It’s strange how life brings you back to places you thought you’d outgrown. I hadn’t planned on returning to my hometown, not after spending ten years carving out a life far away, one I thought was solid. But life doesn’t care about your plans. And when everything fell apart, my job, my marriage, there was nowhere else to go.

I stared up at the house, my fingers tightening on the cold metal of the keys. It was big. Bigger than anything I’d ever thought I could afford. That’s what happens when a house is rotting from the inside out, the price drops, and suddenly you can buy a mansion for the price of a broken-down car.

The house on Briar Street had been a grand old thing once. Four bedrooms, tall windows with cracked frames, and a wide front porch now sagging with age. Inside, the ceilings were high, and the hardwood floors groaned under every step. There was a time when this place must have been beautiful, but those days were long gone. The walls were crumbling, water damage streaked the ceiling, and half the rooms were filled with a cold draft that seemed to come from nowhere.

But it was mine. Bought with what little savings I had left after my life fell apart.

In the past two weeks, I’d worked nonstop, trying to make the place livable again. It was exhausting. By day, I stripped wallpaper, scrubbed grime off every surface, and hauled away mountains of debris. By night, I tried to forget how utterly alone I felt in this house.

The house wasn’t kind at night. There were noises. Sure, I told myself it was just old pipes, or the wind. Houses settle, they creak, I knew that. But this was different. These noises had a pattern, a rhythm, like someone walking slowly down the hallway or pacing back and forth in one of the rooms upstairs.

Once, I was in the kitchen scrubbing out an old sink when I heard the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut. The sound echoed through the house, shaking the walls. I ran upstairs to check the bedrooms, but they were all the same as I’d left them. Windows closed. No breeze. Doors slightly ajar.

Then there was the whispering. Late at night, when I was in bed and the house was dark, I could hear it, faint murmurs, just at the edge of my hearing. I could never make out words, but it sounded like someone trying to talk through a wall. It always seemed to come from the hallway outside my bedroom, but when I opened the door, there was nothing.

And then, there were the cold spots, little pockets of icy air that seemed to follow me from room to room. I’d be working in one part of the house, perfectly comfortable, and then I’d step into another room and be hit with a chill so deep it raised goosebumps on my arms.

The worst, though, was the feeling. The sense of being watched. It wasn’t all the time, but when it came, it was unmistakable. Sometimes I’d feel it when I was working in the attic, sorting through old boxes left behind by the previous owners. Other times, it was in the hallway when I passed by one of the large, cracked mirrors that lined the walls. There were moments when I’d catch a glimpse of something in the reflection, a shadow, maybe, but when I turned to look, there was nothing there.

But no matter how strange things got, I stayed. What else could I do? This was my fresh start, and I wasn’t going to let a few creepy occurrences scare me off. I threw myself into the work, ignoring the noises, the whispers, the cold.

Still, there were nights when the house seemed almost alive, its old bones shifting and groaning in the darkness. On those nights, I’d lie awake, listening to the sounds that moved through the walls, feeling the weight of the house pressing down on me, surrounding me.

Writing was my escape, my only real connection to the outside world. My freelance work, mostly erotic stories for anonymous clients, was enough to pay the bills, at least for now. It was a strange dichotomy, writing heated, intimate scenes while living in a house that felt so cold. But in some ways, it was a relief. Losing myself in those fantasies kept me from thinking about the things I didn’t want to face.

But even in those moments, the house wouldn’t let me forget it was there. I’d be sitting at my laptop, fingers dancing over the keys, crafting a scene full of lust and heat, and then, out of nowhere, I’d feel it, a brush of cold air across the back of my neck. Like someone had passed behind me, close enough to touch, but when I turned around, the room was empty.

By the end of the second week, I was completely drained. I’d been pushing myself too hard, trying to get the house in shape, trying to push back the weirdness. My muscles ached, my mind felt frayed at the edges. I needed a break.

I decided to take the night for myself, one night to forget about everything. I’d run a hot bath, pour a glass of wine, and pretend that the house wasn’t watching my every move.

But as I stood in the foggy bathroom, watching the tub fill with steaming water, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different tonight. The air felt heavier, charged with something I couldn’t quite explain. My breath caught as I peeled off my clothes, the cool air grazing my skin.

I stepped into the bath slowly, sinking into the hot water with a sigh. The heat enveloped me, loosening the tightness in my muscles, relaxing me in a way I hadn’t felt in weeks.

But just as my body began to unwind, that familiar sensation crept back in, the feeling of being watched. I lay there, my head resting against the edge of the tub, my eyes closed, trying to ignore it. But the longer I stayed still, the stronger it got.

