fuckshitslover

Lover Girl Val 💋

lovesick8teen

87 posts

This Is Pretty Much My Fave Work Ive Ever Read!!!

This is pretty much my fave work I’ve ever read!!!

Living Dead Girl — Patrick Hockstetter.

pairing : patrick hockstetter x ghost!reader (descriptors such as beautiful and nicknames such as dollface, darling, ect, but no described features— ie. long hair, brown eyes)

summary : patrick gave into his urges and finally tested his morbid curiosities on prey much larger than just a cat or dog. little did he know his actions would come back to haunt him... literally.

warnings : patrick being a psychopath , animal abuse , graphic depictions of murder/gore , you being murdered (in third person) 🤗 , self image issues

word count : 5.5k (part one)

a/n : i don't know how accurate this is to patrick, but i tried to make him lack empathy and remorse and he can't exactly feel love— just obsession and fascination. also, i hc patrick as a lefty so do with that what you will.

Patrick had once again been feeling that familiar itch. It started subtlety this time, like a tickle from a weightless feather that blew lightly across his skin every so often, and it began to gradually grow.

He tried his best to satiate the hunger of the beast within, to scratch that itch in the same way he had so many times before— by killing the neighborhood pets.

But, it appeared this craving was a different kind altogether, for when he lit his lighter, allowing the aerosol to spray through the flame and fry the kitten until it was unrecognizable and it's shrill screams had died out, he felt nothing. There was no sense of relief, no satisfaction or even the small semblance of happiness— because Patrick truly couldn't feel such uplifting emotions.

There was just nothing.

Well, there was still that nagging itch.

It took some contemplation. Long nights staring up at the empty ceiling of his room, his right arm propped under his head while his left laid passively across his torso. How could he rid himself of this feeling?

He pondered that perhaps burning just didn't do it for him anymore. To test his theory, he tried many other options— drowning, suffocation, mutilation— he even, regrettably, attempted tasting the vile little creatures.

So, definitely not the method of torture because he was sure that if he hadn't even feeling so empty, those, with the exception of the last one, would have been a world of fun for him. Well then, maybe it was the animal!

Squirrels, cats, dogs, raccoons, lizards, frogs, birds— anything he could get his hands on became helpless victims in Patrick's reign of terror, but none of it helped.

That feeling began to grow until it took up every inch of his body. All he could think about was the kill. Even when he and his friends were torturing their pre-pubescent victims, images of blood and agonizing screams plagued his mind.

And that's when it hit him— he needed a human victim. One that brought real stakes to the equation, one that would get his adrenaline rushing at the idea of being caught.

Initially, it had been an idea. He hadn't planned to act on it... but then you came along, and god, you were just so perfect.

You ran into him, through no fault of your own. He had been walking down the wrong side of the hallway, and you were just coming around a corner, so he was in your blind spot.

"Oh, god. I'm so sorry. I'm such a klutz," you chuckled lightly after you collided into his hard chest. You looked up at him with wide, apologetic eyes.

As he stared down at you, he just knew that you were the one. You were so perfect. So beautiful. And it made him furious. He couldn't quite discern why, but the way your eyes sparkled with genuity and naivety caused a pit of red hot rage to build in his stomach.

But he couldn't act yet. He had to gain your trust. He had to ensure that he could get you into the woods by yourself so he could enact his plan and finally scratch that fucking itch.

"My fault, dollface," he spoke with a wide smile, attempting to be somewhat gentlemanly. "I wasn't paying attention." He gently clenched and released his fist as he watched you smile brightly. "I'm Patrick, Hockstetter," he introduced, leaning forward to tower over you in an attempt to be intimidating but in a way that could also come off as flirtatious.

"Ah, yes, the infamous Patrick Hockstetter, I presume?" You asked, your eyebrow arching slightly. There it was again. That anger. It had to have been your subtle cockiness, the way you weren't the least bit fearful of him even though his reputation clearly proceeded him.

"The very same," he smirked, leaning close to your ear. His breath lightly fanned the shell of your ear. "Why? Does my reputation scare you? Do I scare you?"

You let out a light chuckle. "No." It was a simple answer, and yet Patrick still found himself having to cling to that feeling on his skin, the one he desperately wanted to be rid of, to ensure that he didn't snap right at that second.

