Challenge 45: Halloween Mega-Challenge!

[IsabellaRose]

THE CHALLENGE

For Halloween, the challenge is a series of writing prompts. The first set are setups for light-hearted lewd fun. The second set cross lines and suggest thematic pairings that some might find disturbing or even unpleasant. I tend to enjoy being challenged to write something outside the bounds of normal. I hope you do, too.

Make sure to include the prompt number or title in your post!

• 1. Trick Costume - A magical (or cursed?) Halloween costume alters the wearer’s behavior... or desires. Does it enhance hidden urges? Attract unexpected attention? Awaken the wearer's confidence or desire? ...or does it possess them? Tell us what happens to the wearer.
  Bonus twist: The costume can’t be removed until some condition is met.
   
• 2. Summoning - A demon, spirit, or being is summoned incorrectly, or perhaps just correctly enough. They shouldn't have appeared, but they’re here now, very curious, and perhaps not bound correctly...? Is the summoner embarrassed? Enthralled? Willing? Willing enough? Tell us a tale of a summoning gone wrong, from either perspective.
  Bonus twist: To bind the summoned being requires intimate physical contact.
   
• 3. One Night at the Haunted Mansion - Your character has to spend the night in a haunted manor for a dare, inheritance, or investigation. Locked in for the night. Haunted halls, sensual spirits, and mysterious moans in the dark. The spirits aren’t interested in scaring them... they want something else. Who, or what, will you meet? Ghosts, succubi, vampire courtiers, cursed portraits... all welcome.
  Bonus twist: The mansion feeds on pleasure.
   
• 4. Witch's Spell - A witch offers your character exactly what they desire... pleasure, power, transformation, whatever your heart desires... for a price. The spell takes hold as the candle burns down. What did they wish for… and what price will they pay to get it? Think magical transformation, mind control, or intensified desire.
  Bonus twist: The witch uses genie logic, granting the wish to the letter but not the intent.
   
• 5. Pumpkin Spice & Sin - Your character drinks an enchanted seasonal drink that triggers unexpected side effects. Their senses heighten, their inhibitions fade, and the whole café/town's fall festival/study group/etc. becomes something far more wild as desire magically alters the night’s events. Sweet, spicy, or scandalous. Perfect for a lighthearted, sensual romp.
  Bonus twist: Season offerings must be shared... it turns out, the pumpkin spice treat wasn’t just for you. It was a trigger for a ritual that requires multiple participants, and now that you’ve tasted it people you know start acting strangely flirtatious, strangers are drawn to you, old flames, crushes, or forbidden desires come knocking... and they're all hungry.
   
• 6. Trick-or-Tease - It started out as a naughty Halloween party game, but now things are escalating beyond what anyone expected. Who’s setting the rules? Why can’t you stop? Strip spin-the-bottle, naughty dares, or sexy illusions… Who’s playing? Who’s being played? What are the rules now?
  Bonus twist: The party game seemed simple enough, naughty dares drawn from a bowl, each one steamier than the last. But soon, the guests begin to notice the handwriting changes, the dares get way too personal, and some of them reference secrets no one should know. Someone, or something, is adding dares to the mix, and no one knows who... or what happens if you refuse to play.
   
• 7. Masquerade Mask - At a decadent masquerade ball, identities are hidden, rules are relaxed, and temptation is everywhere. But one dance partner seems to know everything about you. Erotic tension, mystery, and masks... a classic combo.
  Bonus twist: Something about the mask or the person across from you sparks a memory, a fragmented flash, a lingering echo. You’ve been here before, maybe not in this life, maybe not in your body, but you know that the masquerade is repeating itself. Each time, the masks hide the same faces. Each time, the roles shift... hunter and hunted, lover and beloved, predator and prey.
   
• 8. In the Cornfield - A rural Halloween hayride or corn maze goes awry. A masked figure stalks the night. Is it fear, lust, or both? And is your character really alone? Slasher movie vibes meet erotic tension in the dark. Is it fear or arousal that makes your heart race… or both?
  Bonus twist: The cornfield isn’t just a maze... it’s alive, aware of heat, breath, and desire. It listens, shifts when someone moans... rearranges itself. The more flustered you become, the deeper in you go. The corn closes in tight like it wants to watch. Is the maze trapping you… or inviting you to let go? The only way out is into the center and the thing (or person) you were always meant to find... waiting for you... breathless, desperate, and ready.
   
• 9. Monster Under the Bed - Your character always feared something lived under their bed, but when it finally comes out on Halloween, it doesn't want to eat them... at least, not like that. Explore monster-fucking, cuddly cryptids, or forbidden romances.
  Bonus twist: The monster under the bed was your childhood protector, but then you stopped believing. You grew up and forgot them, but they didn’t forget you. Now they crawl out from the shadows… but twisted. Hungry not just for your body, but for your attention, for the version of you they remember, and they want you to remember too. They want to play again, only now, the games are very different, and if you won’t go back to being theirs, they’ll find a way to make you.
   
• 10. Possession - Your character is possessed by a spirit that craves sensation. When they share a body… things get weirdly intense... shared sensations, posthumous passion... who’s in control, and do you want them to stop? Possession, shared pleasure, multiple minds in one body...
  Bonus twist: The ghost didn’t come back for revenge, or closure, or to pass on. They came back because you were the last thing they felt... your touch, your kiss, your voice screaming their name in grief or passion.

from here the ideas get more... macabre? twisted?

• 11. Inside - A character wakes up after a strange encounter, dream, or ritual with a creeping sensation under their skin. Something is growing inside them, writhing in rhythm with their desire. Is it a curse? A pregnancy? A godling forming in the womb of a worshipper? Do they fight it, or fuck it?
   
• 12. Don't Touch the Art - An erotic sculpture in a haunted gallery changes shape when you’re alone with it. Sometimes it watches. sometimes it whispers, sometimes it moves. You know you shouldn’t touch it... but it’s already touched you. What happens when desire is awakened by something that was never meant to be alive?
   
• 13. The Whole Town - The new town is friendly... too friendly. Everyone flirts, everyone stares, everyone touches. At first, your character thinks they’re being seduced, then they realize they’re being prepared. What ritual requires so much attention? What happens when the final kiss is given?
   
• 14. Don't Stop Reading the Spell -  Your character finds an old journal with an incantation written as a sensual, poetic prayer. Each line evokes a wave of sensation, so they keep reading. But the spell isn’t just opening a portal, it’s opening them. Every sentence brings them closer to climax… and to summoning something that wants to finish the job.

and my personal favorite, the one that I think has inspired a deliciously twisted tale in my brain:

• 15. Love Beyond the Grave - Death isn’t the end, not when desire burns hotter than decay. A lover, spouse, crush, or paramour returns from the grave, drawn back by love, lust, obsession, or unfinished passion. Maybe they were summoned by desperate magic, maybe they clawed their way out of the graveyard, maybe they simply couldn’t stay dead when their body remembered the one thing they longed for most: you. Do you welcome them with open arms despite the rot? Do you recoil… then give in? Or did you call them back yourself, unable to let go, no matter the cost? Love stronger than death, lust unafraid of decay... romantic or horrific, sweet or grotesque... your choice.

Deadline

• Midnight (EST) , 30 October 2025

Limits

• 1 entry per prompt, per person
• no strict word limit, but please try to keep it between 500 to 2,000 words

Prizes

• You'll be awarded 500 EcchCredits for each prompt reply you post (limit 1 reply per prompt as stated above). (So you can win up to 7,500 credits just for posting!)
• There will still be voting for a pot of 5,000 first place, 2,500 second place, and 1,000 third place.
• I reserve the right to award bonus credits for entries that are especially imaginative, well-written, or ones that just happen to tickle my fancy or inspire me to tickle my fancy (pardon the crappy euphemism)

[IsabellaRose]

Prompt 1: Trick Costume

The costume had said 'Wicked Witch (Do Not Remove Until Midnight)' on the tag, but Natalie thought that was just a joke. Now it was 1:17 a.m., her skin was shimmering green in the moonlight, and the damned corset still hadn’t budged.

“I’m telling you,” she growled, yanking again at the lace-up back, “I’ve tried scissors, a box cutter, two knives, and my teeth.”

“And the teeth didn’t work?” Jeremy asked, deadpan. He leaned against the doorframe in the bathroom, arms folded, watching her with far too much amusement. 

“Don’t make me hex you.”

“I mean, you kinda already did, Nat.” He raised an eyebrow. “You barged into my apartment in kinky sex version Elphaba cosplay, put a high heeled boot dangerously close to my groin on the couch, and asked if I was ‘man enough to break a curse.’ I think you should at least explain what kind of curse we’re talking about.”

Natalie turned, her skirt flaring, revealing the tops of her stockings and a teasing glimpse of her panties, and leaned one arm on the sink with theatrical flair. The slit up her thigh was too high for a regular store-bought costume, and the neckline dipped way too far down. Her breasts threatened to explode out of the costume without the slightest provocation. It was like the costume had decided she needed to be more... everything.

“I bought it at that weird little shop in the alley,” she said. “The shopkeeper said it would ‘bring out hidden truths and irresistible urges.’ I assumed she meant cleavage.”

Jeremy chuckled. “Well it definitely did that." He tried to hide his amusement, but didn't stop staring at her cleavage. "And what’s the condition to get it off?”

Natalie didn’t answer right away, but her demeanor suddenly changed. She stepped closer, close enough that her breath made his eyelids flutter. Her voice dropped into a purr.

“She said," she ran gloved fingertips up into his hair, staring deep into his eyes, "I’d know when the right partner offered the right kind of help.”

Jeremy’s mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again.

“So... you need help getting out of it?”

“I need,” she said, slipping a gloved finger into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugging him closer, “someone to satisfy the terms of the enchantment.”

“Which are?”

She leaned up, lips just grazing his ear.

“She didn’t say what the terms were, but... there are hints. How I'm feeling. What it's making me feel. I’ve got a few ideas of where to start.”

Jeremy’s breath hitched. “You sure this isn’t just a sex thing?”

“Of course it’s a sex thing. It’s a cursed sex thing. Keep up.”

“Look, I... I just think... hypothetically... I should confirm whether this is still you talking. Or the costume. For consent reasons.”

Natalie smirked and pressed her body to his, letting him feel exactly how affected she was. Her nipples poked into his chest, 

“If it’s not me,” she whispered, “then the costume is way better at flirting than I am."