I could feel it, someone, or something, standing in the corner of the room. Watching me. My skin prickled with a strange awareness, and I could almost imagine the brush of invisible fingers trailing over my bare shoulders, lingering at the curve of my neck.

A shiver ran through me despite the warmth of the water.

I lay still, trying to let the last traces of relaxation settle over me, but the feeling, that heavy presence, refused to go away. The candlelight flickered, casting long, distorted shadows on the bathroom walls, the air thick with tension. My breath came in slow, shallow pulls, as if I were waiting for something to happen.

And I was.

My hand hovered just beneath the water’s surface, my fingers moving lazily over the familiar curve of my thigh. This had always been my escape, something to calm me when my mind refused to quiet. The world could fall apart around me, but I could always count on this. The heat building between my thighs, it always worked to soothe the chaos.

Tonight, though, something felt different.

The presence that had been haunting me for weeks now seemed stronger, more concentrated. It didn’t feel like I was alone in this house, and it certainly didn’t feel like I was alone in this bathroom.

The sensation wasn’t just in my head anymore.

The air felt charged, almost electric, as my fingers moved lower, brushing lightly over the sensitive skin of my pussy, finding the familiar rhythm that I knew so well. My breath quickened, my lips parting as I sank deeper into the sensation, trying to lose myself in it, trying to push away the nagging sense that I was being watched.

But then it happened.

A touch, soft at first, barely there, but unmistakable. It wasn’t mine. My eyes snapped open, my pulse quickening as I glanced around the room, searching for the source. The candles flickered wildly, shadows danced, but there was no one. No one but me.

Still, the touch persisted, a gentle, almost teasing graze along my leg, moving in time with my own. I bit my lip, my hand faltering as I tried to convince myself it was just my imagination. But the touch didn’t fade. It grew bolder, more deliberate, tracing the same path my fingers had moments before, like a lover mapping the terrain of my skin.

I swallowed hard, heart racing, but instead of pulling away, I hesitated. My hand stilled, fingers hovering just over my slit, waiting, unsure.

And then the touch slipped beneath my fingers, reaching the place where my own hand had been working. It was light, just a whisper of sensation, but enough to make me gasp. I froze, every nerve in my body on edge as I felt it, really felt it, this phantom hand, moving in slow, languid strokes, exactly where I wanted it.

Without thinking, I let my hand fall away, lifting it from the water and placing it on the edge of the tub. I stared down at my bare skin, at the empty space where my hand had been, my heart pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. There was no doubt now. My hands were free. They were nowhere near my body.

But something was.

The touch didn’t stop. It moved skilfully, confidently, caressing me in slow, deliberate motions, sending sparks of heat rolling through me with every glide of invisible fingers. My breath caught in my throat, a tremor running through me as I realized the truth: I wasn’t imagining this.

I wasn’t alone.

A shiver of something, fear? excitement?, ran down my spine, but I didn’t pull away. Instead, I let the touch guide me, closing my eyes as my body reacted instinctively, hips shifting under the weight of invisible hands.

The ghostly caresses grew more insistent, teasing the edge of pleasure, coaxing soft moans from my lips. It was undeniable, the way the phantom touch explored me with a skill that was almost intimate. Every stroke, every glide was precise, deliberate, designed to drive me higher, closer.

I gripped the side of the tub, my breath coming in shallow gasps as the sensation deepened, as the ghostly hands found that perfect rhythm, making my pulse race, making it impossible to think of anything but the pleasure building inside me.

There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in the way it touched me. It knew exactly what I needed, exactly how to move. My head fell back against the edge of the tub, a low moan slipping past my lips as I surrendered completely to it. I could feel a pulling at my hood, exposing my most sensitive spot to the touch. It was too much, too soon, but I couldn't deny the need coursing through me. Every nerve ending seemed to be on fire, craving that connection, that release.

I could feel more fingers, like a second hand tracing a line up my thighs and along my stomach until they found their target: my breasts. The fingers cupped them gently, rolling them between their digits before pressing against the hard nipples, sending shockwaves of pleasure through me. I couldn't help but cry out, arching into their touch, my body responding eagerly to their ministrations.

My fingers curled into the edge of the tub, knuckles white as I felt the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside me, winding me up like a spring. I didn’t need to see it to know it was there, I could feel it, that presence surrounding me, hands that weren’t mine working skilfully, relentlessly, until I was teetering on the edge of release.

