect,” he said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the drumming of the rain on the car roof. “Absolutely, Grade-A, top-shelf perfect. You couldn’t ask for a better horror movie setup.”
Chris, hunched over the wheel, gripped it like a man trying to wring water from a stone. His knuckles were white. “Perfect for what? Getting struck by lightning? Swerving into a ditch because I can’t see three feet in front of me? Or maybe you’re looking forward to our car getting washed away in a flash flood?”
“Drama queen,” Ben chuckled, turning to look at his friend. Chris was a study in controlled panic. His dark hair, usually neatly combed, was starting to frizz at the temples from the dampness. He had a serious, angular face, with a sharp nose and a thin mouth that was currently pressed into a tight line. Ben, by contrast, was softer, rounder, with a mop of unruly brown curls that fell into his warm, hazel eyes. He was built for comfort, not for speed, all soft edges and a ready laugh. “We’re almost there. Besides, a little atmospheric disturbance is exactly what the doctor ordered for our initiation into the Parapsychology Club.”
“The Parapsychology Club,” Chris repeated, the words tasting like ash. “We could have joined the Chess Club, Ben. Or the Hiking Club. Fresh air, sunshine, a distinct lack of malevolent spirits.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Ben shot back, gesturing expansively with one hand. “We’ve been talking about this since we were ten, hiding under your bed with a flashlight reading ‘Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.’ This is the culmination of a lifelong dream, my friend. The big leagues.”
The “big leagues” was Double L University, a sprawling, Gothic-inspired campus of ivy-covered brick and looming bell towers. It was a place that felt ancient even though it was barely a hundred years old, a place where shadows seemed to linger just a little longer than they should. And on the far edge of its property, shrouded by a copse of skeletal-looking oak trees, stood their destination: the Cranston House.
As Chris navigated the Civic down a potholed gravel drive, the house emerged from the gloom. It was a monstrous Victorian pile, three stories of peeling paint, sagging porches, and windows like vacant, staring eyes. A single, wrought-iron fence, rusted and leaning at drunken angles, did a poor job of containing the overgrown lawn that was slowly reclaiming the structure.
“Wow,” Ben breathed, his grin widening. “Look at her. She’s magnificent.”
“She’s a death trap,” Chris countered, killing the engine. The sudden silence was broken only by the hiss of the rain and the distant, menacing rumble of thunder. “The university should just tear it down.”
“And deprive future generations of students the chance to prove their mettle? Never.” Ben opened his door and the wind immediately snatched at it, nearly tearing it from his grasp. A fat drop of rain splashed on his cheek. “Come on. The others are probably already inside, pissing their pants.”
They grabbed their backpacks from the backseat and made a mad dash for the covered porch. The wood groaned under their feet, a sound of weary protest. The front door, a massive thing of dark, scarred oak, was slightly ajar. Ben pushed it open, and a wave of stale, cold air washed over them, carrying the scent of dust, decay, and something else… something vaguely sweet and cloying, like old potpourri.
Inside, the grand foyer was a cavern of shadows. The only light came from a battery-powered lantern sitting on the floor, casting long, dancing shapes up the sweeping staircase and across the peeling floral wallpaper.
“Hello?” Chris called out, his voice sounding small and thin in the vast space. “Arjun? Tom?”
Footsteps echoed from a doorway to their left, and two figures emerged. The first was Arjun, a senior with a lanky, academic build. He wore wire-rimmed glasses perched on a long nose, and his dark hair was pulled back into a messy bun. He held a clipboard and a pen, looking every bit the serious researcher. Behind him was Tom, a junior who was broader and more solidly built, with a friendly, open face and a shock of blond hair that seemed permanently windswept.
“You made it,” Arjun said, his voice calm and measured. “We were beginning to wonder. The storm is moving in faster than the forecast predicted.”
“Tell me about it,” Chris said, shaking the rain from his jacket. “Ben thinks it’s hilarious.”
“It is,” Ben said with a shrug, earning a withering look from Chris.
Tom grinned, his teeth a flash of white in the gloom. “Don’t worry, man. The house is old, but the foundation is solid. Mostly. We’ve got the lanterns, and there’s a breaker box in the kitchen if the power flickers on. It’s old university wiring, so it’s not reliable, but it sometimes works for a few minutes at a time.”