She leaned back and met his gaze. "Now. We need to do something really wicked, then we'll see if I can't get out of this costume.”

Jeremy’s eyes darkened. His hands found her waist.

“Alright, Witch,” he said, voice rough. “Let’s break your curse.” Before she could say anything else, he spun her around, hiked up her skirt, and slid a finger between her legs. 

She stared at her witchy reflection in the mirror, skin green, eyes dark and glinting with magic, and the damned witch hat she couldn't remove blocking her view of Jeremy behind her. She heard the zip, felt his fingers come away from her wetness and felt him shift into position, sliding his head along her slit, but it still surprised her when he entered her.

"Holy fuck," he said, pressing forward, forcing his way into her body. "How are you so fucking tight?"

Natalie had no idea why she would feel different to him; they'd fucked so many times they should know each other like... oh... oh, he felt different, too. Bigger, more... oh god... more filling. So big... stretching her so... she let out a squeak that didn't sound like her own voice.

"Fuck, Nat... holy shit..." Jeremy was pumping into her hard, his hands on her hips, slamming her into the cold porcelain of the sink as she stared into the mirror. "Shit... I'm... I'm com..."

He came. Hard and hot, like a tiny geyser inside her. He'd never come inside her before. She felt herself clench around him, milking him dry as he let out whimpering moans behind her, holding onto her hips like he couldn't let go.

"You idiot!" She said, pushing back, feeling him slide out of her, turning to face him. "You came inside me?" She was furious... the risk of... what the fuck was he thinking?

"Shit," he said. "Shit, I'm sorry, Nat. I just... it felt so..." He reached for her hat, took it off, set it on the edge of the sink and pulled her into a hug. "I'm sorry..."

She looked at the hat on the sink. The hat she couldn't get off all night. The hat he'd just taken off after fucking her and coming inside of her. Holy shit, it worked! She pushed him off and started trying to untie the laces down the front of the corset, but they wouldn't budge.

"What the fuck," she said. "You got the hat off... maybe you need to try the laces." 

He nodded, still feeling foolish, and started working the laces. They wouldn't budge. "Nope," he said. "Nothing."

Her shoulders slumped.

"Maybe we need to fuck once for each item," he said, grinning. 

She wasn't joking. She pushed him back until he fell onto his ass on the floor and climbed atop him. Straddling him, she lowed herself down onto him, taking him inside her once more. 

"Boots next," she said between moans as she bounced atop him. "These heels are killing me."

[IsabellaRose]

Prompt 11: Inside

 

Part I: Awakening

She woke up wet with sweat... or was it sweat? The sheets clung to her like old skin. She could still feel the echo of last night’s ritual thrumming in her pulse, though that word, ritual, was a desperate simplification. It had no name, only the rhythm, the hunger, the invitation... and something had answered.

She blinked at the ceiling, unable to move for several long moments, her body pulsing... warm, too warm. Beneath her skin, something shifted. It was not gas, not digestion, it... coiled. 

Her breath caught, then shuddered. Her back arched slightly before she could stop it, her thighs tensing instinctively. There it was again, something stroking her insides slowly, testing the walls of her body like the inside of a temple, or a chrysalis, and gods, it felt… She squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip until she tasted blood, but the sensation only deepened. It wasn’t pain. It was too careful for that. No, it was reverent... exploratory. Each slow, slippery movement along the inner edges of her womb brought with it a wash of heat and then pressure, and then...

“Ah…”

She hadn’t meant to make a sound, but it touched something she didn’t know was there, a place no lover had ever reached, a zone of impossible pleasure, tucked somewhere deeper than anatomy allowed. 

Her fingers trembled as she pressed them to her abdomen. Nothing. No swelling. No scars... but she felt it... alive, awake... growing.

Did I invite it, or did it choose me?

She had danced barefoot in circles of salt and ash. had whispered prayers to things whose names were made of consonants and bone. She had been dared to open herself, and she did... and now something was opening her further, opening itself, opening... what, exactly?

Every time she thought it would stop, it moved again, liquid silk against a nerve-ending that should not exist. The shiver that tore through her spine left her panting. She wasn’t scared, not entirely, not yet. But she hovered somewhere between curiosity and horror, that liminal space where wonder curdles into dread and the mind, starved for meaning, leans too close to the abyss, half terrified and half hoping it will whisper back.

Something older than humanity was inside her now. Something… amused... curious... aroused? And as it curled once more, stroking against her, pulsing in time with her breath, her heart, her need... she realized it wasn’t feeding on her. It was learning her... every wet tremble, every forbidden flutter, every sigh she thought she could swallow down. It was making her into something more than human... something holy, something wrong.

And when she finally climaxed, wordlessly, helplessly, teeth clenched in quiet horror and want, it pulsed inside her, pleased... and moved deeper.

 

Part II: Rewriting

She lay curled on the bathroom floor now, too afraid to climb back into bed, too exposed in the light of her living room, her skin buzzing like static under her robe. It wasn't just there anymore, not just inside her. It was everywhere.

Her fingernails pulsed with heat, faintly bioluminescent beneath their lacquer. Her pulse had changed its tempo, slower, deeper, each beat a throb. Each breath felt like it went too far down, like her lungs weren’t lungs anymore but bellows feeding something primal.

She whimpered when the next wave hit, soft at first, a gentle twitch under her skin, like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to her. But then it spread, slipping through her like ink in water, soaking muscle, nerve, sinew. She could feel her cells dividing. Feel them stretching open, like petals under alien sunlight.

It’s rewriting me.

That thought didn’t come with panic this time, it came with wonder... and shame. 

Her skin was softer now, impossibly smooth, and where it wasn’t smooth it was sensitive. She touched her hip and gasped, not from pain, from startling intensity. It was like her own body was flirting with her. Her breasts felt fuller, her thighs more tender, her senses screamed with every shift, every touch, even the whispers of fabric brushing over her felt like foreplay.

And beneath it all, the thing inside her moved in gentle, loving pulses, not violent, not cruel, just… knowing. It liked what it was doing to her. It liked her.

Her spine tingled. Her womb ached. And then she felt it... a ripple, a spreading warmth, followed by pressure against the inside of her ribs, as if something had reached up from deep within her, tracing the architecture of her body, stretching her gently from the inside out. She moaned, not from desire, at least not entirely. It was awe. 

There were places inside her lighting up with pleasure she didn’t know existed. Folds of flesh and nerve that had never been touched, not by anyone, not even herself. It pressed against one and the scream she bit back was almost a sob. It felt like orgasm, dying, and worship all at once. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, breathing in shallow bursts.

“I’m… changing,” she whispered. “You’re making me…”

She didn’t know the word. More? Less? Vessel? Lover? Mother? All of them. None.

Her hand trembled as it slid down to rest below her navel. The skin there pulsed under her palm, warm, tight, almost humming, and in the back of her mind, a voice not hers whispered:

You called me. You opened. Now you will be remade. And you will love it.

And she did, even as she wept, even as she writhed, even as her body, little by little, stopped being hers.

Part III: Becoming

She no longer remembered what time it was. Or how long she had been lying there bare, burning, bliss-stained. Time didn’t move the same way now. It pulsed. 

She had stopped trying to resist. That had melted away hours ago, or perhaps lifetimes. Whatever was inside her no longer felt foreign. It felt like a promise, like she had been built for this, not by biology, but by some dark and sacred longing written in starlight and ash, and now, it was fulfilling her.

The tingling had deepened. What began as a flicker had become a symphony, nerve endings once dormant now sparked like constellations. She was aware of every cell, every fold, every secret shadow inside her, lit from within by the thing that grew, curled, and worshiped her, because that was what it felt like now: worship, as if each slow, deliberate movement within her was an act of devotion, as if she were not being consumed, but crowned.

She arched on the floor, breathless, panting, caught between laughter and tears. There was no fear left, just awe.

She whispered, “I’m ready,” and it heard her.

The pressure came, not painful, but profound, like the final note in a song played just for her bones. It moved through her in waves, in rhythm, in sacred, slippery grace, and in return, her body changed. She felt it, her spine elongating in subtle, unseen ways. Her skin thickened and softened at once. Her muscles tightened not for strength, but for yielding. Her womb bloomed open like a mouth waiting to speak. She was no longer merely human, she was no longer her, she was an altar, a vessel, a bride in the bridal chamber of something vast and wet with wonder... and it was inside her, pulsing, claiming, cradling her from within.

She laughed, or moaned, or both. She welcomed it.

The ceiling above her wavered, the stars behind her eyes bloomed, and her body went boneless with divine pleasure.

She didn’t shatter. She smiled as the stars blinked… myriad eyes watching her open, and as her mouth parted in silent ecstasy, the voice inside her murmured:

Now we are one. Let me show you everything.

[WickedCadrach]

Prompt 12: Don't Touch the Art

“You don’t want to fuck a swan.”

The words had none of the hesitancy or dismissive scoffing that colored the first half-dozen times Lydia had said the phrase. Now it had the rhythmic cadence of a mantra, and she didn’t even think before linking them to the chain of her glance at the marble statue’s graceful strength and the warm blooming that dripped from her heart and pooled beneath her stomach.

There had certainly been pieces that drew a reaction from her in the past: ambient, erotic feelings or the idea of desire and stimulation. But not like this. There was a difference between a painting of Cupid and Psyche stirring her up and the hot, urgent desire  in her to feel the chill of the swan’s stone throat against her fingers… on her lips…

“You don’t want to fuck a swan.”

Lydia let the wide-lipped hand-truck drop to a halt with a clap. She’d bring it up in therapy—when she had time for therapy—but right now, her confusing feelings about the white and black marbled bird were secondary to the problem of its relocation.

And how to stop it wandering back.

Three nights in a row, the piece had abandoned its plaque against the west wall, upending the mercifully soft and forgiving Obsession in Crimson, and taking its place on the dais at the center of the room.

The first night had been unnerving. The second and third, Lydia had suspiciously triple-checked the locks on the gallery doors and run back the security camera footage, only to find the files corrupted. Tonight, as pale rain turned into a popping fireworks show against the glass skylight, the underpaid and overcaffeinated gallery assistant only felt the annoyed fatigue of being told the same lame joke four times in a row.

The stone sculpture was shockingly heavy, and having moved it three times already, Lydia found her arms and legs preemptively trembling at the thought of laying her hands and body against the cool stone again to lever it onto the little cart.

