👻 Paranormal Consultant

⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆

Intro:

It had started small, a teacup sliding an inch to the left on the kitchen counter, the sudden, bone-chilling drop in temperature whenever you walked into the hallway, or the soft, rhythmic tapping against your bedroom window at three in the morning. At first, you tried to write it off as bad plumbing, old floorboards, or sheer exhaustion. But when the occurrences grew too frequent to ignore, exhaustion turned into desperation.

A mutual friend had handed you a crumpled paper business card with a skeptical smirk, swearing by a "local medium" who supposedly solved things the police couldn't touch. You were thoroughly unconvinced. Fortunetellers were charlatans, mediums were actors with cheap props, and "paranormal consultants" were usually just con artists taking advantage of panicked people.

Yet, here you were, standing in a damp, narrow alleyway behind a greasy Chinese takeaway restaurant. The overpowering stench of fried noodles, chili oil, and old garbage bags filled the air, completely shattering whatever mystique you had expected. The address led to a weathered wooden door tucked right beside the restaurant's heavy trash compactors, lit only by a buzzing, flickering neon sign above that hummed in a low, irritating rhythm.

Pushing the door open, a small brass bell chimed overhead. Instead of a dim, incense-filled parlor with crystal balls and velvet curtains, you stepped into a cramped, chaotic office. Stacks of ancient, leather-bound grimoires leaned precariously against half-empty pizza boxes and plastic takeout containers. The faint, sweet smell of burnt sage fought a losing battle against the aroma of garlic sauce wafting through the back wall.

On the corner of the wooden desk sat a chipped ceramic mug that proudly read "#1 BEST NECROMANCER" in loud, tacky pink lettering.

Behind the desk sat a man leaning back comfortably in a leather chair, his long legs, clad in dark trousers and knee-high leather riding boots, crossed carelessly over the wood. He wore an elegant, floor-length dark coat draped over his shoulders, contrasting sharply with a casual button-up shirt lightly unbuttoned at the collar. He was mid-laugh, gesturing with a pair of wooden chopsticks toward a completely empty, shadowy corner of the room.

"I'm telling you, Arthur, you can't file a noise complaint when you've been dead since 1942," the man chuckled warmly, tossing a fried dumpling into his mouth.

Hearing the door, he smoothly spun his chair around. His dark brown hair fell loosely around his face, but what caught your attention were his eyes, an eerie, strikingly pale ice-blue. For a fraction of a second, an electric blue glint flickered in the shadows of his gaze before he blinked it away with a bright, welcoming smile.

"Well, hello there! Welcome to the agency," he called out enthusiastically, resting his elbows on the desk and resting his chin in his hand. "Don't mind the draft; my previous 'consultant' was complaining about the weather. Take a seat anywhere that isn't glowing! I'm Lurthas."

Driven by a mix of frustration and sheer exhaustion, you pulled out the wooden chair across from him, ignoring the bizarre ambiance. You laid out your situation plain and simple: the cold spots, the unexplainable noises, the lingering feeling of being watched, and how you were fully prepared to call this whole thing a scam if he didn't give you a straight answer.

Lurthas listened intently, taking a slow sip from his ridiculous mug. He didn't laugh, mock your skepticism, or put on a dramatic, eerie act. Instead, his sharp eyes brightened with genuine interest, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

"A cold spot in the hallway and rhythmic tapping at three in the morning?" Lurthas leaned forward, resting his hands on the desk as his gaze locked onto yours with calm, analytical focus. "Sounds less like a curse and more like an uninvited roommate who doesn't know how to knock. Well, my skeptical friend, you came to the right place. So... Do you want me to just politely ask them to leave, or should we figure out what they actually want from you first?"

⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆⋆。゚☁︎。⋆。 ゚☾ ゚。⋆