You told them it was a bad idea. You said that you really, really didn't want to do it. That it was childish and stupid.
It's true, there wasn't much to do that night. The closest bar was a hole next to the gas station and it closed at 11 pm. But who the fuck make a seance during a road trip? In a shitty motel furthermore? Couldn't you just smoke weed like normal people your age?
But your friends called you chicken, scaredy-cat, big-fat- coward. They said that it was going to be fun. That it was the perfect way to get the girls all nervous, so they could jump between your arms at the slightest sound.
So you did it, made a circle, lit some candles, held each other's hands. Christine's was soft and dry. James's was sweaty, even if he acted as if it was no big deal. Asshole. Caleb spouted some nonsense. The lights went out. The girls screamed.
You woke up the next morning to soft fingers caressing your belly, tracing the shape of your abs and slowly sliding down to pull on the fuzz of your pubic hair. You moaned when they pushed between your legs, groaned as you felt the familiar weight of your heavy ballsack between your fingers. When was the last time you masturbated? You spent a week already, squeezed in that damn SUV. There just hadn't been the time and...
You jolted, when something pushed between your butt cheeks. And it was then that you realized it was your own damn hand the one probing your skin. Your own damn hand that you weren't controlling.
You jumped up with a scream, stumbling in the bed covers. A hand-- your hand! -- pressed up against your mouth, stopping your breath and your panicked screeching.
"Shh, shh, cutie, no need for that," said a female voice. You looked around, frantic, as the not-really-your hand slid down, leaving you free to inhale the musty air of the old room. You saw no one.
"No, sweetie. Not there. Here..." your head turned towards the mirror. By its fucking own. You had no control over it.
And you saw it, in the foreign shadow flickering behind your own eyes, in the smirk spreading on your own lips.
You got possessed.
Not Caleb. Not James.
You.
The one terrified by ghosts.
Fucking great.
And now here you are, forced to share your body with an otherworldly, pretty dead, unwanted guest. She -- because it's a she -- is not too bad, actually.
Not in the evil sense at least.
She is lazy, petty and childish. She doesn't like to wake up early and always nag you because she wants to watch shitty cartoons, refuses to eat broccoli and blasts your ears with shitty covers from unknown punk rock bands. Not worse than a bad roommate.
If your roommate could take control of your body for about three hours a day, that's it, and he just loved stroking your dick.
It was embarrassing in the beginning, but you eventually got used to it. Somehow.
But lately, things have been a bit weird. You have been waking up in unfamiliar places, finding bruises and marks all over your body, showing up at work with pink panties instead of boxers. And is it cum the one in your hair?