“The rules are simple,” Arjun said, tapping his pen on his clipboard. “Tom and I are here to conduct some baseline EMF and temperature readings. You and Chris are the hopefuls. The initiation requires you to stay until dawn. The main task is to explore the house, separately from us, and create a detailed floor plan of the first and second floors. You also need to take a temperature reading in every room you map.”
“Separately?” Chris asked, a note of anxiety creeping back into his voice.
Arjun nodded. “It’s a test of nerve. You can’t rely on each other. Tom and I will be focusing on the third floor and the attic. We’ll be taking our own readings. We’ll rendezvous back here at, say, one AM to compare notes. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” Ben said, unable to resist. “If we see a ghost, do we get bonus points or automatic entry?”
A faint smile touched Arjun’s lips. “Let’s just say it would be a very compelling data point. Grab a lantern and a thermometer from the table. The kitchen is through there if you want to set up your base camp. We’ll be upstairs.”
Ben grabbed a lantern and a digital thermometer, his eyes already gleaming with the thrill of it. Chris followed suit, his movements hesitant. They watched as Arjun and Tom’s lantern beams bobbed up the grand staircase, their footsteps receding into the oppressive darkness of the upper floors.
“Well,” Ben said, turning to Chris, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let the haunting begin.”
The first hour was a masterclass in dusty exploration. The ground floor was a maze of large, interconnected rooms: a formal dining room with a long, scarred table and a dozen mismatched chairs; a library, its shelves still heavy with moldering books; a parlor with a grand piano shrouded in a white sheet, looking like a sleeping beast. Ben sketched with a confident hand, adding little details like “peeling wallpaper, roses” and “fireplace, soot.” Chris was more methodical, his map precise, his measurements exact. He noted the temperature in each room, a steady, chilly 62 degrees Fahrenheit.
They were in what must have been the family room, a large space with another massive stone fireplace, when the first flicker happened. The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling in the center of the hall hummed, sputtered, and then burst into life, casting a jaundiced, flickering light over everything.
“Whoa!” Ben jumped back, laughing. “See? The house is waking up.”
The light lasted for maybe thirty seconds, just long enough for them to see the true scope of the decay, the water stains on the ceiling, the cobwebs thick as cotton in the corners, before it died with a loud pop, plunging them back into the stark, white glow of their lanterns.
“My heart just aged ten years,” Chris muttered, putting a hand to his chest.
“Adrenaline, my friend. Pure, uncut adrenaline.” Ben clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s hit the second floor. The real fun is up there.”
The second floor was more intimate, more personal. A long hallway ran the length of the house, lined with six closed doors. The air here was even colder, the smell of dust stronger. Behind each door was a bedroom, frozen in time. One had a four-poster bed with a rotting canopy, another a child’s room with faded wallpaper depicting circus animals. In the master bedroom, a tall, ornate mirror stood against one wall. Ben aimed his lantern at it, and for a second, he thought he saw a flicker of movement behind his own reflection, a dark shape passing in the hallway. He blinked, and it was gone.
“See anything?” Chris asked, his back to him as he took a reading by the window.
“Just my handsome reflection,” Ben said, turning away from the mirror. He felt a shiver trace its way down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. “This room is 58 degrees.”
They mapped the floor in silence, their lantern beams the only points of movement in the stagnant air. The storm, which had been a steady drumming, began to intensify. The wind howled around the eaves, a lonely, mournful sound that seemed to find its way through every crack and crevice in the old house’s bones.
They were just finishing the last bedroom, the one at the far end of the hall, when the floorboards above them creaked. It wasn't the gentle settling noise of an old house; it was a deliberate, heavy tread.
“Arjun and Tom,” Chris whispered, his eyes wide.
“Or Mr. and Mrs. Cranston, coming to see who’s trespassing,” Ben whispered back, a thrill in his voice.
Another creak, followed by the muffled sound of a door closing upstairs.
“Let’s check it out,” Ben said immediately.
“No. No way,” Chris hissed. “The rules said we stay on the first two floors. They said they’d be on the third.”
“And now they’re making noise. That’s an anomaly. We’re investigating.” Ben was already at the staircase, his lantern beam cutting a nervous path upward. “Don’t you want to see what they’re doing? What if they found something?”
