Chapter One
The night air in Willow Creek Cemetery hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. Cathy Reyes stood alone by the rusted iron gate, flashlight beam cutting thin paths through the fog. Her small house on the edge of town had felt emptier than usual these past months, and Michelle’s voice on the phone earlier that evening had been the only thing that pulled her out of the quiet.
“One hour,” Michelle had promised. “I’ll meet you there. Ouija board, candles, the works. Just a little fun. We’ve done worse.”
Michelle arrived in a burst of headlights and nervous laughter, carrying a worn wooden board and a bag of supplies. The two friends had chased shadows for years—abandoned asylums, old farmhouses, empty theaters. Cathy lived alone; Michelle’s place was a full hour’s drive away. Tonight the cemetery felt different. Older. Hungrier.
They chose a low, moss-covered headstone near the back wall, the name worn smooth by decades of rain. Cathy set the board carefully across the stone. Michelle lit three black candles. Their fingers rested on the planchette.
“Is anyone here with us?” Michelle asked, voice steady for the camera rolling on her phone.
The planchette twitched, then slid with deliberate force.
Y-E-S
Cathy’s pulse jumped. They asked the usual questions—name, year of death, unfinished business. The answers came faster, sharper. Then the planchette jerked hard enough to scrape the wood.
I-W-A-N-T-H-E-R
Michelle laughed nervously. “Okay, dramatic. Who?”
The pointer slammed under Cathy’s fingers.
C-A-T-H-Y
A cold wind rose from nowhere, snuffing two of the candles. The third flame stretched impossibly tall, then died. In the sudden dark, something brushed the back of Cathy’s neck—warm, deliberate, like a mouth.
They packed up fast. Michelle drove Cathy home, both of them joking too loudly about “active spots” and “residual energy.” When Michelle left, the house felt wrong. The air tasted of ozone and something sweeter, like overripe fruit and smoke.
Cathy locked every door twice. She told herself it was nothing.
It was not nothing.
Chapter Two
The first visit came three nights later.
Cathy woke to the weight of a body pressing her into the mattress. No lights. No sound except the slow, wet slide of something hard and thick pushing between her thighs. She tried to scream. A heavy hand covered her mouth. Another pinned both wrists above her head with effortless strength.
He was already inside her.
The incubus—though she did not yet know the name—moved with deliberate, rolling thrusts that forced her open. Thick, burning heat filled her, stretching her walls until the pressure bordered on pain. Her body betrayed her almost immediately. Wetness slicked her thighs. Her hips jerked upward against the intrusion even as her mind screamed no.
He fucked her slowly at first, grinding deep so the head of his cock dragged against every sensitive place inside her. When she clenched in fear, he only pushed harder, forcing her muscles to yield. One hand slid down to spread her wider, thumb circling her clit with ruthless precision until her legs shook and a broken moan escaped against his palm.
She came hard, helpless, walls fluttering around the thick length that never stopped moving. He kept going through the orgasm, using her body’s contractions to pull himself deeper. Only when a second climax ripped through her did he finish—hot, heavy pulses flooding her, overflowing and dripping down the cleft of her ass.
Then he was gone.
Cathy lay trembling in the dark, sheets soaked, body still twitching. Shame burned hotter than the residual pleasure. She scrubbed herself raw in the shower and told no one.
The visits continued.
Some nights he took her from behind while she slept on her stomach, knees shoved apart, face pressed into the pillow so her cries stayed muffled. Other nights he flipped her onto her back and held her thighs open, forcing her to watch the place where his thick cock disappeared into her over and over. He never spoke. He only used her—deep, relentless strokes that made her come against her will, again and again, until her body was limp and dripping with him.
Once he kept her on the edge for what felt like hours, fucking her in long, shallow thrusts that never quite let her finish, until she was sobbing and grinding back against him, chasing the release he finally allowed with a single hard slam that shattered her.
She hated it. She dreaded the moment the air changed and the weight settled over her. And every time her body arched and flooded with unwanted pleasure, a secret, shameful part of her melted open for him.
Michelle noticed the shadows under Cathy’s eyes, the way she flinched at sudden sounds. Cathy blamed insomnia. The truth stayed locked behind locked doors and drawn curtains.
A year passed in stolen nights and exhausted days. Cathy stopped trying to fight the hands that held her down. She still did not consent. She still woke terrified. But when the thick length pushed inside her and that impossible heat filled her, her body welcomed it with a slick, greedy pull she could no longer deny.
Chapter Three
On the anniversary of the cemetery night, Cathy finally broke.
She called Michelle at three in the morning, voice raw. “Something followed me home. It’s been… taking me. For a year. I need help.”
Michelle arrived before dawn with a local priest who specialized in house blessings and residual attachments. Father Langdon walked every room, holy water, prayers, the sharp scent of frankincense cutting through the sweet-rot smell that had clung to the walls for months. In the bedroom he paused longest, eyes narrowed.
“Something strong,” he said quietly. “An incubus attachment. It feeds on the energy of the acts. We close the door the same way it was opened—with deliberate rejection.”
They performed the rite at midnight. Cathy stood in the center of her bedroom while the priest recited the prayers of deliverance. Michelle held her hand. Holy water marked the doorframes, the windows, the bed itself. Cathy spoke the words of renunciation in a shaking voice:
“I reject you. I close this door. You have no claim on this body or this house.”
The air thickened. The temperature dropped. For a moment Cathy felt the familiar weight press against her back—hot breath at her ear, the phantom slide of a cock already half-hard between her thighs. She clenched her fists and kept speaking.
A low, wordless sound of rage vibrated through the floorboards. Then the pressure lifted all at once, like a vacuum sealing shut. The sweet-rot smell vanished. The house felt ordinary again—empty in the way empty houses should feel.
Father Langdon stayed until sunrise, checking every corner. “It is gone,” he said. “But doors, once opened, can be tempted again. Be careful what you invite.”
Michelle slept on the couch for a week after that. Cathy slept alone in the newly blessed bed, limbs free, body her own.
Some nights she still woke with the memory of thick heat stretching her open, of orgasms forced from her while she could do nothing but take them. The fear remained. So did the secret, shameful echo of pleasure.
But the weight never returned.
Cathy sold the Ouija board to an antique shop two towns over and never went back to Willow Creek Cemetery. Michelle still investigated occasionally, but always with extra protection and never with Cathy.
The house stayed quiet. Cathy stayed free.