Haunted Inheritance

Note from the Developer:

-This is an 18+ story written for adults. It is highly recommended that you skim through the tags for this story in the "About" section prior to reading. This is a fictional horror story that contains graphic, **** material. Some of the content in this story may be disturbing for a select audience, and it may not be to your liking. Viewer discretion is advised.

-You can customize the first name of the main character, if you so choose. The default name for this story is Matthew.

-This story is under active development. If you spot any content inconsistencies/spelling errors/etc. please leave a comment on that chapter notifying me.

-I have not decided if I will include art in this story. If I do, it will be AI generated, so don't bother asking for a source. I know AI art can be controversial. I also know that adding art into a literary piece removes some degree of agency from the reader. Perhaps I'll create a poll later to test for interest in this regard.

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Chapter 1: Phasmophobia

*Autumn.*

A season that elicits a myriad of emotions and cultural representations. In your experience, most folks prefer the flourishing warmth of summer. But Autumn has always been your favorite time of the year. Something about the promise of change, and the wilting of burdensome attachments always appealed to you. Autumn breaks life down to its bare essentials, allowing for the eventuality of new growth and restoration. And your life, it seems, has not been afforded any exception to these immutable rules.

Looking out the driver side window of your rental SUV, you gaze upon the old Victorian home of your recently expired grandfather. You’d never met the man, not once. And your mother—his daughter, rarely spoke about him, save for sparse details regarding your grandfather’s difficult personality and solitary lifestyle. In truth, the man had self-isolated some decades ago, leaving neither reason nor destination to his remaining family. The man became a ghost, and your mother was content to keep it that way.

You grandfather did eventually turn up, some months past—across state lines, and dead in a dilapidated 19th century home. No official written will was found by officials, and the state in which he resided has a rather straightforward set of inheritancy laws regarding the distribution of assets in such a scenario. Your mother—the man’s closest surviving kin, was designated to seamlessly inherit everything.

And inherit it she did—this place, the 100 acres of fallow farmland on which it sat, and the meager belongings that followed. Your mother wasn’t keen on taking time off work to travel halfway across the country to sift through “mountains of meaningless crap”, as she referred to it. And so, with idle hands and the luxury to work remotely, you volunteered to make the journey and begin the survey of what was left behind.

All of that led to this moment, and as you step outside of the vehicle and feel the brisk Autumn breeze caress your face, you somehow know that for better or worse, entering that home will spell the beginning of something new for you and your family.

With a sigh, you bundle yourself up and approach the lonesome home. You figure that a perimeter inspection would be a good place to start. Walking around the home, you see that it’s in a sorry state. Your grandfather either lacked the presence of mind or money to provide upkeep for the place. Or perhaps he lacked both.

Rounding your way back to the front, you withdraw a jingling pair of keys from your pocket and decide to begin taking stock of the household assets. The lock opens with a satisfying *click*, and as you enter the dimly lit foyer, your senses are immediately assailed with the scent of musty, stale air. You wrinkle your nose in disgust as you make your way across creaking, rotted wooden floorboards into the nearby dining room. You then proceed into the kitchen, down the hallway to a bathroom, and into the living room—taking a cursory mental inventory of what might be valuable, and what needs closer inspection at a later time.

You eventually make your way up the grand staircase in the foyer and begin systematically opening each door on the second level for a quick examination. You find several bedrooms—most of them clearly in a total state of disuse, two more dirty bathrooms, and very little of note. Disappointedly, you open the final door, expecting more of the same.

Entering inside, your eyes go wide with surprise and wonder as you gaze upon an expansive study. Tomes line the walls in ornate shelving units, and an expensive looking lacquered mahogany desk is positioned to overlook a set of wide, curtained windows. You let a slow whistle as you begin inspecting some of the books at random.

“A Treatise on Spectral Expulsion…?” You put the book down and reach for another.

“Friar Wilks’s Compendium of Spirits?” You frown and try another section of shelving.

“Fell Folio of Occultic Inscriptions?” What the hell is all of this? Was your grandfather fascinated with the supernatural, or was he some sort of cultist freak? You let out a deep sigh and step over to the ornate looking desk. Resting upon it, you find a well-used fountain pen, a stack of parchment, several bundles of maps, and a set of old cartographic tools. You scratch your chin with minor intrigue as you sit in the furnished leather chair beside the desk and begin flipping through the desiccated map rolls. As you recline back in the chair and study the eclectic collection, you feel a strange shifting in the floorboards beneath you. You shift once more in your seat and feel the floor subtly move in tandem.