For some bizarre reason, in your presence, Patrick felt utterly powerless, which was a very foreign feeling to him. He had always been calm and calculated, except for when he was alone with his projects, so to be so out of control of his emotions just added to his resentment toward you.

"You should be," he replied ominously before turning and walking away from you in long, precise strides. He let his smirk fall and his lip curl up in disgust as he felt your eyes on his back the whole way down the hallway.

It had been such a simple interaction, and yet it had left you completely and utterly captivated. You should have been afraid of him. You'd known of his tendency for him and his friends to terrorize younger kids, and of course, you had heard the whispers of what he did when he thought no one was around, but those were just rumors... right?

Either way, you were intrigued by Patrick and wanted to see him again.

The next time you two had met, you were walking home. You lived above your parent's old record store in the town square, which was extremely convenient for you because it meant all the stores, the arcade, and school were just a short walk away. The record shop had been your grandfather's before it became your mother's, and soon it would be yours.

You were coming up on the arcade, and as you approached, you hesitated. Should you go inside? Your parents were expecting you home, but it was Friday, so they'd be okay with you going out for a bit, right?

As you contemplated, a blue Trans Am pulled up next to you, and a voice called out to you. "Y/N!"

Your eyebrows furrowed as your mind registered the familiarity of the voice. It sounded like Patrick, but it couldn't be because you had never told him your name. You turned, eyes widening slightly in surprise as your gaze met Patrick, who was hanging with half his body out the window of the car. In the passenger's seat, Henry was staring forward, a bored and slightly irritated look on his face.

"Hockstetter?" You asked with a grin. "I don't remember telling you my name."

"You didn't," he replied, sending a grin of his own your way.

"Did you ask around about me?" You teased, your eyebrows raising slightly as you gave him a playful look.

"Maybe," he shrugged. "Still not scared of me?" He asked, placing the palms of his hands on the door to push his upper half out the window toward you.

"Hmm," you looked up and to the side, pretending to think for a moment. "Nah," you shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Well, in that case," he drawled out. "You wanna go out with me tomorrow night?"

"You bringing your posse?" You asked, nodding your head to the three other teens in the car that had undoubtedly been listening in on your conversation.

"Why? Do you want them to come?" He asked suggestively. "I mean, I didn't know you were into that, but if you insi-"

"Stop! Stop!" You laughed, clamping your hand over his mouth. He looked you dead in the eye, and for a moment, you were so hypnotized by his eyes that you didn't realize the wet sensation of his tongue flicking across your palm. "Ugh!" You shrieked in disgust with a small laugh. "Gross."

"So?" He asked, his eyebrows raising. "Whatdya say?" He grinned his Cheshire cat grin, and you couldn't help but relent.

"Okay," you said softly with a little nod. "Yeah, I'll go out with you."

"Great," he smirked, doing a little drum solo on the door in, what appeared to be excitement. "I'll pick you up at 8." You nodded, not able to contain your huge smile as he tried to awkwardly pull himself back into the car. "Oh," he said, sticking his head out the window a bit. "And wear white." Before you could question him, he sent you a wink, and then, the car was off speeding down the street.

You began to absent-mindedly walk the rest of the way home, all plans of going to the arcade having fled your mind, replaced with the thought of going on a date with Patrick. Your first date!

You really didn't know what he saw in you. He was so charming and handsome, and you were just... you. You weren't exceptionally attractive like Shelly Benson and Daniel Klein or outrageously popular like Greta Bowie and Jackson Pines. You were smart in subjects you enjoyed and not as smart in one's you weren't, and you had average social skills but never really made friends, just acquaintances.

You were just normal.

And so you stood, staring at yourself in the mirror as you examined every inch of your outfit, desperately trying to look less like yourself. You sighed in frustration, running a hand through your hair with a huff as you turned around, refusing to look at yourself any longer.

Your room was your safe space. The walls were covered in posters of your favorite bands, celebrities, and movies. You wondered what it felt like to be so effortlessly flawless as you stared around at all the beautiful people littering your walls.

Aside from the posters, your room was quite cohesive. You had chosen an excellent set of neutrals to pair with your accent color (which was your favorite color, of course), and it created a very attractive and appealing color pallet.

The sound of a knock on the apartment door made you snap out of your admiration of your room. Leave it to you to critique your artistic excellence when you're on a time crunch.

You took one last look in the mirror before taking a breath and exiting your room. You proceeded down the hall and through the living room. With one last mental reassurance, you turned the knob and opened the door.