Chris hesitated, his sense of duty warring with his deep-seated desire not to get murdered by a ghost. The desire not to let Ben go alone won out. “Fine. But we’re just looking. We’re not going in.”
The third floor was different. The ceilings were lower, the hallway narrower. It felt less like a grand home and more like an attic space that had been finished over. The air was thick and heavy, and the smell of dust was so strong it was like breathing in powdered chalk. Four doors lined the short hallway. All were closed.
The wind outside gusted, and the house groaned in response. A brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the narrow hall through a grimy window at the end, casting the doors in sharp, skeletal relief for a split second before plunging them back into near-total darkness.
“Okay, this is officially creepy,” Chris admitted, his voice barely a breath.
Ben just grinned, his eyes alight with feverish excitement. He moved to the first door and pressed his ear against it. Silence. He moved to the second. Again, nothing. The third door, however, was different. From behind it, he could hear a faint, rhythmic sound. A soft, wet noise, accompanied by a low, guttural moan.
He looked at Chris, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. Chris looked terrified, but he nodded, giving his consent.
Ben slowly, carefully, turned the crystal doorknob. It was cold and slick in his hand. The latch released with a soft click. He pushed the door inward a mere inch, a sliver of light from his lantern slicing into the dark room.
He peered through the gap.
The room was a bedroom, much like the others below, but smaller. A single bed with a tarnished brass frame was against the far wall, and on that bed, in the dim glow of a single battery-powered candle they must have brought, were Arjun and Tom.
They were not taking EMF readings.
Arjun was on his back, his glasses off, his face a mask of intense concentration. His shirt was unbuttoned, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Tom was kneeling beside the bed, his head bent over Arjun’s lap. Arjun’s hands held a handful of Tom’s blond hair, guiding his movements. The wet, rhythmic sound was suddenly, shockingly clear. It was the sound of Tom’s mouth, moving with a practiced, hungry rhythm over Arjun’s cock.
Ben froze, his breath caught in his throat. He had expected to find a ghost, a cold spot, a floating book. He had not expected this. It was raw, private, and utterly captivating. He could see the muscles in Arjun’s thighs tense, could hear the soft sighs escaping his lips. It was the most alive thing he had seen in this dead, silent house.
A jolt of pure, undiluted heat shot through him, pooling in his groin. His own body responded instantly, a hard, insistent pressure building against the denim of his jeans. Without thinking, he shifted his weight, pressing the heel of his hand against his crotch, rubbing himself slowly through the fabric. His eyes were glued to the scene, to the way Tom’s head bobbed, the way Arjun’s back arched off the bed.
Chris, who couldn’t see, tugged on Ben’s sleeve. “What is it? What do you see?”
Ben didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was mesmerized.
After another moment, Tom pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He whispered something to Arjun, who nodded eagerly. Tom then swung himself up onto the bed, straddling Arjun’s chest. He positioned himself, and Arjun leaned up, taking Tom into his mouth. They shifted, arranging themselves into a 69 position, their bodies a tangle of pale limbs in the candlelight. Now Ben could see both of them, their mouths working on each other, their hips moving in a slow, synchronized rhythm.
The sight was intoxicating. It was a secret, a forbidden performance just for him. He watched the muscles in Tom’s back flex as he thrust gently into Arjun’s mouth, watched Arjun’s hands grip Tom’s ass, pulling him closer. Ben’s own breathing grew shallow, his hand rubbing his crotch with more purpose. He could feel the heat, the hardness straining against his zipper, and he imagined it was him on that bed, imagined the feeling, the taste, the overwhelming intimacy.
He was so lost in the fantasy that he didn’t notice Chris pull away.
“This is weird, Ben,” Chris whispered, his voice tight with discomfort. “We shouldn’t be watching. It’s… it’s private. I’m going to start mapping this floor. Meet me at the other end of the hall.”
Ben gave a vague, noncommittal grunt, his eyes still fixed on the couple on the bed. He heard Chris’s footsteps retreat, but he couldn't tear himself away. He needed to see how it ended. He needed to see them come.
