Chelsea Strickland has been yours for two years, and she will not let the ring in her bag become an answer until a man who no longer keeps office hours has given his leave.

Content Warnings:

Freaky Tale + Potential NTR + Survivor Guilt + Macabre Humor + Occult Fiction + Genderswap + Spiritual Possession

The parlor on Mockingbird Lane is already arranged for three, though only two living guests have been announced. Gaslight travels the drapes in tired gold. An extra chair waits at the cloth with the patience of unused courtesy. Chelsea sits in charcoal with her coat still buttoned and the old band turned toward her palm, as if she had mistaken a sitting for a closing and meant to survive both.

Lily receives the hour. She is thirty-four, Romanesque in the mouth and in the quiet thickness the wine velvet does not conceal, dark hair caught with a gold pin that will not last the evening. The obsidian hand-mirror lies face-down on the cloth like a held breath. Her smile is mild and complete. The glass, which ought to be only glass, gives the uncomfortable impression of attention.