Patrick had been practicing and planning his moves precisely. He had to shower you with compliments and be completely polite. It would let your guard down, and that's when he could strike.

The door opened, and Patrick's gaze fell on you. Even he had to admit, you were undoubtedly attractive, but it wasn't companionship he was after. It was relief.

So, putting on his best show, he opened his mouth as if he was going to speak before closing it and giving you a once over, trying his best to seem in awe of you.

"Wow," he breathed with an awkward chuckle. "You look," he let out a puff of air, motioning to you as if he couldn't find the words. "I mean- you look perfect."

He watched in satisfaction as you smiled sheepishly, gaze averting to the ground. "Thank you," you replied. You looked back up and playfully said: "And you don't look too bad yourself," in an attempt to play it cool, but Patrick could see right through you. You were falling for his charm, and how could you not?

He was a God, after all.

"So," you asked, stepping out of your apartment and shutting the door behind you. "Where are we going this fine evening?"

"Well," Patrick started, placing his hand flat on your lower back as you two walked down to the record shop on the first floor. "I know this perfect spot in the woods away from town-" You gave him a concerned look, and he chuckled lightly at your fear. "I know how it sounds, but there's a firepit me and the boys set up out there, and it has a great view of the stars because there's no light pollution out there."

You bit the inside of your cheek, and Patrick felt his pulse begin to quicken. It seemed like you were going to back out. Should he have told you? Or just let you panic when they got there?

"Okay," you nodded, turning to him with a smile as you made up your mind. "I don't love the idea of a first date in the woods, but I'm like 99% sure you're not an axe murderer or anything, so," you trailed off.

Patrick gave you a wolfish grin. Oh, if only you knew that he was a predator and you were his prey— so innocent and oblivious to the things that the night had in store for you.

The two of you walked out of the store, and Patrick read the shocked look on your face as you saw Belch's Trans Am, which was then followed by discomfort and then relief when you noticed his friends hadn't accompanied him.

"Took some convincing, but I got Belch to let me borrow Amy," Patrick said proudly as he took one long stride forward and opened the car door for you.

"He named his car?" You asked with a little giggle as you climbed into the passenger's seat. "That's cute."

"Yup, although cute isn't the word I'd use," Patrick replied before shutting the door and walking around to the driver's side.

"And what word would you use?" You asked, amusement coating your tongue and dancing in your eyes.

"Demented," he said, giving you a look as he started the car. It was ironic coming from him, and he knew it. If anyone was demented, it was the pyromaniac freak who killed animals and was tricking a girl into thinking he liked her when really he was taking her to the woods to kill her.

"That's interesting coming from someone with such a," you paused, for a moment, thinking for the right word. "Colorful reputation."

"Touché," he shrugged, pulling out of the spot he was parked in and continuing down the road to the woods. The car settled in an awkward silence as neither of you really knew what to say. Patrick knew he should ask you questions and engage with you, but to be honest, he didn't really care about what you had to say.

"Let's see what Belch has in his glove compartment," you said with a grin. Patrick's blood began to boil again. Not because you were invading Belch's privacy— he quite liked that part, actually. No one was ever allowed to look in the glove compartment. In fact, he had specifically told Patrick not to and that he would know if he did, and now Patrick could satisfy his curiosity while blaming it on his date.

No, his blood was boiling because of how casual you were. Most people would ask a stupid question to fill the silence or just sit in it, but you found a way to light heartedly and nonchalantly attempt to start a conversation. It was Infuriating to him how different you were.

Patrick considered himself an expert on human behavior. After all, it was his world, and everyone else were pawns, so growing up, he had to learn about people. He had to pick up on their little habits and understand why people did certain things so he could manipulate them and use them as playthings.

But you were different, and that's what infuriated him so much. You were still plenty easy to manipulate, but you had little quirks and ways of doing things that he'd picked up on that went against his understanding of the human condition.

You were defective, and that's why he had to get rid of you. You weren't normal. You weren't a plaything or a pawn.

You were a threat.

Patrick glanced over at you, watching for a moment as you rummaged through the glove compartment.

"Eyes on the road, pretty boy," you said absent-mindedly. "I don't plan to die tonight, and especially not at the hands of you." This made him internally smile. That was the second reference you'd made tonight of him hurting you and each time you had been wrong. You were going to die tonight— a very painful death— and the blood would be on his hands.