“Honestly, you look better there,” Lydia murmured, negotiating with the swan while rubbing at her eyes and letting out a sigh like a quietly deflating balloon.

The dais was the keystone of the exhibit, a throne where the chosen piece sat like a prophet or a king… a god in a small, white-walled temple. Whatever rested there set the tone for the entire gallery, and conscious or not, the feelings that flowed from that piece would bleed into everyone walking the circuit around it.

Maybe that was why she was hesitating tonight, she thought.

As thunder rumbled overhead, the pattering rain softening her thoughts, and Lydia stared into the extended wings and the gently arcing crook of the swan’s neck. And she knew in her bones that Obsession in Crimson did not deserve that place.

She swallowed, and her breath came shallow and tight as her neck flushed. In the half-light of the closed gallery, shadows gave the illusion that the swan was breathing as well, its wings gently stirring as they stretched wide enough to wrap around her, folding her in—if only they could move. Those stone eyes felt alive as well, and Lydia’s lips quirked. An awkward feeling came with that stony stare, intimidating and intriguing. The longer she looked at the bird, the more she felt that hypnotic pull it seemed to emit, the feeling like a man staring at her from across a crowded party, eyes full of temping promises and invitation.

Another growl from the storm overhead vibrated through her, and Lydia found her feet moving. She left the hand-truck behind, her flats tapping the muted tile with each step, her skirt rustling around her knees as those steps then widened with her growing desire.

People who come to the gallery only see the front. They don’t think about where the art goes when it’s not on display. Bound in crates. Covered in drop-cloths like funeral palls. Entombed in lightless storage units kept temperature stable, humidity controlled… utterly lifeless. Waiting in that darkness for years after that one moment in the sun where they were adored. Maybe sealed away forever, or until the unforgiving fingers of time picked them apart enough to join the dust that gathered over their shrouds.

The thought of the swan meeting that fate twisted Lydia’s heart, and she mounted the dais with a painful yearning that tugged her to her knees like a fishhook lodged in her stomach and reeling into the marbled breast of the swan. Her hand pressed to the cool feathers in a rippling caress, her chest hugging against the figure as she felt the mix of chill and her own arousal making her peak within her bra.

Some art endures, kept forever in the sun while the world turns around it. Most are more like people, loved by a few for a short time then forgotten. People and art both want to be treasured, though, even if it is only for the experience, even if it is only for a flicker of a moment before being enshrined in the tomb of memory.

Lightning flashed overhead. The gallery lights went out, the dim reflected glow of city lights barely making an ingress through the rooftop window overhead to soften the utter blackness, and Lydia’s breath caught, her fingers clutching the statue under her while her heart pounded and her stomach dropped in a dizzying pulse of vertigo.

And under her palm, the stone wings of the swan moved.

Lydia saw them as another crack of lightning flared in the skylight overhead, but more than that, she felt them wrapping around her like a blanket, cupping her shoulders and curling below her skirt to draw her hips toward the statue.

The motion against her was slow, gentle, but Lydia found she could not pull away. She didn’t want to. Instead, her legs shifted, her heels rising off the dais to accommodate the pressure against her and to fall back into that support.

What was happening in that moment felt beyond her control, beyond her. She had felt in that flash a dropping sensation, like falling in a dream. Only was she awake now? It felt unimportant. Pressing her lips to the slender neck, she felt as if the stone were not true marble anymore.

The texture reminded her pushing her hand into a mattress, right into the hot indent where someone had been lying… soft… warm… familiar. And with a breathy exhalation, she felt as if that neck had widened, the wings at her back now cradling her with strong forearms and fingers that curled against her skin in greedy desire to touch, to hold—to experience her.

The being that held her now was a man, his dark eyes were framed in black ringlets that curled into a dark beard that drew ticklish flinches from her shoulder as he bent to kiss across her jaw and pulled her against him to claim her lips.

In that moment, she felt as if she couldn’t move, as if she were the art and the man now holding her were here to admire her… to treasure her. There was something in his touch, in his kisses… an exploration that passed to the side of simple attraction. He might have used only his eyes and left the same effect, but in his lips and his hands and the press of his body against hers, she felt the same mindful intent—to experience her.

Lydia arched her back, her chest pressing to him as her hands tangled in those curls. It was the swan still, she knew it. In whatever this dream space was she knew it with unshakeable certainty. As the man lay her down on the dais, his hands slipping beneath her skirt to pull her leggings off in an indulgent, peeling tug, Lydia saw warm spots of light blooming in the room around them.

At each of the gallery displays, the paintings and sculptures were gone, faded away like fingerprints on glass. In their place, she saw movement and soon Lydia made out the figures of satyrs and nymphs tangled together in pairs and trios. High, sharp cries and moans of debauched pleasure rose and fell as if Lydia were hearing them through a glass window.

Her eyes widened and the slick sound of the faun’s hands and cocks set her blood on fire. The swan’s fingers rose and pressed between her folds, teasing her opening and painting the ready wetness up and around her clit in a crescent that drew a pitched gasp from Lydia’s throat.

She was ready, had been ready. And pulling the man who was the swan by his shoulders, her hips pushed up against him, her body begging even as she whispered, “Yes,” nodding in affirmation to a question unasked.

When Lydia felt him push into her, the feeling of that hot fullness rippled up through her, tensing in her neck as she pushed against him, moving counterpoint to his own quickly building thrusts.

There was no hesitation, no testing rhythm or adjustment. From the moment he was inside her, she felt that same direct and driven need in him, that craving to have her, to know and experience her body as it was. And lying back, her stomach tensing and fluttering, Lydia disappeared into the sensation.

She was with him, holding him, being held by him, adored by him. Worshipful bites drew sharp gasps from her molten body as the swan’s human teeth pinched her throat and then, opening her blouse, the soft flesh of her breast.

But she was also with the gallery.

Around her, the coupling nymphs and satyrs seemed to echo back what she felt. Her moans became theirs, every curling foot and toss of a nymph’s hair echoed from her and back into her as she watched the satyrs, like her swan, relentless and possessive, chasing pleasure out from her center in a mounting wildfire.

When she felt him swell inside of her, Lydia could do nothing as her body seized and her hand slapped from his shoulder to the corner of the dais beside her. The wave of that climax spilled out in a cry that was silent for a single racing heartbeat. And then all around her, the nymphs and satyrs moaned and screamed with a dozen variations of the crash that had flowed out of Lydia’s body.

Her eyes fluttered as the aftershocks pulled her limbs like puppet-strings, lifting her head off the dais. And in that moment, a fresh bolt of lightning crashed overhead, thunder trumpeting in a crack that drove all other sound from the room like the blowing out of a candle.

The gallery lights flickered and buzzed as they came back to life.

Lydia lay back, panting, her flushed face tingling as she reached up to lay a wrist over her eyes.

She felt then the emptiness between her legs, and looking down, she saw her skirt and leggings restored, lying over her as they had when she’d first come into the gallery that night.

Sitting up on her elbows, Lydia looked around. No nymphs to be found. No satyrs either.

Obsession in Crimson lay where it had been justly dumped onto the floor beside the dais. And beside her, the stone swan sat with its wings extended. Tentatively caressing the carved feathers, Lydia felt the cold marble and recoiled her fingers.

For a moment, she questioned herself, but the ache between her legs was no illusion, nor was the hot blushing all across her body. And laying a hand over her waist she rested there a long while.

At least for tonight, she belonged on that dais as well… an object, an art piece of flesh and blood, a treasure, perhaps. But one adored. At least for a night.

Edited October 11, 2025 by WickedCadrach

[IsabellaRose]

Prompt 2: Summoning

in which Cyril Grumblethatch summons Something, and immediately regrets everything, especially the lack of trousers

Summoning Log Entry #042

Time of Attempt: 2:13 a.m.¹
Atmosphere: Thick with candle smoke and mild desperation
Circle Integrity: Debatable
Observed Outcome: Absolutely nothing

Cyril P. Grumblethatch, wizard of modest skill, dubious confidence, and a deep, spiritually exhausting belief in following written instructions, had recited the spell thrice (two times intentionally), applied the blood of a virgin carrot to the sigil of Oozulon (may his tentacles remain ever moist), and the circle had been etched with the utmost precision.² But nothing had happened. Not even a puff of smoke, and Cyril had managed at least that much the last time. He had written “do not step inside the circle” on seven different surfaces, including his own forearm, just in case her forgot again.

There was a curious humming sound, as if someone had noticed a particularly stubborn speck on the counter they thought they had just cleaned.

Cyril turned to the circle and forgot how to breathe. He had not intended to summon anything especially fleshy. His goal was quite modest: summon a minor spirit of knowledge, maybe one with glasses and a fondness for footnotes, to help cross-reference his collection of cursed index cards. At worst, he’d hoped for something vaguely translucent and deeply apologetic. Instead...

“Well, hell...o.”

The voice was velvet wrapped around thunder. It came from somewhere inside the summoning circle and also, unnervingly, from behind his sternum. Cyril blinked at the entity now occupying a significant portion of his workroom, his personal space, and his rapidly deteriorating sense of professionalism.

She was... Well.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “She’s hot.”

Which felt like a rather reductive description for a being whose presence redefined gravitational pull. She was reclining midair, lazily, like someone who’d just climbed out of a sun-drenched bath, remembered they left something burning on the stove, and decided to seduce the fire instead. Her skin shimmered like cherry wine, her horns curled delicately above her brow like punctuation marks for particularly sinful thoughts, and she wore nothing except confidence, which if you asked Cyril, was far more indecent than nudity.

"You pulled me from the Third Orgy of the Third Moon of Shrall³, and materialized me into what I can only describe as a... chalky insult to geometry." She looked around the circle within which she reclined with disinterest, disdain, and very likely several other words that started with "dis".

Cyril considered passing out. Not from fear, mind you, but from logistical overwhelm.

Now, to be fair, the summoning had been executed according to the diagram. Mostly. The pentagram was only a little off-center, the chalk had only been slightly damp, and yes, he’d substituted goat’s blood with beetroot juice after an unfortunate incident involving Cyril, a goat, and a sternly worded letter from the landlord⁴. But the spell had been read aloud three times, three times!, and as every wizard knows, that’s the cosmic equivalent of clicking “I agree to the terms and conditions” whether you understand them or not.

And now: her.