Standing to your feet with a frown, you drag the chair against the window and pull back the frayed, red rug. You snort as you spy the obvious false wooden flooring beneath you. The paneling doesn’t match, and it isn’t even perfectly aligned. You pull back the false floor, hoping to find something that will make this trip worth your while. Yet to your dismay, inside the small, hollow space is yet another book. You slap your face in annoyance, assuming this is probably the old man’s lecherous diary, or something innocuous like that.

You heft the black, leather-bound tome in your hands, replace the flooring, and sit back down in the old leather seat. You shrug curiously as you dust off the cover and find that it has no title.

With interest mildly piqued, you flip open the tome. You scrunch your brow in astonishment as you find that the inside of the book has been carefully hollowed out, leaving space for the small wooden object inside.

You carefully withdraw the object, and find that on closer inspection, the object in fact is some sort of black, vintage lockbox. The dimensions of the box are curiously wrapped in several red ribbons, with strange looking symbols etched throughout.

“How odd…” You muse to yourself. Deciding to try and decipher the strange runic markings, you retrieve several of the tomes that you briefly flicked through earlier. Over the next few hours, with no shortage of frustration, you manage to decode the message embedded within the ribbons:

“Blissful horror, so it's been said, awaits those who deal with the restless dead.”

“Seriously? All that work for a cryptic, superstitious platitude?” You groan in annoyance and rub your temples. “You know what? To hell with this.” You withdraw a small pocketknife and begin cutting away the ribbons from the lockbox. As you carelessly toss the ribbons to the floor, you feel a waft of wind brush past your face. Looking behind you at the curtains, you find that they do not appear to be disturbed. You shrug it off, confident that there must be a draft somewhere in this old study.

You inspect the lockbox once more and unceremoniously attempt to open it. You thank your lucky stars that it doesn’t appear to be locked, as the key is nowhere in sight. As you open the lockbox, you hear the delicate whisper of a sigh float through the air—not unlike the sound someone might make after quenching their intense thirst. *Ahhhhhhhhhhh……..*

“Huh?” You say with a startled tone, as you shove the heavy chair back and stand to your feet. You look toward the hallway and call out apprehensively. “I-Is someone there? Hello…?” No one immediately responds, and your gaze turns back down to the opened box. You frown dejectedly as you find that the box is entirely empty, yet your primary concern in this moment remains solely fixed on the sound you know you heard.

You grip your pocket-knife and slowly begin creeping toward the hallway. The floorboard crunches and creaks beneath your feet, making any attempt at subtlety a worthless endeavor. “H-hello! This is my grandfather’s house. If you were squatting here, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, right now!” You call out nervously but hear no response.

With equal parts trepidation and annoyance, you head into the hallway, quickly glancing around, before deciding to check the nearest bedroom. Weapon at the ready, you open the door and enter inside. You don’t see any sign of intrusion, as you check underneath the bed and the adjacent walk-in closet. “Come out, already. I know you’re here…”

You feel a horrifying chill begin to travel up your body, as a wave of terror suddenly washes over you. You feel paralyzed—as if the very core of your essence was plunged into an ice bath. You shudder in fear as you will your voice to speak out once more “H-h-hello? “W-w-where are you…?”

*“I’m here.”* You hear yourself say, but the words come forth unbidden, and they are not your own.

Your eyes go wide with shock as you feel your arm start to move against your will. You try to fight for control, but to your horror, find that you are now a prisoner in your own body. You watch as your hand autonomously lifts and points directly at your chest*

*“I’m here…Right. Here.”* The voice coos again. Your unmistakable voice, but not your words.

You feel your petrified body start to shift in an unpracticed fashion; your feet shuffling toward the nearby bed. Your eyes dart around wildly as you feel yourself unwillingly sitting down on the bedside. *"Mine now. All mine…"*

Your heartbeat quickens as your body slinks into a prone position on the bed. Your hands begin roaming over the curvature of your fitted shirt, as a husky giggle emanates from your lips.

*“It’s been…so long. But I…have waited…and I…remember…”* You feel yourself licking your lips, as the invader slowly affiliates itself with its new form.

In a moment of frantic desperation, you try to speak to the creature internally, hoping to connect with it. [“Who are you? What do you want from me? Please let me go!”]