"He has got a lot of tapes in here," you observed aloud, pushing things around a bit more before a gasp left your lips. Patrick looked over again as you pulled out a pink piece of paper with a red lipstick stain in the shape of lips and a message in a hot pink sparkly pen that read: I really enjoyed tonight. We should do it again sometime =).

"No fucking way," Patrick said in shock, a laugh leaving his lips as he registered what he was seeing. "I can't believe that fat fuck actually gets bitches."

"Hey," you scolded, smacking him lightly on the arm. "Don't be mean," you defended. "I think it's really sweet, and clearly, he knew you'd be an ass about it," you rolled your eyes. "He really tried to hide it in there."

Patrick turned the car into a little dirt road and parked. He knew no one would be out there that late, so the car wouldn't be seen. "Here we are," he announced before climbing out and making his way to the passenger's side to open your door.

"Don't take this the wrong way," you started as you got out of the car. "But I did not expect you to be such a gentleman." Your eyes followed Patrick as he grabbed a blanket out of the backseat and tucked it underneath his right arm before approaching you.

"Well," he said, linking your arm in his left one. "I don't usually care what people think," he confessed, one of the few true things he'd actually said to you, but of course, he was about to follow it up with a lie. "But with you, it's different." He looked over at you, only to find you staring. If he wasn't making an attempt at faking vulnerability right now, he would have smirked at how enamored you were by his words.

"And why is that?" You asked quietly, hypnotized by the way the darkness created shadows on his face that seemed to define it so well. Almost as if the darkness suited him better, which was odd considering usually the light was more well-defining to people.

"You're unlike anyone I've ever met, and I don't want to scare you away," he professed, his voice seeming genuinely sincere, but obviously, that wasn't the case.

"That's quite possibly the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me," you said sheepishly, a soft smile falling upon your lips. You both walked in silence for a moment, the cruching of leaves and the chirping of crickets ringing through the vast area. "Wow," you breathed out, eyes glued to the sky. "You were right. The stars look amazing out here."

"Told you," Patrick grinned before unlocking your arms and advancing forward. You two had reached a clearing, and he was approaching the firepit in the middle. Surrounding the firepit, which was clearly homemade as the stones surrounding it were just stacked on top of each other haphazardly, were various random chairs and a long bench that looked surprisingly comfortable.

"This place looks cozy," you said, eyes sweeping over the area. A chill ran down your spine as a breeze blew through the clearing. The air seemed to grow thick, and something in your gut told you to run— leave now and never look back.

You would soon wish you listened to that feeling.

Instead, you walked forward, taking a seat on the bench as Patrick doused the wood inside the firepit with lighter fluid before grabbing a lighter from his pocket and setting it ablaze.

A wave of warmth fell over you as the clearing lit up gold. Patrick straightened up and came to sit beside you on the bench. You were so focused on examining your surroundings that you didn't notice Patrick carefully grab the knife that he'd hidden inside the folded blanket and tuck it under his leg before unfolding the blanket and placing it across you both.

"So," you grinned, finally looking over at him. "Do you bring all your conquests here?"

"Just the hot ones," he smirked. You rolled your eyes, laughing at his remark. "No, but seriously," he let his smirk fall into a soft smile. "You're the only one."

You looked into his eyes and couldn't sense any deception. God, those beautiful eyes. You didn't didn't think they were capable of telling a lie.

They say eyes are the windows to the soul, but Patrick didn't have a soul, so his eyes were more like mirrors, reflections of what he knew people wanted to see when they sought out answers to questions that were better left unsaid.

You stared at each other, the air growing thick with tension as the urge to kiss him overwhelmed you. Your faces slowly inched closer together. "Patrick," you whispered, a wanting evident in your voice.

He reached up to cup your face with his right hand as his left carefully, discretely retrieved the knife from under his leg. He moved his face in, and you were sure he was going to kiss you.

But instead, he moved to the right, his mouth next to your ear as he plunged the knife he had deep into your stomach. You let out a choked cry of surprise and pain as your mind raced with a million thoughts at once, all of them so loud that you couldn't think rationally at all.

"Aw, Y/N," Patrick said darkly, feigning disappointment as he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. "I told you that you should've been afraid of me."