The fingers were relentless as they slipped inside me, each stroke more demanding than the last, pushing against the walls of my sex, stretching me wide open. I couldn't help but moan softly, head falling back into the water as a shiver ran through me. My hips bucked against the invisible touch, desperate for release, yet terrified of what would happen when it finally came.

My legs tensed, my breath catching in my throat as the phantom touch quickened, finding that perfect spot with maddening accuracy, pushing me right to the brink. The pleasure was overwhelming, too intense, too much, but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.

The invisible hands worked me with precision, sending waves of heat rolling through me, building and building until the tension inside me snapped. I cried out loudly, arching into the invisible touch as waves of pleasure rippled through me, shaking every nerve ending. The release hit me hard, my body shuddering violently as the pleasure crashed over me in waves, leaving me breathless, trembling.

For a moment, the world seemed to blur around me, my mind floating in the aftermath, the ghostly hands still gently stroking me, coaxing every last tremor of pleasure from my body before finally pulling away.

And then it was gone.

The air felt lighter, the weight of the presence lifting as quickly as it had come, leaving me alone in the cooling bathwater. My heart pounded in my chest, my skin tingling with the memory of the touch, the impossible, undeniable touch.

I sat there for a long time, staring at the empty space around me, my mind struggling to process what had just happened.

I stepped out of the bath, skin tingling from more than just the cool air that met me. As the water dripped from my legs onto the cold tile, I grabbed the towel hanging by the door and wrapped it around myself, my hands shaking slightly.

I couldn’t quite explain what had just happened, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to. My heart raced in my chest, a mixture of fear and something else. Excitement? No, exhilaration. That was the word for it. I should have been terrified, and part of me was, but another part, the deeper part of me, felt more alive than I had in a long time.

I moved through the house slowly, the creak of the floorboards beneath my feet the only sound that echoed through the empty hallways. The house was mostly a construction zone, boxes and dust lingering in every room except one, my bedroom. It was the first space I worked on. I needed somewhere to sleep, after all, even if "sleep" was something I wasn’t sure I’d get much of tonight.

The walls were bare, still waiting for paint or decoration, but they were clean. It felt like an oasis amidst the chaos of the rest of the house. My bed, for now, was just a camping air mattress on the floor, the bare essentials until the house was in better shape.

I padded across the room, the towel clinging loosely around me as I made my way to the dresser. I let the towel fall to the floor, the cool air brushing against my damp skin. For a moment, I hesitated, staring at my reflection in the small mirror propped against the wall. My skin was still flushed from the bath, my hair clinging wetly to my shoulders, but it was my eyes that caught my attention. They were wide, curious, and a little wild.

I pulled on my pyjamas slowly, savouring the feeling of the soft fabric against my skin, trying to ground myself, to calm my still-racing heart. I was scared, yes, but I wasn’t in danger. I couldn’t explain it, but after what had happened in the bath, I had this strange certainty that whatever this presence was, it wasn’t here to hurt me.

I was about to crawl into bed, ready to finally close my eyes and let the exhaustion of the past weeks pull me under, when I saw it.

A depression. A distinct dip in the other side of the bed, as though someone, or something, was lying there. My breath caught in my throat, my heart thudding in my chest. I stood frozen, staring at the indent, feeling the cold air press in around me.

There’s no-one there, I told myself, but the evidence in front of me said otherwise.

The bath had left me vulnerable, stripped bare in more ways than one, and though my body trembled with a primal fear, a part of me didn’t want to run. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt it again, that deep certainty that whatever this was, it wasn’t interested in harming me.

Slowly, tentatively, I moved toward the bed and lay down on the other side, keeping a careful distance from the strange depression. The air felt heavier here, thick with something I couldn’t name, but I wasn’t afraid. Not really.

I stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of my own breathing, then, almost without thinking, I spoke into the silence.

“Who are you?” My voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper.

Nothing. No answer, no movement.

I turned my head, my eyes falling on the spot next to me where the bed had sunk. For a split second, just at the edge of my vision, I saw him, a faint outline, the ghostly impression of a man lying beside me. He was there, just long enough for me to make out the curve of his form, the hollow of his eyes, before he faded again.

I blinked. The bed was normal again. Flat. Empty.

I let out a long, shaky breath, my heart hammering in my chest. My mind spun with questions, but no answers came.

The room was silent once more, as I lay there, staring into the dark.

The morning sun streamed through the cracked windows, casting long shadows across the room as I settled into my makeshift writing corner. The remnants of last night still lingered in the back of my mind, but I shook them off, determined to focus on the task at hand.