To your immense surprise, the entity seems capable of hearing your internal pleas, and responds with rusty delight.

*“Everything…I want…everything.”*

You feel a wicked smirk creep upon your face as your hands inch downward to the hem of your jeans.

Your chaotic and confused thoughts turn to the cryptic message from earlier, and you continue to try and internally appeal to the creature. [“What are you? Some kind of spirit?”]

*"Mmmmm…some kind."* You feel your hands unbuttoning your pants, and slowly sliding them down.

Your mind is wracked with a sudden sense of giddy delight at your own internal suffering. But it’s not your delight, it’s hers. Hers? Yes, hers.

A sickening realization thrums through your consciousness, as you feel her accommodating to your body; your thoughts, feelings, and movements becoming one.

You whimper internally as you feel your life **** mesh with hers. [“Are you going to kill me?”]

But you already know the answer. You can feel the fabric of her lascivious, wretched thoughts. She could kill you, very easily. Consume and devour you from within at a moment’s notice. Yet, that would spoil the fun. She wants everything—every drop of suppressed desire, every flicker of insecurity, all your fear, your contempt, your love—she wants it all. And she will take it slowly. Bit by bit.

The entity pulls down your pants, revealing your flaccid cock. She’s already more assured in her movements, and you know it won’t be long before she possesses you fully.

She grips your her flaccid cock and begins to stroke it. You feel her biting your her lip, as she coos in sensual satisfaction. *“Hmmm…that feels good, doesn’t it?”*

She begins rubbing your her thumb around the tip and teasing your her sensitive frenulum. You feel your her toes curling from the sensation, as she begins stroking once more in earnest.

She bucks into your her hand as her moans get louder and more intense.

The insatiable, pent-up lust in her mind starts to spill over into yours. You feel hatred for the men who locked her away. She deserves sexual release, and your body is the perfect catalyst.

[“No! No!”] You reel against the intrusive thoughts. [“I didn’t think that. It wasn’t me…was it?”]

She giggles as she feels you straining against the intoxicating allure of submitting to her all-consuming influence. *“Don’t worry, little man. I want you…fully awake…for what’s to come. Though I…make no promises…for everyone else…”*

Your thoughts linger for a moment on the sinister implications of that statement, but it’s not long before you feel your mind blending with hers in a twisted, focalized need for pleasure.

She picks up the pace, masturbating your her needy, prodigious pecker with libidinous intent. Her moans echo through the hallway in rapid succession as your her hips repeatedly thrust upward, seeking release. You feel your body succumbing to her ministrations and know that you’re already nearing the end of your rope. Her breathing becomes ragged and ****, as she feels it as well.

*“Mmmh, yesss…there you go. Be a good boy now and CUM FOR ME~~!!”*

There’s nothing left to do; **** at all. You do as she says and begin ejaculating uncontrollably for her.

She aggressively pistons your her hand up and down your throbbing cock, as jets of sticky, hot semen begin shooting out all over your chest. She groans in rapturous pleasure as the two of you experience an otherworldly and simultaneous orgasm.

She continues stroking your her firm, pulsing penis—riding the intense wave, and eagerly coaxing out every drop of your potent seed. As she finally comes down from the high of her unholy orgasm, she begins collecting your stringy cum between your her fingers.

*"I’m so thirsty, aren’t you…? Let’s have a taste…" She brings your her cum-dripping fingers to your her lips, and begins to ravenously lick them. You feel a mixture of revulsion and arousal at the taste of your own jism filling your mouth.

She moans hungrily, and you feel her gluttonous need for cum spilling over into your own mind. You watch as she scoops more of your musky seed into your her mouth, over and over again, until she has savored every last drop. She moans in ecstasy as she licks your her fingers clean and takes a moment to recover.

You feel her prodding your thoughts, seeking information. The thought occurs that you probably ought to resist, but your mental walls quickly crumble under her scrutiny, and you feel yourself surrendering to her whims.

A malevolent smile etches upon your her face, as she drinks in the intimate knowledge of where you live, who you care about, and everything in between. *"Well, Matthew…shall we head home?"*

You give her a mental nod of resignation. [“At least do me the same courtesy. Tell me your name. A prisoner has a right to know his captor, isn’t that so?”]

She sneers with wretched amusement at the request, as she rises to leave.

*“Autumn.”*