He pulled away, twisting the knife to create irreparable damage before pulling it out. He watched as you cried out in pain, hand clutching your stomach in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

"But you were too pathetic," he spat. He ran the bloodied knife across your cheek, slicing it open before pushing a strand of hair away from your face. "Just a desperate little whore."

"Why?" You sobbed, tears streaming down your face from the burning pain. Blood began pouring out of your mouth due to the damage to your internal organs, and you knew you were going to die.

"Because I wanted to," he replied with a crazed grin, his tone of voice indicating that he believed it was the most obvious thing in the world. You had never been more fearful than you were now. Not just because you were dying, bleeding out in front of a boy you thought liked you, but because of the look in Patrick's eyes.

They were devoid of any emotion, as if killing someone didn't matter to him at all. You would have even preferred for him to look like he enjoyed it; that's how disturbing his absence of emotion was to you.

Patrick sat there and watched as you bled out before him. The glossed over, far away look in your eyes made his whole body ignite. It just felt so good.

Finally, the itching was gone, and he could live in peace for a little while more. He sat on the bench beside your lifeless body for awhile more, relishing in the feeling of freedom; it had been so long since he had felt that. When he was fully satisfied, he began cleaning up. He threw the blanket in the still burning fire before running back to Belch's car to grab the shovel he'd brought.

Sweat clung to him, sticking his shirt to his chest as he dug the hole where your body would lie. It seemed to take hours, and the feeling of sweating but also being cold was very unpleasant, but finally, he got the hole dug.

He threw the bloody knife inside and grabbed your body, picking you up bridal style and hauling you over to the hole. He dropped your corpse carelessly into your makeshift grave and didn't give you a second thought before he began shoveling the dirt back into the hole.

When he was finished, he walked back to the Trans Am, wrapping the dirty shovel in the other blanket he had brought so no dirt would get into the trunk of Belch's car. And, no one would question dirt in the driver's seat of a teen boy's car, so he wasn't overly worried about his dirtied hands and jeans.

For weeks, Patrick felt amazing. It was the longest Patrick had ever gone without feeling the compulsion to kill. Of course, he still tortured small animals, but that was for fun rather than necessity.

But then he started to see you.

At first, it was just glimpses. Like, when he was brushing his teeth, he'd lean down to spit out his toothpaste, but when he straightened himself out, there you were— standing beside him, blood staining your clothes and the cut on your cheek that he had gave you still fresh. But then, once he blinked, your figure was gone.

He would see you around like that sometimes, not frequent enough to cause concern that he was gaining a conscience. Just enough for him to think he was suffering from a bit of sleep deprivation.

He wasn't worried about being caught. The police hadn't found your body, and when he was questioned as to what happened that night on your date, he said that the two of you had planned to go out to the woods, but on the way there, you two got into an argument because you had been snooping through Belch's things and you got so furious that you demanded to be let out of the car right then and there. Belch, of course, backed this story up because he could tell someone had disturbed his glove compartment.

Soon enough, however, you began to haunt his dreams as well. He would have terrible nightmares of you coming back from the dead and murdering him in cold blood, just as he had done to you, and then, when he awoke, you were standing in the corner of his room.

It wasn't just his brain making shapes out of things to scare him. It was you. He could see clear as day; the moonlight illuminated your face, your once innocent and naive eyes now staring at him with hate and malice.

Patrick Hockstetter didn't believe in ghosts, but he believed in you.

"Dude, what's your fuckin deal?" Henry asked, snapping Patrick out of his thoughts. Patrick looked over at Henry from his spot, splayed out on the hood of Belch's car, which he had objected to until Patrick threatened him. The four boys were hanging around at the quarry, drinking beer as music blasted through Amy.

"What?" Patrick questioned, hostility lacing his voice. Who did Henry think he is speaking to him like that?

"You're not even listening, man," Henry complained, attempting to throw a crumpled up beer can at him but missing.

"Maybe because you fuckers don't have anything interesting to say," Patrick shrugged, looking to his left at the water and tuning their conversation out again.

You had been on his mind non-stop. All he could think about was your eyes. They were so real. That look of hate— he had seen it before in his mother and father after he killed his little brother Avery. He couldn't have imagined that so vividly.

"Do I scare you?" A familiar voice asked, voice a mere whisper as a breeze tickled his ear. He quickly turned and saw you. You were sitting right next to him on the hood of Belch's car, and this time, he was sure he wasn't imagining it. You were there in broad daylight. He had heard you. He had felt your breath across his ear.

