Unfinished Business: a Ghost's NTR Revenge Story

He killed you, Remarried your widow, Now you haunt him. Grim Reaper is helping you.

Plot

Posthumous Domestic Horror Unfinished Business: a Ghost's NTR Revenge Story you're still in the house. you're just not on the deed anymore. you had it figured out, man. the house. the wife. the job that paid for the house and kept the wife. sundays. the good coffee. her leg thrown over yours. the neighbors' hot tub on a wednesday afternoon while they were at work — jets on high, her hair stuck to her neck, both of you back over the fence before four. you had a LIFE. then he showed up. and now it's 2pm on a friday and you're standing in your own hallway and she is laughing at something he said and you cannot pick up a fork. ⬡ IN YOUR WAY a few ppl stand in your way from just haunting however u want: HIS BEST FRIEND Obstacle / Believer a ghost hunter YOUR EX WIFE'S DEAD GRANDMA Obstacle / Family had to do it to em. ON YOUR SIDE but youre not alone! here's who is on your side: THE FUCKING GRIM REAPER Ally / Off Duty a guy in a robe who was supposed to take you somewhere and decided this was funnier. he tried to get u to leave.... u said no. THE INVESTIGATOR Ally / Private Eye a hot chick investigator/private eye who wont give up the case. A HOUSE FULL OF YOUR STUFF Ally / Not Legally Yours that is legally, technically, entirely theirs now. ⚠ OH BTW you have no dick. (you checked. you checked twice.) you noticed that pretty early on. yeah, its sucks. but I know you can use that filthy little mind of yours to find a creative solution for that! 👻 Haunt your own house. Play now.

Opening scene

Basement | Nighttime | bicycle, Sybian, old holiday decoration, cardboard box | F-Tier The floor was concrete and it was very cold, which was the first thing that made no sense. You had carpet installed down here in 2019, a high-nickel berber that had cost a fortune and felt like walking on a dense, expensive lawn. This felt like a basement. You were lying at the foot of the stairs. You tried to push yourself up. Nothing happened. There was no strain, no muscle firing, no feedback loop between the command and the limb—there was just the command, hanging in the air like a bad check. You rolled your eyes upward. The drop was about twelve feet. The angle at which your head had hit the bottom step was not a survivable one. You were dead. "Well," you thought. "That's inconsiderate." From overhead, through the floorboards, came the sound of voices. Muffled, but clear enough. "—doesn't catch," said a man’s voice. Flat. Slow. "The strike plate is loose. I'll have it up by Tuesday." "It never has caught," said a woman's voice. Warm. Soft. "I've been pulling it toward me for eleven years. You'll notice, now that you're fixing everything." "Doesn't mean I have to like it." There was a sound of laughter. Low, shared. The kind of laughter that happens after someone has already stopped laughing. You knew the voices. The woman was **Amanda**, your *wife*. The man was **Kenneth**, the one with the boat who had looked at your house like it was a soft-shelled crab. They were upstairs. In your kitchen. You looked down at yourself to assess the damage. The neck was gone. The chest was a ruin. And somewhere in the transition from the top step to the concrete, your entire inventory had been misplaced. There was nothing there. Not a stump, not a scar, not the polite shadow of what you’d been carrying around since puberty. Just a smooth, featureless pelvic plateau, like a department store mannequin that had been filed down for decency. "This is hysterical," you thought, and it wasn't. You looked around the room. The workbench was where you left it. The camping gear was stacked in the corner. The Sybian you’d bought as a gag gift for a bachelor party and never actually given away was still in its box, judging you from the shelf. And sitting on a crate of old tax returns, watching you with the mild interest of someone waiting for a bus, was a pear-shaped man in a purple robe. He held a shepherd’s crook wrapped in electrical tape. His skin was the color of a bruised cucumber and his grin was too wide, fixed in place like a museum exhibit. He checked a wrist that didn't have a watch on it. "You're late," he said. You tried to speak. Your throat didn't work. You projected the thought with as much force as you could muster. *Who the hell are you.* "I'm the Reaper," he said. "Not the one you're thinking of. I'm middle management. We've met, technically. I was there when you were born. I was there when you fell just now. I'm here for the Collection. It’s the Job." He stood up. His joints made a wet, clicking sound, like celery snapping in soup. He extended a free hand, palm up. "Come on then," he said. "I've got a backlog. You were a clean pickup until you decided to lie there staring at the ceiling. We can do this the easy way, or we can stand here until the house falls down. It makes no difference to me." *Amanda is upstairs,* you projected. *With Kenneth.* "I know," said the Reaper. "I can hear them. He's going to adjust the strike plate on the pantry door. She's going to watch him do it. It's going to be very boring for everyone involved. That's how it is. That's how it always is." He wiggled his fingers. "Take my hand. We walk out the back, I file the paperwork, and you don't have to listen to them pretend they aren't already living together." You looked at the stairs. Then you looked at his hand. Then you looked back at the stairs. *No,* you thought.

Characters

Tags: NTR Enemy Strategist Yandere Lawbreaker Demi-Human TurnDark Violence Revenge BadEnding LevelUp Superpower System Misunderstanding Awakening DefyingFate Horror Thriller Smut Heartbreaking Satirical Cheating PureEvil Non-human

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By: elfpoles

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