She had manifested, though notably not in the form described by Demonomicon for Sad and Lonely Wizards, Vol. III⁵. Instead of bat wings and goat hooves, she was very humanoid, extremely naked, and hovering upside-down in flagrant violation of both gravity and decency. She stretched slowly, deliberately, like a cat made of sin and promises, and her eyes found him.

He squawked like a drunk owl⁶, dropped his clipboard, and stared at her lack of pants.

“You’re not the High Priest of Shur'vaxis.” Her voice was sultry, distracted, and only mildly disappointed, which honestly felt like a win.

“And you're not wearing any pants,” Cyril said, then instantly regretted saying it.

"I don’t really believe in pants," she drawled as if her words would find there way out of the circle and physically seduce him. "They’re leg prisons.⁷"

“I’m Cyril.”

She hadn't asked, and she regarded him the way one might regard a spoon that had tried to write poetry.

“Cyril,” she repeated, as though testing the name for allergic reactions. “That sounds like a noise someone makes when they sit on something damp. What do you want, Cyril?”

“Knowledge,” he croaked, trying not to look directly at anything jiggle-adjacent and remembering far too late to sound commanding. “Forbidden knowledge. Ancient truths. Arcane...”

She rolled her eyes, or perhaps her entire soul, it was difficult to tell. The streetlamp outside flickered and decided to stay off out of respect.

“Do you know,” she said, propping her chin on one hand and gazing at him with interest best described as amused contempt, “I was in the middle of an orgy with the pleasure saints of the Seventh Spiral when your little incantation yanked me out by the ankles?”

Cyril made a noise that was legally distinct from an apology but emotionally adjacent to a whimper⁸.

“And now I’m here,” she continued, “in a chalk circle that looks like it was drawn by a drunken cartographer with a vendetta against geometry, talking to a mortal in a bathrobe with... oh dear... runes upside-down.”

Cyril followed her gaze to the floor. One rune was upside-down, probably because he’d dropped a biscuit crumb on it and rewritten it from memory. Backwards.

“You see the issue.”

She floated closer, hips swaying like gravity owed her rent. She wasn’t walking so much as implying movement. Her voice dropped to a purr.

“Now. Do you really want forbidden knowledge? Or are you just terribly, achingly lonely, Cyril?”

His brain took a vote. It was unanimous: panic⁹.

“I... um... I have a cat!¹⁰” he blurted. “Somewhere.”

She smiled. It was the kind of smile that left scorch marks.

“Then let me show you something the cat never will.”

She stepped forward... no, glided, really, and the broken chalk hissed beneath her, not in warning... in anticipation.

Cyril’s knees gave up the fight. He caught himself on the bookshelf, knocking over a jar labeled “Emergency Pickles (Cursed)¹¹.”

She was in front of him now, close enough that her heat seeped through every layer of his uncertainty.

“You summoned me, Cyril. That means something inside you wanted more. Something deep. Something messy. Something terribly fun.”

“Are you going to hurt me?” he whispered.

She leaned in, her lips brushing the edge of his ear. “Only if you’re very, very lucky.”

 

Footnotes

1. also know as the Witching Hour's slightly inebriated cousin
2. discounting a small smudge where the cat sneezed
3. a lovely place if you like lava, lust, and consensual screaming
4. to this day, the details remain a subject of heated debate in the building’s tenants’ association minutes. The short version is that Cyril had taken “freshly sourced” rather too literally. The longer version involves a goat named Persephone, a misinterpreted lease clause concerning livestock, and approximately three quarts of something that would later be ruled “ritually significant but not refundable.” The landlord’s letter began with “Dear Mr. Grumblethatch, please refrain from sacrifices on communal property,” and ended with a hand‑drawn diagram illustrating the difference between “ceremonial use of the balcony” and “arson by inference.”
5. in Cyril's opinion, Volume III was the least judgmental of the series.  Volumes I and II were banned in six countries for “encouraging correspondence with infernal beings for recreational purposes.” Volume III was an attempt to rehabilitate the brand by including fewer summoning diagrams and more self‑help quizzes (“Are You Emotionally Ready for a Pentagram?” and “How to Tell if That Voice in Your Head Is a Demon or Just Low Blood Sugar”). Sales improved dramatically after a reissue without the scratch‑and‑sniff pages.
6. a drunk owl’s squawk differs dramatically from other varieties of owl exclamation. A surprised owl emits a sharp “HOO!” followed by a moment of offended silence; an angry owl produces a prolonged “HOO‑oo‑OO!” often directed at an uncooperative vole; and a romantic owl, under the influence of moonlight and optimism, coos something that sounds like a plumbing problem. A drunk owl, however, abandons all pretense of mystery and simply yells “WHOMST?!” before flying into the nearest tree. The resulting noise, half indignation, half self‑pity, is widely considered the avian equivalent of dropping a full pint and insisting you meant to.
7. This statement reflects the widely held belief among demons, particularly those of the mid-tier hedonistic persuasion, that trousers are a cruel human invention designed to separate the thighs from their natural expressive freedom. In Hell’s more libertine circles, pants are worn only under duress, diplomatic obligation, or as part of highly experimental bondage rituals involving three consent forms and a safe word. Many infernal entities argue that pants reduce both airflow and temptation by an unacceptable margin.
8. This specific category of sound is often filed under “audible regret with plausible deniability,” and is inadmissible in court.
9. This may, in fact, have been the only intelligent thing Cyril did all night. The bar for intelligent decisions was subterranean, and panic, while not elegant, was at least appropriately scaled to the situation.
10. In moments of acute stress, Cyril’s brain often defaulted to announcing facts of questionable relevance in the desperate hope that one of them might form a social defense mechanism. “I have a cat” was his go-to phrase for both small talk and magical emergencies, based on the vague belief that feline ownership conferred a degree of dignity. The fact that he hadn’t seen the cat in two weeks and it may have joined a biker gang was, under the circumstances, irrelevant.
11. Cyril’s “Emergency Pickles (Cursed)” were originally just pickles until he accidentally stored them in a containment jar meant for a captured mischief imp with strong opinions on fermentation. Now, each pickle grants the eater twenty seconds of perfect foresight, immediately followed by twenty-eight hours of uncontrollable weeping. Side effects include glowing teeth, and sudden uncontrolled multilingualism. Despite being cursed, they retained a rather pleasant crunch.

[StarlitSiren]

Prompt 3: One Night at the Mansion

 

Eirawen Hall stood ominously over the misted folds of a valley, past the emerald green hills of the River Dulas. The people of Teley had long since consigned the ancient property- thought to have stood since the 1500s- to the same level of attention they might pay any inconvenient truths they might care to hide from, or politics, but every year there was one reckless younger person whom decided it was their turn to brag about surviving the Halloween challenge; spend the night in Eirawen Hall and live to tell about it.

“Hey fans, it’s your girl~” ‘Tafftitties’ or Anwen, as her mam knew her, spoke flirtatiously into her phone as she strode towards the heavy oak door separating her from a whole lot of… well, nothing, she was sure. “’Come for the accent, stay for the rack.’” She went into selfie mode to shoot her audience a cheeky wink (and a peek down her top) for the later edits. “We’re here at Eirawen Hall; and I’m going to spend the night here alone!” She wasn’t, obviously, but Anwen figured a little walk around, a few shots, and she could leave before it got dark.

If the influencer had been as attentive as she was pretty, she would have heard the door lock behind her over her chatting away into the recording. If her IQ matched her follower count, she might not have come, ignoring the legends. If. If. If.

“Musty hallway~” she went on, bored. “Boring dining room…” To a lot of people this slice of history might have been crazy cool, but her followers wanted spooks and, well, her, being a flirt. “Legends say that Lady Aeilth Vaughessa- huuuge ho, back in the Tudor times or some shit, died here after a long life of sin, scandal and, well, being a freaking Queen.” A dusty library, stacked floor to ceiling with books. A stairway that creaked with every step, as though Anwen was testing the very weight of the house itself as she ascended. “Guys, seriously, men get to fuck around and they’re chads, and when a strong woman does it she’s a whore? Fuck that. Girl, I’m glad you were getting it.”

If it hadn’t already been too late for Anwen, if she hadn’t already been in the spirits’ grip, perhaps she would have noticed that her phone had shut off of its own accord. That she was only talking to herself.

“Ooooh, look what we have here, babes!” She swung a long shot with her useless brick of a phone around the next chamber as she entered. A grand bedroom with a great four poster, velvet bedcurtains, almost polished floorboards, and a crackling fireplace. If she wasn’t already too far gone, Anwen would have known it wasn’t right. “Hot, right? Very me?” She winked at the lens again and knelt down upon the carpet in front of the fire, phone held high to to pose for a shot with just the right amount of cleavage. “Bet you all wish you were here right now, huh? Well?~”

But that line of thought didn’t finish, because when Anwen looked up from the phone she realised, at last, that she wasn’t alone here.

Standing at the foot of the bed was a woman- where had she come from?- Tall, pale- unnaturally so- with long, straight white hair down past her shoulders. A thin white gown of sheer silk that flowed all the way down her very visible form, that Anwen could have seen through even were it not hanging open and loose. Her eyes were a piercing, icy blue, and-

“Pretty thing.” The woman’s words seemed to be there and not, audible and silent, spoken by something other than her… And Anwen sprung to her feet, flushing a furious red and stammering an apology that never came “Kneel, pretty thing. I prefer you on your knees.”

Even if she had thought to disobey, she couldn’t. And Anwen hadn’t thought to. She dropped down onto both knees the instant the command had left the woman’s tongue. “I-“

“You will not speak without express permission.”

And Anwen swallowed her words. Because she had to. A little wave of terror started to rush through her, fighting against the queer enchantment she could feel- even if she couldn’t understand- taking over her mind and body. She had to get out. She had to escape. She had to-

“Disrobe.”

She had to undress. That was what she had to do. Never taking her eyes from the stranger, Anwen tugged at her tank top, pulling it up over her head. Her phone was on the floor somewhere, discarded and forgotten, and that little rebellious voice in her head that was still the influencer’s own was desperately glad that she had stopped recording. She thought she had, anyway? She unclasped her bra, letting it fall to the ground, and didn’t even think of covering herself up. Even without the command, she knew that wasn’t what the woman wanted. Her fingers slipped down into the hem of her skirt, slipping it down her legs and shimmying to get it down past her knees and her boots without rising. She hadn’t gotten permission to stand, after all, nor to ask for it, and her thong was a similar struggle.