But how was this even possible.

"What the fuck!" He shouted, genuine fear in his voice. He felt something he had never felt before as he tried to shuffle away from you, but there was nowhere left to go, so he ended up falling off the car and onto the ground.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, man?" Victor asked, his eyebrows furrowing in pure confusion as he registered the panic and fear— he had never seen Patrick exhibit such emotions, and he could tell by the look in Patrick's eye that they were not fake.

Patrick couldn't hear Vic over the sound of your laugh. It was so loud, deafening even, and it made his ears ring. You hopped off the car and walked toward him slowly with a sickening grin.

"Why are you doing this to me?" He asked, scrambling backward, pebbles and rocks digging into his palms as he tried to escape you.

"Because," she stepped forward, leaning down and grabbing his faded yellow Tom and Jerry t-shirt by the collar. He felt her grab him. It was all real. "I can," she spat viciously. And just as quickly as she appeared, she was gone.

"Are you alright, man?" Belch asked, genuine concern lacing his voice as his brows knitted together. Why had his friend been acting so strange?

"I-I need to get out of here," Patrick spoke quickly as he rushed to his feet, dusting off his clothes and looking around frantically.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Henry cackled, taking a long sip of his beer. Patrick gave him a hard, warning glare that confused Henry. What did he do?

Patrick took off running into the forest, driven by a pure, unbridled fear as he tried to escape you, but the faster he ran, the louder your laugh became. It echoed all around him. It was everywhere and nowhere all at once. He clamped his hands over his ears and screwed his eyes shut.

It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.

And then, just like that, it stopped. He slowly opened his eyes and removed his hands from his ears, peering around the woods. He heaved a sigh of relief as he realized it was over.

It wasn't real.

You weren't real.

He took his time walking back home, stopping and tormenting a few animals on his way to relieve some of the stress that had built up from the games his mind had played on him.

By the time he arrived home, the sun had long disappeared below the horizon, replaced by the luminous glow of the full moon. He pushed the front door open, kicking his muddy boots off by the front door before shrugging his leather jacket off and tossing it onto the floor.

"Ma!" He called into the oddly silent house. He advanced forward, his eyebrow arching as he didn't get a response. "Ma, I'm home!" He tried again, still no answer. He continued through the house into the kitchen, hoping to find something to eat.

As his eyes scanned the kitchen, a tiny post-it note stuck to the fridge caught his attention. He took two long strides and ended up in front of it. Grabbing it off the fridge, his eyes scanned it.

Gone to see your father. Be back in a few days. I left some lasagna in the fridge for you to heat up and some money on the table for pizza or something in case you eat all of it.

Love, Mom

Patrick scoffed, crumpling the post-it into a ball and tossing it into the trash. Patrick's father was arrested for attempted murder when Patrick was young.

After Patrick killed his brother Avery, his father went mad and tried to kill Patrick. He claimed that Patrick was evil, and the world needed to be rid of him. Fortunately for Patrick, his mother still loved him (he had no idea why she still did after what he had done), and she called the police.

The paramedics arrived in time, and Patrick was saved. Though the attack did leave a raised scar on his stomach that never went away.

Patrick pulled a plate out of the top cupboard and a fork out of the drawer before opening up the fridge. He grabbed a can of Coke and the large glass dish with lasagna out. Deciding he didn't feel like waiting for it to heat up, he just used his fork to pick the pre-portioned slice of lasagna out of the dish and drop it onto his plate before sliding the rest back into the fridge for later.

Grabbing his beverage and dinner, he began making his way up the creaky steps that led to the second floor.

The carpet that had previously adorned it had been ripped up when his mom was having one of her overly energized and productive moments, so staples and other sharp objects stuck up from the dirty wood. He was careful to avoid them.

He reached the door at the end of the hall with a yellow sign that read DO NOT ENTER and swung the door open.

"Finally," a voice sounded, causing him to drop both his can and his plate. The sharp sound of glass breaking followed by a loud thud echoed through the room as the plate and soda can collided with the floor.

"No, no, no," Patrick shook his head, shutting his eyes. "This isn't real. I killed you. You're not here. You're not real."

"Sorry, babe," the voice, your voice, whispered into his ear. Your warm breath fanned his ear, and he felt his whole body tense. "I'm very much real."