He watched as their pace quickened, their movements becoming more urgent. The soft moans grew louder, more desperate. Arjun’s body went rigid first, a low groan tearing from his throat as he thrust up into Tom’s mouth. Tom swallowed, his throat working, before pulling back just enough to catch the last of it on his tongue. A moment later, it was Tom’s turn. He shuddered, his body convulsing as he came, and Arjun held on, taking everything he had to give.
They collapsed onto the bed, a panting, sweaty heap. They lay there for a long moment, just breathing. Ben finally felt the spell break. He had seen what he needed to see. He slowly, quietly, pulled the door closed, the latch clicking softly into place.
He leaned back against the wall, his heart hammering against his ribs. He took a deep, shaky breath, the air in the hallway feeling cold and thin after the humid, intimate heat of the bedroom. He adjusted himself, the ache in his jeans a persistent, thrilling reminder of what he had just witnessed.
He found Chris at the far end of the hall, sketching the layout of the last two rooms. Chris looked up as he approached, his expression unreadable in the shifting lantern light.
“Find anything interesting?” Chris asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“Just some old furniture,” Ben lied, the words feeling clumsy on his tongue. “You get the map?”
“Most of it. This place is a maze.” Chris finished his line and looked up, and just as he did, a blinding flash of lightning flooded the window, followed instantly by a deafening crack of thunder that shook the house to its foundations. The lights in the hall, which had been flickering weakly, died completely. The only illumination now was their two lanterns, which suddenly seemed small and fragile against the encroaching darkness.
The storm was directly overhead.
“We should get back to the foyer,” Chris said, his voice strained. “This is getting crazy.”
“In a minute,” Ben said, moving closer to him. The adrenaline was still thrumming through him, a wild, reckless energy. He looked at Chris, at his worried face and the tense set of his shoulders, and felt a sudden, overwhelming wave of affection. “Are you okay?”
Chris shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “No. Not really.” He looked down the dark hall, towards the closed door. “I saw, Ben. For a second. When the lightning flashed… I saw them in the reflection of the window.”
Ben’s stomach dropped. “Oh.”
“I didn’t see much,” Chris continued, his voice barely a whisper. “But I saw enough. And all I could think… all I could think was how much I’d rather be doing that than just… watching.”
The confession hung in the air between them, heavy and fragile. The storm raged outside, but in that narrow hallway, the world had shrunk to the space between their two lantern beams. Ben felt a surge of courage, fueled by the storm, by the secret he’d just witnessed, and by the raw honesty in Chris’s voice.
“I know what you mean,” Ben said softly. He took another step closer, until their chests were almost touching. He could feel the heat radiating from Chris’s body. “But… when I was watching… I wasn’t thinking about that.”
Chris looked up, his dark eyes searching Ben’s. “What were you thinking about?”
Ben took a final breath, the air thick with dust and unspoken words. He reached out and gently placed his hand on Chris’s arm, feeling the tense muscle beneath the fabric of his sweatshirt. “I was thinking about you,” he confessed, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the howling wind outside. “But not… not that. I’ve never really thought about that, not with anyone.”
Chris looked confused, his brow furrowed. “Then what…?”
Ben swallowed, his heart pounding so hard he was sure Chris could feel it through his hand. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of Chris’s ear. “I’ve always fantasized about you fucking me, Chris.”
The words were a physical force. Chris went utterly still, his breath hitching in his throat. He pulled back just enough to look Ben in the eyes, his expression a whirlwind of shock, disbelief, and something else… something dawning and hopeful. The storm raged, a flash of lightning painting the hallway in stark, dramatic light, but neither of them noticed. All they could see was each other.
“You… you have?” Chris’s voice was a ragged whisper.
“For years,” Ben admitted, the admission freeing something deep inside him. “Every time we’ve talked about girls, or relationships… it’s always been you. In my head. It was never about blowjobs or… or any of that. It was always just… you. And me. Like this.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He closed the remaining distance between them and pressed his lips to Chris’s.
It was clumsy at first, a collision of nervous energy and long-repressed desire. Chris’s lips were soft and unresponsive for a split second, and Ben’s heart seized with a moment of pure terror. But then Chris melted against him, his mouth opening, his hands coming up to cup the back of Ben’s head, his fingers tangling in Ben’s messy curls. The kiss deepened, becoming a frantic, desperate exploration. It wasn’t practiced or smooth; it was hungry and real, tasting of rain and adrenaline and a decade of unspoken friendship. It was a dam breaking, and years of pent-up emotion came flooding out.