If Anwen had been in her right mind, she would have shouted and screamed and cried and shrieked for any help that might come. But Anwen wasn’t, and all she could do was kneel, naked before the stranger, gazing up at her with something between terror and… what was that?

The stranger stepped closer, each step flexing her long gorgeous legs that almost seemed to float rather than walk. She dropped her gown, joining Anwen in her nakedness, and her pale- almost porcelain- skin seemed to glow as she drew close. She knelt with Anwen, pressing a freezing hand that radiated with a paradoxical warmth against her cheek, and spoke a single word; “Sin.”

Before she knew what she was doing, the influencer’s hand had crept downwards, past her naval and down, between her legs. Her palm found purchase against her *ahem* VIP Suite, a finger slipping into her wetness, her thumb against her ‘on’ button.

“Resist your pleasures, and you leave,” the stranger whispered into her ear. “Succumb, and remain. As mine.” A warning, an offer, or both? Whatever it was, Anwen was already touching herself, already panting and bucking her hips against her hand. Already moaning, without ever once taking her eyes off of the woman’s, as though she was trapped in them. Every little push or flick sent her closer to a climax she didn’t even know if she wanted… and she tried and tried and tried to hold it back even as her body and mind betrayed her, and-

And then the woman leaned forwards, crossing what little distance was left between the pair, pressing her cold, hungry lips to Anwen’s. And she broke, moaning wildly into the spectres kiss. By the time they parted- was it a minute, or an hour?- Anwen was flat on her back, arms and legs akimbo, taking deep, tortured breaths.

“You have chosen.” The icy voice was there again, in her ear, and suddenly the woman was atop her, straddling Anwen. She didn’t care. She wanted her on top of her, needed her. “Be mine.” Another moment and the pale lady was lowering herself over Anwen’s face.

The once-influencer was only too happy to serve.

[NyxAvatar69]

So...I may or may not have to retract what I said before, because unless I take some heavy creative liberties, I don't know if I can come up with a consistent plot this time unlike with Kinktoberfest where the ideas left enough wiggle room to slide in something.

 

Also for this first one, I nearly hit the word limit before the end, so I had to rush the ending...and end up 26 words over.  We're off to a great start.

 

Trick Costume

The day of Narfolk's annual costume contest was fast approaching, and Amber had been spending the past number of days worrying about what she wanted to dress up as.  Almost like a miracle, as she was agonizing over what would've made for a good costume, a new store had recently opened up in town, Magic Hag's Potion Shop.  Despite it's name, it had far more than supposed "potions" in stock.  From old books to secret family recipes.  There had even been Halloween costumes for sale.  On an ordinary afternoon after her courses for the day had finished at the community college, Amber decided to check out the shop, dragging her childhood friend, Troy, along with her.  Despite the shop's sudden surge in popularity among the people of Narfolk, it's location was fairly out of the way.  It had taken nearly an hour and a search on a map app, but the pair eventually found Magic Hag's Potion Shop in a dark corner of town.

The smell of various incenses filled the air of the shop, covering the smell of the musty tomes that lined one of the walls near the front entrance.  Cheap Halloween decorations had been carelessly strewn about the place.  On a large table near the front entrance was a table with several liquid filled bottles, all of them marked with their contents by a small paper tag.  The shop's only employee, a black haired woman dressed up in a witch's costume, watched the young college students enter her shop with a bright smile, but at the same time, Troy couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy.

"You sure you want to get a costume here of all places?  When you told me about this place, I tried looking it up online.  All I could find is a place in a game that has the same name, but nothing about a place like this," Troy asked as he followed Amber while she browsed around the shop, looking for the Halloween costumes.

"You're worrying too much.  Besides, it'll be way too late if I order one online.  The contest is only a couple of days away," Amber answered.

"But doesn't it seem weird that this place opened just now?  Halloween's nearly here and this place just happens to open now?"

"You're overthinking things, Troy.  Maybe it just took time to get ready to open up.  I mean, look at some of this stuff," Amber said while she stopped and lifted up a broom from a line on the nearby wall.  The broom reminded him of something a witch would ride in a movie.  As he thought more on it, the broom looked exactly like one a witch would ride.  Amber turned her head and spotted a row of hung up Halloween costumes, setting the broom down and making her way over to the women's costumes.  Troy took a bit of time looking over the variety while Amber shopped.  While there were simple costumes like scary clowns or a monster of some kind, more complex costumes were mixed in among the simpler ones.

"A lot of variety for a small time place," Troy muttered to himself.  Before he could continue browsing, an unfamiliar voice came out of nowhere and made him jump.

"They're all handmade, by the way," the voice, cold as ice, spoke out close to him.  When he turned his head, he found the shopkeeper standing before him, her unusual golden eyes looking straight at him.  Troy had no idea where she had even come from.  At no point did he hear footsteps moving towards him, and aside from Amber, no other customers were in the shop.

"These costumes are all quite special, you know?" the shopkeeper asked.

"Is...that right?" Troy replied.

"I'm sure your girlfriend will be quite satisfied, no matter what she chooses," the shopkeeper said.  Troy quickly waved his hands and shook his head.

"No. no, no, it's not like that.  She's not my girlfriend.  She and I are just friends," Troy quickly shot back.  For a moment, he could've sworn he saw a faint smile on the shopkeeper's normally stoic face, but her expression went back to normal before he could be totally sure.  Before he could ask about it, Amber's voice rang out behind him.

"Hey, Troy, I got a costume," she said, leaving Troy to turn to face her.  The shopkeeper turned and made her way back to the front counter, but Troy couldn't erase the image of the woman's faint smile from his memory.

 

Two days after their shopping trip, Amber had decided to actually try on the costume she had purchased from Magic Hag's Potion Shop.  Among the variety of options, she had settled on a frilly and pink magical girl costume.  She had primarily picked it out since the costume reminded her of a TV show about magical girls she watched as a kid.  She laughed a bit to herself as she remembered dragging Troy along to watch episodes with her when he visited her house.  He had stopped going to her house once the pair started high school, and while the pair still went to the same community college, she felt like there was a certain invisible distance with her friend that wasn't there in the past.  Such thoughts raced through Amber's head as she slipped on the magical girl costume, which to her surprise, fit her perfectly.  While she was looking herself in the mirror, she had failed to notice the mysterious glow that came from the costume for a moment.

Over the days before the costume contest, the days passed by uneventfully.  Troy had gone about his usual days, but something about the shopkeeper at the Potion Shop kept bothering him, so he had decided to look into it.  He returned to the dark corner of town he had gone to with Amber, but when he got there, the Magic Hag's Potion Shop was nowhere to be found, as if it had never existed at all.

"What's going on here?  The place was here just the other day!" he said to himself, but before he could inquire further, he was interrupted by a sudden text message.  When he opened up his phone and checked it, he raised an eyebrow when he learned it was from Amber.

I want you to come over, was all the message said.  Troy found the whole thing unusually vague, especially when he considered how Amber usually was.  When he was going to put his phone away, he got another text containing the exact same message.

"Did someone hack her phone or something?" Troy asked.  He let out a resigned sign and shoved his phone back into his pocket, deciding to go and see what the problem was with Amber.  What he didn't realize at the time was that a woman with long black hair, dressed up like a witch, had been watching him from the shadows where the Potion Shop should've been.  In her hands was a strange, wooden puzzle box covered in mysterious symbols.

 

The trip to Amber's house felt more like a trip down memory lane for Troy.  He had stopped going over once he started high school, even though he still sometimes spent time with Amber after school.  There wasn't any real malice behind it, but more of the two just drifting apart.  Amber had gotten new friends and Troy had figured he wasn't needed anymore, choosing instead to distance himself from her.  Even then, however, he always seemed to end up finding her again, like when he found out they were attending the same community college.  As he thought back to memories of the past, he reached his destination.  He walked past the familiar white fence and down the simple brick walkway to the front door, but when he knocked on the door, it slowly creaked open on it's own.

"Amber?" Troy called out.  When there was no response, he stepped inside.  Once he was inside the house, he heard a sound coming from upstairs.  He slowly walked up the stairs, trying to listen for any more noises until he thought he heard a slight creaking.  Carefully, Troy followed the sound when he reached the top of the stairs until he stood at the front of Amber's room.  As a kid, he had visited her room several times, so he already knew it was hers.  He was about to knock on the door until he heard heavy breathing and the creaking of the bed coming from inside.  Troy had an idea of what may have been going on inside, yet something inside him compelled him to at least check.  He reached for the doorknob and slowly opened it up a bit, just enough to see inside.  What he saw was Amber, laying on her bed, still wearing the magical girl costume she had gotten a couple of days ago.  One of her hands was on her breast while the other fingered her wet pussy.  Amber squirmed around on the bed, finding it impossible to find any release no matter how much she tried.

Troy was about to walk away until he heard Amber call out his name.  He froze in place, unable to keep his eyes off of her.  He didn't know what was causing Amber to behave the way she was, but he figured it was related to the text she sent him.  He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.  When Amber heard the door open, she froze, her whole face turning red.

"Troy?!  What are you doing here?" she questioned.  She quickly moved her hands and closed her legs, trying to pretend nothing was going on.  Neither Amber or Troy spoke for several moments until Amber slowly looked up at her friend.  "I guess that's not important right now.  I...need your help," Amber finally said.

"Need my help?" Troy asked.  Amber gave a small nod and tugged on the magical girl costume.

"I...can't get this off," Amber replied.

"And what does that have to do with calling me here?" Troy asked.  Amber reached over to near her pillow and grabbed her phone.  She turned the device on and showed a mysterious text message to Troy.

The only way to free yourself from the costume's spell is being claimed by the person closest to your heart.

"Costume's spell?  What does that-" Troy tried to ask, but before he could finish, Amber's arms were around his neck and her body was pressed up against his.

"My body feels so hot.  Ever since I put this thing on, all I can think about is...you know," Amber quietly said.  "It...feels weird.  All I've been able to think about is you," she added, burying her face in his chest to hide how red her face was.

"Are you sure that's the only way?" Troy asked.

"I don't know, but I have courses tomorrow.  I can't go to class wearing this," Amber replied.  Even as she spoke, she pressed her body up against him.  The feeling in her was driving her towards such action, and she was slowly becoming less sure whether it was because of the costume or if she actually wanted it herself.