I opened my laptop, the familiar hum of the machine filling the quiet air, and pulled up the document I’d been working on for the last few days. Today’s assignment was a steamy story for one of my regular clients who preferred the more romantic side of erotic fiction.

As I began to type, the words flowed easily, a rush of creativity surging through me. I was in my element, lost in a world of sensuality and passion. The story unfolded with vivid descriptions, the characters becoming more real with every keystroke.

But as I wrote, the sensation returned. At first, it was just a whisper of awareness, a tickle at the back of my mind, but soon it blossomed into something more, a feeling of being watched. I glanced up from my screen, expecting to see the emptiness of the room behind me, but instead caught a glimpse of something in the reflection of the monitor.

There was a shadowy figure, just an outline in the dim light, watching me from the corner of the room. My heart raced, but I turned quickly, and as expected, there was no one there. The air felt heavier, thick with a presence that was both familiar and unsettling.

“Okay, then,” I said aloud, half-laughing at myself for talking to an empty room. “Guess you’re going to be my audience today.”

I settled back into my chair, feeling a strange sense of comfort in the presence. I decided to treat it like a friend hanging out with me, rather than something to fear. After all, if I was going to be writing something so deeply personal and intimate, it felt nice to have someone, something, there with me, even if it was just an unseen spirit.

“I’m working on a story about two lovers who meet in a secluded cabin,” I explained, my fingers dancing over the keyboard as I narrated my thoughts. “It starts with a storm, and they’re trapped inside together. The tension builds, and, well, you can probably guess what happens next.”

I could almost feel the presence leaning in closer, as if it were intrigued. I pressed on, the words tumbling out with more excitement as I described the growing heat between the characters, the stolen glances, the teasing touches that led to something much deeper. I became lost in the narrative, weaving a tale that had me breathless with desire.

“Writing this stuff really gets me going,” I continued, revelling in the freedom of speaking my mind. “It’s like I’m living those moments myself, you know? The thrill of new attraction, the spark of passion igniting between two people. There’s something about the way they lose themselves in each other that I just can’t resist writing about.”

As I typed, the earlier feeling of being watched shifted into something else, something warmer and more inviting. It felt as if I was sharing my secrets with a friend, a confidant who understood the allure of passion. I no longer felt apprehensive; it was comforting to know I wasn’t truly alone.

The words spilled out, and before I knew it, I was at the story’s climax, finishing with a flourish that left my heart racing. I leaned back in my chair, the rush of creativity still buzzing through me.

“Well,” I said with a smirk, glancing at the empty room as if expecting a response. “That story got me all hot and bothered. I think I’m going to pop to my room to relieve myself. You can come if you want.”

A soft laugh escaped my lips at the absurdity of it all, but there was a lightness in the air, an understanding that filled the space around me.

With a final glance at my laptop, I stood up, my heart still fluttering with the remnants of my story. The earlier unease had dissipated, replaced by a strange connection, an unspoken bond between me and whatever presence lingered in the room.

As I made my way to my bedroom, I felt an odd mix of anticipation and comfort, a thrill coursing through me. I stepped into my room, the air thick with unspoken possibilities, and closed the door behind me, ready to explore the tantalizing world of my imagination once more.

As I stood in the doorway of my bedroom, I hesitated for just a moment, my fingers lingering on the hem of my top. The presence was still there, I could feel it, closer now, more tangible than before. It wasn’t just the ghostly chill or the weight in the air; it was something else, something that made my skin tingle with anticipation.

With a sly smile, I lifted my top and slid it up and over my head, dropping it to the floor. My skin prickled under the cool air, but the idea of being watched, of putting on a little show, only made me feel more alive. I unclasped my bra slowly, letting the straps fall down my shoulders in a deliberate, teasing motion before I let it slip to the floor as well. I reached for the waistband of my trousers, my heart pounding as if I was on the edge of something forbidden and exciting.

I knew the presence was there, watching, and it felt good. Empowering.

I slid my trousers down over my hips, stepping out of them one leg at a time, and then I was standing there in nothing but my knickers, the cold air brushing over my bare skin. Slowly, I pulled those down too, my hips swaying, my breath growing shallow as I let them drop to the floor, leaving me completely exposed.

I turned, letting my fingers trail down my stomach, grazing over my thighs as I walked toward the air bed, feeling the anticipation grow inside me. The bed was waiting, and so was he.

I lay down on the mattress, stretching out languidly, the softness of the sheets brushing against my skin. The air felt heavy with expectation, and I could feel my own heartbeat thudding in my chest, the pulse of arousal already beginning to thrum between my legs. I closed my eyes, biting my lip as my hands began to wander over my body, just lightly grazing my own skin, the tension building with every slow stroke.