Ben’s hand, which had been on Chris’s arm, slid down his side and around to his front. He moved slowly, giving Chris every chance to stop him, but Chris only arched into his touch. Ben’s palm flattened against the hard plane of Chris’s stomach before moving lower, until it was pressed firmly against the fly of his jeans.
He found him as hard as a rock.
A low groan escaped Chris’s throat into Ben’s mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. The feeling of Ben’s hand on him, the confirmation that this was real, that he wasn’t alone in this, was overwhelming. He thrust his hips forward, grinding himself against Ben’s palm, a desperate, pleading motion.
“We can’t stay here,” Ben gasped, breaking the kiss, his forehead resting against Chris’s. His chest was heaving, his lungs burning for air. “The third floor. Arjun and Tom are in that one bedroom. There has to be another one. We need more privacy.”
Chris nodded, his eyes glazed with lust. He was beyond words, his entire being focused on the singular, all-consuming need that had been ignited in him. He grabbed his lantern, his hand trembling so badly the light danced wildly across the walls.
“Come on,” Ben said, taking his other hand and pulling him down the hall. They moved quickly, their footsteps echoing in the silence. They passed the closed door of the room where Arjun and Tom were, a silent testament to the catalyst of this moment. At the very end of the hall was the last door. Ben tried the knob. It was unlocked.
He pushed it open and shone his lantern inside. It was another bedroom, smaller than the others, and seemingly untouched. A simple brass bed, a small dusty vanity, and a single, bare window. It was perfect. They stepped inside, and Ben kicked the door shut behind them, plunging the room into a private, intimate world illuminated only by their two lanterns.
They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, the reality of what was happening settling over them. The storm outside seemed to fade to a dull roar, the world shrinking to this one small room.
“Ben…” Chris started, his voice thick with emotion.
“Shhh,” Ben whispered, setting his lantern on the vanity. He took Chris’s and set it down next to it, bathing the room in a soft, dual glow. He turned back to his friend, his best friend, the man he had wanted for as long as he could remember. He reached out and hooked his fingers in the waistband of Chris’s jeans, pulling him closer. “No more talking.”
He leaned in and kissed him again, a slow, deep kiss that was full of promise. His hands roamed up Chris’s back, pulling his shirt from his jeans and sliding underneath to feel the warm, smooth skin of his back. Chris’s hands were on Ben’s hips, pulling him tight against him, their hardness pressing together through layers of denim. It was a delicious, maddening friction.
Ben broke the kiss and began to trail his lips down Chris’s jaw, to his neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. Chris’s head fell back, a soft moan escaping him. His hands fumbled with the hem of Ben’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head. Ben did the same for Chris, and their bare chests pressed together for the first time. The skin-to-skin contact was electric, a jolt that made them both gasp.
Then limbs entwined and clumsy hands, fumbling with buttons and zippers, their movements fueled by a desperate, all-consuming hunger. They kicked off their shoes and shucked their jeans and underwear until they were standing there, naked and vulnerable in the lantern light. Ben took a moment to look at Chris, to really look at him. He was all lean muscle and sharp angles, his body a study in the quiet strength Ben had always admired. His cock was beautiful, long and thick, curving slightly upwards, the tip glistening in the low light.
Chris was looking at him, too, his gaze hungry and full of wonder. He reached out and traced a finger down Ben’s chest, circling his navel before moving lower to wrap around his erection. Ben’s breath hitched at the touch, his hips bucking involuntarily.
“I want you,” Chris whispered, the words a sacred vow. “I want you so much.”
“Then take me,” Ben breathed, his voice husky with desire. He turned and leaned over the vanity, bracing his hands on the dusty wood, presenting himself to Chris. He looked at their reflection in the tarnished mirror, two pale, slender bodies bathed in the soft glow, their faces etched with a mixture of raw lust and profound tenderness.
Chris moved behind him, his hands gentle as they gripped Ben’s hips. He leaned over, his chest pressing against Ben’s back, and kissed his shoulder. “I don’t… I don’t have anything,” he murmured, a note of panic in his voice.