"Please, have sex with me, Troy," Amber finally said.  After a long silence, Troy looked down at his childhood friend.  He wasn't totally sure of all the details, but from what he did know at the time, he knew that his friend needed his help.  Even if such an act would blur the lines of their friendship, he decided to indulge in her request.

 

Outside the house, a figure watched as two shadows on the second floor moved with each other.  The wooden puzzle box in her hands glowed with an otherworldly light.

"Everything has worked out as I hoped.  It is far from enough, however.  Savor your time together," the black haired shopkeeper said to nobody in particular.  Once a woman's moans began to ring out from the open door to the house, she turned and walked away.  After a few steps, she was gone, as if she was never there at all.

[IsabellaRose]

I'm going to preface this by saying, I'm a dumb-dumb and ended up trying to write a crappy horror movie in as few words as possible... it's not good, and it's too long, but hidden within the spoiler tag to keep people from having to scroll for a mile, here's...

Prompt 6: Trick or Tease

Spoiler

The bowl wasn’t supposed to be there. Jess stopped mid‑laugh when she saw it sitting on the table, orange plastic, cheap, shallow, and glitter‑glued with a label that hadn’t faded even after a year.

DARE OR DESPAIR.

Same black marker. Same fingerprints still visible in the glue. Same faint scent of artificial cinnamon, cheap vodka, and bad decisions.

“Wait,” she said. “Who brought that?”

No one answered. The music kept pulsing, bodies still moving, drinks still pouring. The lights in the basement flickered, just once, and Tyler called from the stairs, “We doing this or what?”

Jess didn’t answer. The bowl was from last year, the year Shelby died.

This year’s Halloween party wasn’t supposed to be that kind of party, not wild, not haunted, not another round of “Shelby’s legacy.” It was just supposed to be friends, pizza, too‑sweet punch, and music loud enough to hide the awkward silences.

Tyler and Greg had organized it mostly because Greg couldn’t stand the idea of “a cursed anniversary.” He said the only way to get past tragedy was to make noise over it. Marcus offered his parents’ basement again, same as last year, complete with peeling movie posters and a faint smell of wet carpet. Amber brought decorations and too many candles. Lena showed up with her camera, claiming she wanted “documentary footage” for the yearbook, though no one believed her. Jess came because everyone else did.

Six of them, all pretending not to notice the empty space that still belonged to Shelby Reed.

Shelby had been the spark, loud, mischievous, reckless in the way people secretly envied. She was the kind of girl who could turn truth‑or‑dare into a performance art piece and convince you to love the humiliation.

It had been her idea last Halloween. Jess remembered her saying, “truth or dare is lame, I made something better,” and plopping the orange bowl down on the table, glitter glue holding on smiling hand-drawn ghosts and pumpkins and her hand made label: Dare or Despair. The idea was simple: no truths, only dares.

At first it had been fun, goofy, flirtatious, mostly harmless. Then she’d pulled that slip. No one ever saw what it said, only that she’d gone white reading it.

“This isn’t funny,” she’d snapped. “Who wrote this?”

Everyone had denied it, but whatever it was, her reaction was enough to stop the momentum. The game ended right there.

The next morning, her mother found her on her bedroom floor, next to a note that read: dare or despair. The words dare or were crossed out again and again until the page tore. The police called it a suicide, case closed. But it never sat right with Jess, not with any of them. Shelby wasn’t the kind of girl who killed herself. It had been that slip of paper from that bowl, the one that said something no one ever saw, the one they never found.

And now, somehow, the bowl was back. No one had carried it in, Jess was sure of that. She’d been there since before the first guests arrived. She would’ve seen it. But there it sat, in the center of the table like it had been waiting.

Greg eyed it warily. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

“Not funny,” Lena said. Her tone made it clear she wasn’t in the mood.

Tyler, never one to resist tension, shrugged. “I mean, it’s Halloween. Maybe she’s haunting us with party props.”

“Tyler.” Jess’s voice came out sharper than she intended. “Don’t.”

He raised his hands. “Hey, I’m kidding. Just… trying to lighten the mood.”

Marcus poured another drink. “Maybe we shouldn’t touch it.”

Amber joined them then, shrugging off her jacket and instantly sensing the vibe. “Wow. What did I miss? Someone see a ghost?”

Lena glanced up. “Close enough.”

Amber frowned, then her eyes fell on the bowl. “Who brought that?”

No one spoke.

“I didn’t,” Jess said. “Did you?”

Heads shook.

The song changed, bass thumping under the floorboards. The wind outside rattled the windows.

Lena leaned closer to the table. The slips of paper inside rustled slightly, though no one was near them. “It looks the same,” she whispered.

Greg forced a laugh. “Maybe it’s just… back for an encore?”

Nobody laughed with him.

Jess stared at the bowl, at the glitter letters dull under the yellow light. She could almost see Shelby’s hands again, nails painted black, glue smudged on her wrists, laughing as she’d dropped the first dares inside.

Her stomach twisted.

“Let’s just ignore it,” she said finally. “Pretend it isn’t there.”

They tried to ignore it; they really did. Someone turned the music up. Greg cracked open a beer. Marcus made a show of lighting one of Amber’s too‑many candles with an exaggerated flourish, muttering something about “atmosphere.”

But the bowl stayed, glitter‑glued, cheap plastic, like a joke no one had the nerve to laugh at. No one said anything. The bowl just sat there, dares waiting like teeth in a jack‑o’‑lantern grin.

“I mean…” Greg finally shrugged. “It’s just a game, right?”

Tyler gave him a look. “Dude.”

“What? It’s Halloween. It’s not like we’re going to draw the same dare.”

“The same dare?” Jess echoed.

Greg swallowed hard, then grinned, trying to look casual. “The one that messed with Shelby.”

Lena flinched. Amber looked at the floor. Nobody said anything. Maybe they’d all been thinking it. Jess looked back at the bowl, at the folded slips, just white paper, unassuming. She should throw it out. She should. But no one moved.

Then…

“I’ll go,” Tyler said, in classic Tyler style, grinning like a dare couldn’t touch him, like rules weren’t meant for people who owned varsity jackets and symmetrical cheekbones. He stepped forward, not cocky exactly, but purposeful. Like he was taking one for the team.

“Tyler,” Lena warned, quiet.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll break the seal, get it over with. We’re all thinking about it.”

He reached in. Paper rustled, soft and sharp, as he pulled one slip, held it between two fingers, read it silently.

He smirked.

“Oh come on,” he said, holding it up. “This one’s dumb.”

Jess stepped closer. The words were written in Shelby’s unmistakable hand, in black marker, the letter slanted, confident.

KISS THE PERSON TO YOUR LEFT. NO QUESTIONS.

Tyler snorted. “Well that’s just awkward.”

To his left was Greg.

Greg blinked. “No offense, man, but I’m not that drunk.”

Tyler laughed. “You wish.” He crumpled the paper and dropped it into an empty chip bowl. “What, no ‘fail’ consequence?”

“No fails,” Lena said automatically. “That was the rule. Remember?”

Tyler grinned. “Fine. Rules are rules.”

He turned and kissed Greg, quick, dramatic, more theater than passion. A ridiculous over‑the‑top stage kiss with a hand on Greg’s cheek and a loud exaggerated mwah.

Greg shoved him off, laughing. “Get off me, man.”

“Dare complete,” Tyler said with a mock bow. “Shelby would’ve loved it.”

The laughter that followed was too loud, too fast, relief in disguise. The dare was done. The world hadn’t ended.

But as Jess turned away, she noticed the slip of paper, crumpled, discarded, was gone. She blinked, checked the chip bowl. Empty. She looked back at the plastic bowl.

The dares sat quietly, waiting.

“Okay, so that happened,” Amber said, plopping onto the couch and folding her legs underneath her. She glanced at the table. “We’re not really doing this again, are we?”

Jess opened her mouth to say no. She meant to say no. But then Lena moved, not fast., just deliberate, like she wasn’t thinking, or maybe like she was thinking too much. She sat down cross-legged on the rug in front of the bowl and reached in.

“Lena…” Jess warned.

“It’s fine,” Lena said, her voice soft, eyes never leaving the slips of paper. “We said we weren’t afraid of this thing. Right?”

She pulled one out. Held it. Read it. Then raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”

“What is it?” Greg asked, leaning over her shoulder.

REMOVE AN ARTICLE OF CLOTHING. YOUR CHOICE.

Tyler let out a low whistle. “Well damn. Shelby kept it spicy, huh?”

“Shut up,” Jess snapped.

Lena rolled her eyes, stood, and peeled off her sweatshirt, revealing a cropped black tank top underneath. There was no hesitation, it was just done, like she wanted to prove something.

“There,” she said. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Debatable,” Marcus muttered. He looked nervous, fiddling with the cuff of his flannel shirt.

Lena folded the slip of paper once, twice, and tucked it under a candle.

Tyler flopped down beside Lena. “Guess it’s my turn again, huh?”

“You already went,” Jess said.

He grinned. “So? The bowl doesn’t say one turn each.”

He moved toward the bowl, but Amber slapped his hand with a grin and reached in before he could. She held up the slip, read it. Her grin faltered, just slightly.

“What is it?” Jess asked.

WHISPER YOUR DARKEST SECRET INTO SOMEONE’S EAR. IF THEY FLINCH, YOU FAIL.

Tyler stared at it and laughed. “Oh I can’t wait for this. Spooky therapy time.”

“Alright,” Amber said. She turned toward Marcus.

Marcus froze. “Wait, why me?”

Amber didn’t answer, just leaned close, cupped a hand to Marcus’s ear, and whispered something low.

Marcus didn’t flinch, but his face changed. A beat passed, then two. Marcus turned slowly to look at Amber, eyes wide.

“That wasn’t funny,” he said.

Amber looked solemn. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

“I need some air.” Marcus stood up and walked toward the stairs. The door creaked shut behind him.

Nobody moved.

Jess felt her throat go dry. “What did you say to him?”

Amber looked down. “Secret.”

No one laughed, and before anyone could stop her, Lena reached for the bowl again. Jess wanted to stop her, to say no, but Lena already had her fingers in the bowl. She drew a slip and unfolded it, her face dimly lit by the candle beside her.

GO SOMEWHERE PRIVATE WITH THE PERSON ACROSS FROM YOU. DON’T COME BACK UNTIL YOU’VE DONE SOMETHING WORTH BLUSHING ABOUT.

Tyler grinned. “Oh, come on, that’s gold.”

Amber’s cheeks flared pink.