But before I could do more, I felt it, the unmistakable brush of cold fingers tracing along my thigh.

I gasped, my breath catching in my throat as the ghostly hands returned, moving across my body with a confidence that sent shivers down my spine. My own hands fell away, surrendering completely to the touch that wasn’t mine. I didn’t need to move anymore, it was taking control.

The ghostly hands moved over my breasts, teasing the sensitive peaks of my nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through me. I arched into the touch, my back lifting slightly off the bed as the fingers explored me, tracing the lines of my body with deliberate, sensual strokes. They moved with a skill that was undeniable, every touch sending me deeper into a haze of desire.

I moaned softly, my legs parting instinctively as the phantom hands slid lower, brushing over my stomach, teasing the delicate skin of my inner thighs. The anticipation was maddening, and I could feel myself trembling with need, my breath coming faster as the fingers hovered just above where I wanted them most.

Then, they were there.

The cold, ghostly fingers brushed over my slit exploring me with slow, careful precision. I gasped, my body responding instantly, hips lifting to meet the invisible touch as waves of pleasure rolled through me. The fingers were cool but skilful, teasing me with gentle strokes before dipping deeper, finding that perfect rhythm that made me moan out loud.

I could feel my heart racing, my body pulsing with need as the ghostly touch pleasured me, sending me higher and higher with every stroke. It felt impossibly good, and I gave myself over to it completely, letting the pleasure build inside me until it was too much to bear. The teasing, the slow build-up, it was driving me to the edge, and when the moment came, it was overwhelming.

The climax hit me hard, my body shuddering violently as the release washed over me, waves of pleasure crashing through every nerve, every inch of my skin. I cried out, my head tilting back as I was consumed by it, my whole body trembling with the force of it. For a long moment, I lay there, panting, my body humming with the aftermath.

But then, as the pleasure began to ebb, I realized it wasn’t over.

I felt him, really felt him, above me.

The presence had shifted. It was no longer just ghostly hands; I could feel the weight of him now, hovering above me, between my legs. My breath caught, my body still sensitive from the orgasm, but there was no mistaking the sensation. I felt him press against me, the coolness of his form sending another shiver down my spine. He was holding himself just over me, his weight tangible now, as if he had taken on more than just the air around him.

I gasped as I felt him enter me, the sensation strange at first, cool and otherworldly, but quickly giving way to pleasure that made me moan. He moved slowly at first, careful, as if savouring the connection. Each thrust was deliberate, measured, his body aligning perfectly with mine as he built the rhythm, the sensation growing stronger with every moment.

Then to my surprise I started to see something.

At first, it was just a shimmer, like the outline of a figure in a distant fog. But as the moments passed, as he continued to thrust his form grew more solid. I could make out his face now, young, with sharp, handsome features. His hair was dark, falling in messy waves over his forehead, and his eyes, deep and intense, were locked on mine. His chest was broad, his shoulders strong, and his body, though faint at first, seemed to fill the space above me with an undeniable presence.

He thrust deeper, and I arched my back, gasping at the sensation as his form became clearer. His skin was pale, almost ethereal, and his lips parted slightly, sharing in the same pleasure that coursed through my body.

I responded eagerly, my hips bucking against his rhythm. The pleasure was overwhelming, filling me up completely until there wasn't any room left for anything else. Each stroke brought us closer together, our bodies merging into one as we lost ourselves in this exquisite torment.

Our moans echoed throughout the chamber, filling the air with a sound so raw and primal it felt like we were releasing centuries of pent-up desire all at once.

By the time we reached the peak together, he was completely solid.

His hands gripped my hips, his body moving against mine with a strength and urgency that made my whole body tremble. I could feel him, every inch of him, inside me, thrusting harder, deeper, as the pressure built once more. My breath came in ragged gasps, my nails digging into the sheets as I felt another climax building, stronger than before.

And when it came, it was all-consuming.

We climaxed together, my body shuddering violently as the release crashed over me. His own release seemed to surge through him, his form solid and real as he buried himself deep inside me. The room seemed to fade around us, lost in the haze of pleasure, our bodies moving in perfect sync as the world melted away.

I closed my eyes, lost in the blissful moment, my body trembling as the last waves of pleasure coursed through me.

But when I opened them again, he was gone.

The room was empty, the bed beside me undisturbed, as if nothing had happened at all. I lay there, my breath still coming in short gasps, my heart racing as I stared up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what had just occurred.