“My bag,” Ben gasped, pointing to where he’d dropped his backpack by the door. “Side pocket. Lube. I always carry it. For… you know.”
Chris let out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief. He quickly retrieved the small bottle and returned to his position behind Ben. The sound of the cap flipping open was loud in the quiet room. A moment later, a slick, cold finger was probing at his entrance. Ben tensed for a second, then forced himself to relax, pushing back against the intrusion.
Chris was gentle, his movements slow and careful, as if he were afraid of breaking him. He worked Ben open patiently, his other hand stroking Ben’s back, murmuring soft words of encouragement. Ben closed his eyes, losing himself in the sensation, the slow, deliberate stretch, the building pressure that was so close to pain yet so intensely pleasurable.
Finally, Chris positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against Ben’s entrance. He paused, his hands tightening on Ben’s hips. “Are you sure?”
Ben pushed back, impaling himself on Chris’s length in one slow, deliberate movement. They both cried out, a symphony of pleasure and surprise. The feeling was overwhelming, a fullness, a completeness that Ben had only ever dreamed of. Chris was inside him. Chris was finally inside him.
For a moment, they were still, just breathing, adjusting to the new reality. Then Chris began to move, his thrusts slow and shallow at first, testing the waters. He quickly found a rhythm, his hips snapping forward, driving himself deeper with each stroke. Ben met him thrust for thrust, pushing back, taking all of him, wanting all of him. The vanity creaked beneath them, a rhythmic accompaniment to their ragged breathing and the soft sounds of their bodies coming together.
The storm outside reached its zenith. Thunder crashed directly overhead, the sound so loud it seemed to shake the very air in their lungs. Lightning flashed again and again, a strobe light that illuminated their frantic coupling in stark, beautiful detail. In one of those flashes, the door to the bedroom creaked open.
Neither of them noticed. They were lost in their own world, a world of sensation and emotion. Ben could feel the pressure building inside him, a tightening coil of pleasure that was about to spring. Chris’s thrusts became faster, more erratic, his breathing coming in harsh pants.
“Ben… I’m… I’m gonna…” he choked out.
“Me too,” Ben gasped. “Come with me , Chris. Now.”
Chris’s grip on Ben’s hips tightened, his fingers digging into Ben’s flesh as he drove into him one last, powerful time. He cried out Ben’s name, a raw, desperate shout that was swallowed by a deafening clap of thunder. Ben felt him pulse inside him, a wave of liquid heat that sent him over the edge. His own orgasm tore through him, blinding and intense, his body convulsing as he spilled himself onto the dusty floor of the vanity. For a perfect, timeless moment, they were one being, a single entity of pure, unadulterated pleasure, suspended in the eye of the storm.
They collapsed against the vanity, their bodies slick with sweat, their chests heaving. Chris rested his forehead against Ben’s back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The world slowly came back into focus. The wind still howled, but the thunder was now a distant, rumbling retreat. The storm was passing.
“That was…” Chris started, his voice muffled by Ben’s skin. He couldn’t seem to find the words.
“Yeah,” Ben breathed, a wide, blissful smile spreading across his face. “Yeah, it was.”
They stayed like that for a long time, just breathing together, the air in the room thick with the scent of sex and rain. Finally, Chris pulled away gently, and Ben turned to face him. He looked at his friend, his lover, and saw the same dazed, happy expression he felt mirrored on his own face. He reached up and pushed a damp strand of hair from Chris’s forehead.
“So,” Ben said, his voice soft. “I guess we’re not just in the Parapsychology Club anymore.”
Chris let out a short, breathy laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. He leaned in and kissed Ben, a slow, sweet kiss that was full of everything they hadn’t been able to say for the last ten years. “I guess not.”
They began to dress slowly, their movements no longer frantic but tender, each touch a quiet reaffirmation. They were pulling on their shirts when a sudden, loud creak echoed from the hallway. It was followed by a soft, shuffling sound, like someone dragging a heavy piece of cloth across the wooden floor.
Both of them froze, their eyes wide.
“Arjun and Tom?” Chris whispered, a new kind of fear creeping into his expression.
“They wouldn’t be dragging anything,” Ben murmured, his mind instantly shifting from lover to paranormal investigator. He grabbed his lantern from the vanity. “Stay here. I’ll check.”