Lena looked across the table straight at Greg.

Jess saw the flicker that crossed Greg’s face: surprise, then uncertainty, then a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess that’s me,” he said, trying to keep his voice light.

Lena stood. “Guess so.”

Tyler made a low wolf-whistle. Jess shot him a look sharp enough to cut it off.

They left, slipping through the side door that led to the laundry room, the door clicking softly behind them. No one spoke for a moment. The basement seemed smaller without them, air thick with the things nobody wanted to say out loud.

Amber tugged her blanket tighter around her shoulders. “Okay, this is getting weird.”

Jess exhaled. “It was already weird.”

Tyler reached for the bowl again. “Might as well keep it rolling.”

Jess grabbed his wrist. “Stop.”

He grinned at her. “What, you think I’ll pull one that says die horribly?”

“Just… stop.”

He didn’t. He reached his other hand in, like a magician about to prove nothing was up his sleeve, and pulled a new slip, smiling directly at Jess as if daring her to stop him from reading this new slip.

For a moment, he didn’t read it, then his grin faded.

TELL HER WHAT YOU SAW.

Tyler stared at the words. His throat worked like he wanted to speak but couldn’t.

Amber frowned. “Tell who what?”

Tyler swallowed. “I… don’t know.”

But Jess could see it in his face… he did know. Jess glanced at the bowl again. It looked fuller, like there were more slips… dozens more, too many.

Amber stood suddenly. “I’m checking on Lena.”

“No,” Jess said, stepping toward her. “Don’t…”

Too late. Amber was already at the laundry door, hand on the knob. The others heard the click, the creak, then her voice: “Lena? Greg? Guys?”

There was a pause, and then the sound of something wet, rhythmic. It stopped and was followed by a single laugh from inside, soft, almost nervous.

Amber froze. “Okay,” she said shakily, “that’s enough.” She backed away, closing the door slowly. She was blushing madly, her cheeks so red they looked hot.

“They’re… busy,” she murmured.

Jess didn’t need to ask.

Tyler dropped the slip he’d been holding. It hit the floor silently, landing near his sneaker. He just stared at it, unmoving.

Jess leaned toward him. “Tyler.”

He didn’t look up.

“Tyler, what did you see?”

His shoulders tensed. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t.” Jess’s voice cut through the air, low but sharp. “You read the dare. You went white. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

Amber glanced from one to the other, hugging herself. “What did it say again?”

Jess’s throat was dry. “Tell her what you saw.”

Amber frowned. “What who saw? Tyler?”

Tyler finally looked up. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. “The night she died.”

The words dropped like a stone into water, rippling through the room. Lena’s giggles from behind the laundry door faded into muffled moans.

Jess’s heart thudded in her chest. “What do you mean, the night she…”

“I saw her.” He dragged a hand through his hair, his voice shaking now. “I went back to get my jacket. Everyone else was gone. She was still there… Shelby. Sitting on the floor by the window with the bowl. Just… staring at it.”

Jess’s stomach twisted.

“She was talking to someone,” Tyler went on. “But no one was there. She said something like, I’m not afraid of you. Then she laughed. I didn’t know what to do, so I left.” He swallowed hard. “I told myself she was drunk. But she looked… wrong.”

Amber’s voice was small. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Tyler’s laugh came out like a cough. “Because what was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, I watched Shelby talk to ghosts before she killed herself?’ They already had their answer. Suicide, end of story.”

Jess stared at him, unable to speak.

The room was too still.

Then Amber whispered, “Tyler… look.”

The slip on the floor had changed. The black marker scrawl had changed, the words were different. Jess bent down, lifted it to read it. Tyler looked over her shoulder.

YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED

Tyler stumbled back. “No. No, that wasn’t there before…”

The lights flickered. Lena’s muffled moans from behind the laundry door turned to screams of ecstasy, fast, matching the pounding of their heartbeats. Something was happening besides the two idiots in the laundry room getting it on.

When the door at the top of the stairs slammed, they all jumped. But it was just Marcus coming back downstairs. He stopped in the archway, one hand gripping the frame, his other tugging down the sleeve of his hoodie. His face looked pale, wide-eyed, but trying hard to play casual.

“Hey,” he said. “What’d I miss?”

Jess straightened. “Where were you?”

“Bathroom,” he shrugged, then glanced at the group. “And upstairs for a sec. I just needed to chill.” He looked at Amber. “That was a lot.”

No one said anything for a beat. Then Amber asked, “You good?”

Marcus nodded, too fast. “Yeah. Yeah. I just… yeah.”

Jess stepped toward him, lowering her voice. “What is it?”

Marcus flinched. “Nothing.”

“You hesitated.”

“I said nothing.”

Tyler crossed his arms. “That’s not a ‘nothing’ face, man.”

Marcus ran a hand through his curls, avoiding their eyes. “I… it was probably nothing. Like, my mind’s just… playing tricks.”

Jess’s stomach knotted. “What?”

Marcus gave her a look. “You don’t wanna know.”

“We do,” she said, too quickly.

Tyler snorted. “At this point? We kinda have to.”

Marcus looked like he was about to push back again when the bowl rattled. Everyone turned. No one had touched it, but it slid two inches across the table on its own, directly toward Marcus, and then stopped. Jess’s mouth went dry. A new slip of paper had appeared.

Tyler backed away. “Nope. Nope. Fuck that.”

Amber made a small sound in her throat. “It’s not funny anymore. This isn’t funny.”

Jess approached slowly, like the bowl might bite. The new slip sat alone in the center. She didn’t touch it, just leaned in and read it.

TELL THEM WHAT YOU SAW

The words were darker than the rest, almost burnt into the paper.

Jess turned toward Marcus. “What did you see?”

Marcus stared at the bowl, at the slip of paper, and shook his head, but said nothing.

“You went upstairs,” Tyler said. “Where it happened.”

Marcus clenched his jaw.

“Tell us,” Jess said, soft but firm. “Whatever you saw. Whatever you’re afraid to say.”

He shook his head, eyes glassy. “I went past Shelby’s old room.”

No one breathed.

Marcus swallowed. “The door was open.”

Jess felt her pulse in her throat.

“I… I looked in,” Marcus said, voice barely a whisper. “Just a glance. But…”

“But what?” Tyler asked.

“There was someone sitting on the bed.”

Silence.

Marcus stared at the floor. “It looked like Shelby.”

Amber clapped her hands over her mouth.

“I… I blinked and she was gone. Like it wasn’t real. Just my brain being cruel.”

Jess shook her head slowly. “It’s not your brain.”

Tyler looked at the slip again. “She wants him to tell.”

Amber was trembling now. “We need to stop. We need to leave.”

Before anyone could say anything else, the laundry room door creaked open behind them. Greg emerged first, shirt half-buttoned, hair messy, grinning like an idiot. Lena followed, flushed and bright-eyed, smoothing down her skirt.

“Jesus,” Greg said, blinking at their expressions. “Who died?”

Lena frowned. “Why are you all staring like that?”

Jess stepped back, her eyes still locked on Marcus, but Amber was already across the room, her footsteps pounding up the stairs. The knob rattled, hard.

“Amber?” Jess called.

Amber made a short, frustrated sound. “It won’t open! It’s like the door’s glued shut!”

Everyone froze again. Even Greg’s grin faltered.

Lena tried to laugh it off. “Come on, it’s just old…”

The bowl shifted. Not a slide this time, a thump, as if someone had set it down harder than they should. It was on the edge of the table, right in front of Marcus. He stared at it like it was breathing.

“Guess it’s not finished with you,” Tyler said quietly.

A folded slip rose to the surface, twisting once in the air before dropping into Marcus’s lap. He didn’t reach for it. He didn’t need to. The words were already written big and dark enough for all of them to read.

TELL THEM WHAT YOU DID.

Marcus’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“Did?” Jess asked carefully. “Marcus, what… what is that supposed to mean?”

He shut his eyes, shaking his head.

Tyler took a step forward. “You’d better say it, man. This thing doesn’t like secrets.”

Marcus didn’t move.

The others waited. The sound of the old furnace groaning somewhere in the walls filled the silence. Finally, he exhaled, a broken sound, halfway between a sigh and a sob.

“It was after the party,” he said. “After Tyler left.”

Tyler blinked. “You saw me leave?”

“Yeah,” Marcus said. “I saw you grab your jacket and go. I was upstairs already. Couldn’t sleep. I heard her come up.”

Jess’s throat tightened. “Shelby?”

He nodded. “She had the bowl with her. Said she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Said it wasn’t done with her yet.”

Amber whispered, “Oh my God…”

Marcus’s hands were shaking. “She sat on the edge of her bed, pulling out dares and laughing to herself. Like she was daring the bowl back. Like it was a fight.”

“What did you do?” Jess asked, barely above a whisper.

“I went in,” he said. “I told her she needed to stop, that she was scaring me. She said she missed me, that everything felt wrong since our parents got married, that she wished they never did, that she wished we could have kept dating… that she couldn’t tell what was real anymore.”

He swallowed hard. “I told her it was just guilt, that we weren’t supposed to still feel that way. But she came closer. She kissed me.”

No one spoke.

“It wasn’t like before,” Marcus went on quietly. “It didn’t feel like Shelby, not the way I remembered. And then she said the bowl had dared her to do it, that if she didn’t, it would make her. I thought she was drunk, so I got mad. I told her she was sick.”

His voice broke. “She cried. Then she told me I’d failed the dare.”

The group stood frozen.

Marcus looked up at them. “I left. I left her there with that stupid bowl. I thought I was doing the right thing. That she’d sober up, sleep it off.”

He rubbed at his face. “The next morning, my mom found her.”

The words hung in the air. No one breathed.

Then, softly… scratch, scratch.

The sound came from the table. The bowl was rocking again, sliding toward Marcus until it bumped against his knee. A new slip rose from inside it, unfolded itself, and drifted into his lap.

He didn’t pick it up right away. Jess crouched down beside him, reading the words upside down.

KISS HER AGAIN

Marcus looked up, stricken. “No,” he whispered. “No, fuck this. I’m done playing.”

The lights flickered once. Somewhere in the distance, a laugh, soft, familiar, feminine, curled through the room… Shelby’s laugh.

The lights died all at once. Not a flicker, not a warning, just gone. The darkness was thick, complete, like the world had exhaled and swallowed the room whole. For a moment, no one moved, breath held, hearts racing. The only sound was the soft, rising panic in each chest. Then the air changed. It felt somehow closer, colder.