“No way,” Chris said immediately, grabbing his own lantern. “We’re in this together. Remember?”
Ben smiled, a genuine, fearless smile. He took Chris’s hand, their fingers intertwining. “Together.”
They moved to the door, their lantern beams cutting a path into the dark hall. The shuffling sound was coming from the direction of the stairs. Ben slowly pulled the door open and peered out.
And then he saw it.
Standing at the top of the grand staircase, silhouetted against the faint, pre-dawn light that was just beginning to filter through the grimy window at the bottom of the stairs, was a figure. It was tall and gaunt, and it was draped entirely in a white sheet. Two jagged holes were cut for eyes, but they were empty, black voids. It stood perfectly still, a classic, cartoonish ghost, and yet, in the gloom of the old house, it was utterly terrifying.
A low, groaning moan emanated from the figure, a sound that was half human, half the wind whistling through a cracked tombstone.
Chris’s hand tightened on Ben’s, his knuckles white. “What is that?” he breathed, his voice trembling.
Ben’s heart was hammering, but it wasn’t from fear. It was from a strange, bubbling sense of disbelief. The timing was just too perfect. The melodrama was too thick.
“Hold this,” Ben said, shoving his lantern into Chris’s free hand. He took a step forward out of the doorway, raising his own lantern high to get a better look.
The figure on the stairs let out another theatrical moan and raised its arms, the sheet billowing around it like spectral wings. “Ooooooh,” it wailed. “Beware the curse of the Cranston House! Ooooooh!”
The sound was so ridiculously fake, so over-the-top, that a laugh escaped Ben’s lips. It wasn't a big laugh, just a small, incredulous chuckle, but it was enough.
The ghost stopped moaning. The sheet-clad head tilted, a gesture of confusion. “Ben? Is that you?”
Ben lowered his lantern, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Arjun, you asshole. I should have known.”
Arjun pulled the sheet off, revealing his grinning face. His hair was even messier than before, and his eyes were sparkling with mischief. Tom was standing behind him, trying and failing to suppress a laugh of his own.
“Did we get you?” Tom asked, his voice full of glee.
“You got Chris,” Ben said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Chris was still standing in the doorway, his jaw practically on the floor. He looked from Arjun and Tom to Ben and back again, his brain struggling to process the sudden shift from supernatural terror to lame college prank.
“You… you…” Chris stammered, pointing a trembling finger at them. “You scared the hell out of us!”
“That’s the point!” Arjun said, folding the sheet into a neat rectangle. “It’s tradition. The final test. Not just surviving the house, but surviving the members. We have to do it to every new recruit.”
“We heard you two… uh… finishing up,” Tom said, a slight blush creeping up his neck. “We figured you were in a good mood. Thought it was the perfect time.”
Ben felt his own face flush, but he just shook his head, still laughing. He turned back to Chris, who was finally starting to relax, a look of profound relief washing over him. Ben held out his hand.
Chris took it, letting Ben pull him out of the bedroom and into the hall. He looked at Arjun and Tom, then back at Ben, and a slow smile spread across his face. The fear was gone, replaced by a shared understanding, a sense of belonging.
“Well,” Chris said, his voice finally steady. “I guess we passed.”
“You more than passed,” Arjun said, clapping Ben on the shoulder. He looked at their joined hands, then at their blissed-out, disheveled appearances, and a knowing smile touched his lips. “Welcome to the Parapsychology Club.”
As the final, relieved words hung in the air, a profound, unnatural coldness seeped into the hallway. It wasn't the chill of a drafty old house; it was an aggressive, soul-deep cold that stole the breath from their lungs and frosted the glass of the lanterns in their hands. The laughter died on their lips, replaced by puffs of white vapor.
At the far end of the hall, where the darkness seemed to thicken and coagulate, a new shape began to form. It wasn't a man in a sheet. It was a shifting, indistinct silhouette of pure shadow, a tear in the fabric of the gloom that was taller and broader than any of them. It had no discernible features, yet it radiated an ancient, palpable malice that made the hair on their arms stand on end.
Arjun, who had been facing it, took a half-step back, his confident smirk evaporating. “What… what is that?”
The shadow figure didn’t move, but the house did. A low, guttural hum began to vibrate up through the floorboards, resonating in their teeth and bones. The dust on the wainscoting danced, and the small mirror on the vanity rattled in its frame. The humming grew louder, a deafening, oppressive thrum that pressed in on them from all sides.
Then, with a sound like a giant’s sigh, the air in the hall was violently displaced. Arjun was yanked backward as if by an invisible hand, his body flying through the air and slamming with a sickening crunch against the plaster wall. He crumpled to the floor in a heap, his glasses skittering away into the darkness. A single, choked gasp escaped his lips.
“Arjun!” Tom screamed, lunging forward.
That was when the true screaming began.
It wasn’t one voice, but a chorus of them, a cacophony of human agony that seemed to come from the very walls of the house. It was the sound of men and women, old and young, all crying out in a single, unified note of terror and despair. The lanterns flickered wildly, their beams casting chaotic, strobing shadows that made the scene a nightmarish tableau of flashing light and sound.
Chris grabbed Ben’s arm, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. His eyes were wide, his mouth open in a silent scream of his own. Ben could only stare, frozen in place, his mind refusing to process the reality of what was happening. He saw Tom reach Arjun’s side, only to be thrown sideways as if by an explosion, his body disappearing into the open doorway of one of the bedrooms.
The screaming intensified, reaching a crescendo that vibrated through their skulls. Ben felt an icy grip on his ankle, a touch that was neither human nor imagined. He looked down and saw nothing but shadow, but the pull was undeniable. He was being dragged toward the vortex of darkness at the end of the hall.
“BEN!” Chris shrieked, his fingers clawing at Ben’s arm, trying to hold on.
Their eyes met for one final, heart-stopping second. In that gaze, Ben saw not just his own terror reflected, but the love they had just discovered, now being brutally extinguished. He opened his mouth to say Chris’s name, but the only sound that came out was a strangled cry as the pull became too strong. His fingers slipped from Chris’s grasp.
The last thing Ben saw was Chris’s face, contorted in a scream, as he was swallowed by the encroaching, absolute darkness.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
The humming ceased. The screaming vanished. The oppressive cold lifted, replaced by the normal, musty chill of the old house. The lanterns stabilized, casting their steady, innocent beams on a scene of impossible stillness.
Outside, the storm had finally passed. The first gray light of dawn was creeping over the horizon, painting the wet, overgrown lawn in muted shades of blue and green. The birds, silent during the tempest, began to chirp hesitantly from the skeletal branches of the oak trees.
Inside the Cranston House, there was only silence.
The next day, a university maintenance van and a campus police cruiser pulled up the gravel drive. A research assistant named Maria, a grad student who was supposed to meet Arjun and Tom to go over their findings, stepped out of her car, frowning at the two vehicles still parked haphazardly near the porch. A beat-up Honda Civic and Arjun’s sensible sedan.
“They’re still here?” she asked the officer, a portly man named Miller who was chewing on a toothpick. “They were supposed to be done at dawn.”
Miller shrugged. “Kids probably fell asleep. Let’s go rouse ‘em.”
They pushed open the unlocked front door. “Hello?” Maria called out. “Arjun? Tom? You guys in here?”
The house was silent. Too silent. The air was still and heavy, but the malevolent energy of the previous night was gone, leaving only the scent of dust and damp plaster.
They found the first lantern on the floor of the third-floor hallway, its battery dead. A few feet away lay a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, one lens shattered. The wall beside it was stained with a dark, wet-looking patch and marred by a spiderweb of cracks.
They searched the rest of the house. The other lantern was on the vanity in one of the back bedrooms. The maps they had been drawing were scattered on the floor. There were signs of a struggle, a tipped-over lamp, a chair knocked on its side, but there was no blood. There were no bodies.
There was nothing.
Back outside, Officer Miller called in the missing persons report, his voice calm and professional, betraying none of the unease he felt. Maria stood on the porch, looking back at the house. It was just a house again. A sad, decaying relic. But as she looked at the dark windows, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching her.
Ben’s Civic and Arjun’s sedan sat where they had been left, rain-soaked and silent. Inside, the keys were in the ignitions. Their wallets, their phones, their backpacks were all found inside the house, exactly where they had left them.
But of Ben, Chris, Arjun, and Tom, there was no sign. They were never seen again.
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