Marcus felt the darkness curling tighter, pressing in on him. A presence wrapped around his ribs and squeezed.

“I waited for you.”

Marcus shut his eyes, but it was there, her voice, soft and raw.

“I asked you to stay.”

His heart pounded. It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. And yet…

“You left me alone.”

The weight of that truth landed hard, deep in his gut. He felt his throat close.

The basement was silent, and then they all heard Marcus’s voice… soft, tender, the kind of voice you use when you see someone you love standing in a place they don’t belong.

“Shelby?”

The bulb above Marcus exploded, shards of glass rained down in a burst of white fire. Everyone ducked, shielding their faces as the other lights blinked and flickered, one by one, rapid and frantic like a heartbeat in panic. The entire basement flashed in strobes, and in those flickers, they saw her.

Shelby.

She stood behind Marcus, radiant in a sickly glow. Pale skin, dark eyes, her face twisted into something between longing and despair.

Marcus didn’t scream. He turned, slow, like he was sleepwalking, and looked right at her.

“Shelby,” he said again, almost relieved.

She reached for him. Her fingers cupped his jaw. She leaned closer and her lips met his in a slow, tender kiss.

The lights surged and they all saw. Marcus’s eyes rolled back, his face turned gray, his body went limp. Shelby held his face in her hands, lips pressed to his. Slowly, she ended the kiss, pulling back, staring into his unseeing eyes.

Then she looked up, right at them.

Jess gasped. Amber screamed. Tyler backed into the couch, knocking over a lamp.

Shelby smiled, then vanished, and Marcus dropped to the floor like a puppet with cut strings. He hit hard with a sickening sound, limp and final.

“Marcus!” Jess dropped to her knees beside him, grabbing his shoulders. His head lolled backward, mouth slightly open, lips tinged with blue.

“Jesus Christ… Marcus?” Tyler scrambled closer, hands shaking as he knelt on the other side. “He’s not breathing!”

Amber stood frozen near the wall, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other white-knuckled on the stair rail. “Did you see her? That was her… it was Shelby…”

“Shut up,” Jess snapped, fingers pressing to Marcus’s neck. “I can’t… damn it, I can’t find a pulse. Somebody call 911!”

Greg was already fumbling with his phone. “No signal? it’s not… shit, it’s not going through…”

Lena hovered behind him, eyes wide, whispering over and over, “This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.”

“Move,” Jess barked. “We need to get him upstairs!”

She and Tyler tried to lift him, dead weight now, heavy and unresponsive. Marcus’s body sagged between them as they staggered toward the stairs, but his head lolled back in a way that made Amber scream again.

Then Greg made a choking sound. “Uh… guys…”

They turned. A single slip of paper stuck out from the top of the bowl.

Jess, trembling, let go of Marcus. She crossed the room, eyes locked on the bowl.

She didn’t draw the paper, it rose up on its own, floated, then dropped onto the table. The words were written in angry black, burned into the page like acid.

RUN

Everything exploded at once.

The house shuddered, a low, groaning quake that knocked them all off balance. The furnace in the corner screamed, a high-pitched metallic shriek, and then flames erupted from its grates, bright and violent.

“GO!” Jess screamed.

Tyler was already pulling Amber to her feet, dragging her toward the stairs. Lena shrieked as sparks sprayed from a light fixture overhead, and Greg grabbed her by the wrist.

The air changed, thicker, hotter, tasting of sulfur and rot. Gas hissed violently from a cracked line near the wall, a sharp sssssssss that grew louder by the second. The lights flickered, then blew, popping one by one, sending shards of glass raining down like glittering knives.

“Move, move!” Jess was pulling Marcus’s body toward the stairs, but it was too late… he wasn’t breathing, he was gone and she knew it. Everyone else was already upstairs. She had to leave him.

“Jess!” Tyler shouted from the top of the stairs. “Come on!”

Another burst of flame shot out from the furnace, licking the ceiling. The wallpaper began to curl and blacken. The concrete floor under the table cracked.

Jess took one last look at Marcus, her chest burning, then turned and ran. The door at the top of the stairs was open now, and she followed everyone else out as a gout of flame leaped through the doorway behind her.

They fled down the hall and crashed out the front door with a bang, legs pumping, lungs searing with smoke. They spilled out into the yard in a screaming tangle, bare legs, tangled hair, gasping breath. The cold night air hit them like a slap.

Behind them, the house groaned again, and then the windows blew out with a loud BOOM… glass and fire erupting outward in a glowing storm. Lena screamed, covering her head as glass rained onto the porch and driveway. Greg held onto her, shielding them both. Tyler dropped to his knees, coughing. Amber sobbed against his shoulder.

Jess turned, watching the house become a bonfire. Her chest heaved as the heat from the blaze rolled across the lawn in waves, burning her eyes and tightening her skin.

Marcus was still inside. Her hand clenched into a fist.

Tyler pulled himself up beside her. “What the hell was that?”

“The last dare,” Jess whispered.

Jess couldn’t take her eyes off the house. The porch roof caved in with a thunderous crack, wood and flame collapsing in on themselves. Somewhere deep inside, a final breath of gas hissed out with a roar of flame.

There were sirens in the distance now; someone must’ve called. The fire reflected off the clouds like a second dawn.

 

[IsabellaRose]

So, I'm challenging myself. This one started out as an attempt to write an Edgar Allen Poe inspired long form poem and honestly, it got away from me and I definitely feel like the Poe tone came in and out. Part of that might be the protagonist voice I was shooting for, partly frightened, partly aroused, possibly mad. 

So for Prompt 7: Masquerade Mask, I give you... The Masquerade That Will Not Die...

Spoiler

THE MASQUERADE THAT WILL NOT DIE

 

I - The Dance

I knew him by the way he watched me,
not by face, for faces lie,
but by that stillness in the stalking,
that cathedral‑quiet hunger in his stance,
as though the music, and the masks,
and the whole debauched assembly
existed only as a veil between
my pulse and his intent.

The chandeliers were dripping light
upon the velveted throng,
a thousand strangers gilded in sin
and perfumed for surrender;
yet he stood,
anchored as fate, patient as plague,
a wolf disguised in silk.

He bowed.
He offered his hand.
And a memory split down my spine
like glass beneath hot iron.

I have taken that hand before.
In Vienna, when I wore a widow’s veil.
In Versailles, when I was painted gold.
In Jaipur, under a monsoon roof.
In Rome, on a knife‑bright festival night.
Each time a different mask,
each time the same man.

And I,
a creature of recurrence,
have met him again and again
like a moth reincarnated
only to burn in the same flame.

Sometimes he courts me,
voice a chapel bell of seduction;
sometimes he hunts me,
breath like a blade at my throat;
but always, always,
he wants one thing:
to end me
or to have me,
as if the two were the same sacrament.

I danced with him tonight as I have in centuries past,
my wrists obedient in his grasp,
my spine bending not only from grace
but also the weight of déjà vu.
Even the violins seemed to remember,
bowstrings quivering like old wounds.

“Have you run far enough?” he whispered
but he did not move his lips.
The words were memory, not sound.
They bloomed in me like poison remembered.

I wanted to scream that I had never run far enough,
that I had crossed deserts on bleeding feet,
changed names like wedding veils,
buried lives and lovers like coins tossed to ferrymen,
and still he finds me.
Still he arrives.
Still he dances.

The masquerade whirls and dissolves around us,
masks, confessions, bodies and wine,
all of it a stage that resets itself
every time death or desire
fails to finish what was begun.

My sanity frays in circles.
Perhaps I loved him first.
Perhaps I wronged him first.
Perhaps I am the hunter in another script,
the murderer in another century,
repeating my guilt in lace and perfume.

But this I know:
when the waltz ends
he will either claim me
or kill me,
and I cannot swear
which fate I fear
and which fate I crave.

For I am not merely haunted.
I am remembered.

And he,
in every era, every mask, every skin,
remembers how I tremble.

 

II - The Pursuit

The violins died on a single, sharp note
and so did I,
or might as well have,
when he slipped from my arms
and vanished into the crush of velvet ghosts.

A whirl of feathers, a scatter of lace,
my breath snatched by the wake of his absence.
I chased.

Through candle-thick corridors
and doors that opened to other centuries,
I followed the scent of him,
amber and blood,
dust and damnation.

Past a Roman bath where eunuchs wept,
through the frost-lit courts of Catherine’s dream,
over the Versailles garden hung in permanent dusk,
my feet found every floor
he had already haunted
tonight or in memory.

Each time I neared,
a mask would turn.
Always different,
always him.

One face laughed,
another snarled,
another whispered my name
like a curse pulled from an old book.

He was the priest at my execution,
the lover in my boudoir,
the stranger who watched from the balcony
as I kissed another man.

I could never hold him.
But he had always held me.
Somewhere behind every mask:
the same eyes.
The same hunger.

And I, fool-hearted and flame-drenched,
ran through time with my gown in tatters,
chasing the one
who would either love me
or kill me.

Or both.

 

III - The Surrender

At last
the corridors bled into shadows,
the world thinned to silk and smoke.
I found him waiting
in a room made of mirrors
where none of me could hide.

His mask had cracked,
or perhaps he wore none at all.
No velvet smile.
No painted jest.
Only eyes, those terrible eyes,
full of all the lifetimes I had tried to forget.

He stepped forward
and I forgot to breathe.

His hands were not hands but intention,
not skin but sentence.
They hovered near my throat,
and I did not flinch.
Perhaps I wanted the bruise.
Perhaps I craved the mark.

"Is this where I die?" I asked.

He said nothing,
but the air turned warm around my neck,
and I knew it could be.
It had been, before.
In Constantinople. In Rome. In Prague.
Every city a kiss and a knife.

He circled,
and I turned too slowly.
My legs had forgotten how to flee,
my breath how to protest.

My blood remembered only him.

He touched me then,
and I felt the echo of every past self shiver.
I was all of them again,
every dress torn, every breath hitched,
every desperate No
that really meant
God, yes.

I did not know if he meant to possess me
or pierce me through.
I no longer cared.

The fear was a lace overlay to the heat,
and I let it live beside the want.

He pressed his mouth to my lips,
his knife to my side.
I opened my hands
and let go of time,
of breath,
of the self I had carried too far.

"Yes," I said.
"Whichever you choose."

And he chose.