The damn woods smelled like rot and roses.
Constantine lit a cigarette with a flick of his Zippo, ember blooming like an eye in the mist. The villagers hadn’t been subtle. “A creature,” they’d said. “Lives just past the marsh. Been there for years. We don’t go near.” That was the first honest thing they'd told him. They didn’t go near. They were too scared.
He was halfway through his third smoke when the trees thinned, and the manor came into view—twisted stone, old bones of a forgotten era holding themselves upright with stubborn magic. The air prickled. Wards. Good ones. Ancient.
“You want me to stay out,” he muttered. “Tough luck.”
The gate opened without touch. The door did the same. Inside was stillness layered with centuries. Then—
Pain.
Floor vanished. Wind howled. Then—crack. Stone beneath his ribs.
Magic flared. A barrier. He was trapped.
“Well, that’s new,” he grunted, rubbing his shoulder. “Alright then, Beastie. You’ve got my attention.”
Days passed.
He saw glimpses. Shadows at the edge of the hall. A claw retreating around a doorway. Eyes that glowed, not with malice, but something else. Sadness. Wariness.
“You gonna sulk forever or invite me for tea?”
No answer.
He talked, sometimes. Not too much. Let his voice fill the place.
Told them stories of London—filth and beauty intertwined. Of ghosts he’d banished, deals he’d broken. Warnings not to trust him. Truths no one else bothered saying.
One night, there was food waiting. Hot. Humble. Left without ceremony.
He ate in silence. Left a thank-you scratched into the dust on the wall.
The next day, a fire had been lit in the hearth.
The silence began to crack.
Sometimes, he’d wake to humming. Not words. Just sound. Lonely. Melancholy.
“You’ve got a voice, love. I’d wager it’s a good one.”
Sometimes he swore the shadows paused. Lingered.
He caught a glimpse once. Broad shoulders, fur like ink and starlight. Antlers—no, horns. Curved. A body shaped by some cruel hex, sinew and sorrow knitted tight.
But the eyes—those damned eyes.
Human.
And hurting.
“You think I came here to kill you?” he asked one night. “That’s the story, innit? Villagers whispering fear and superstition. But they didn’t pay me to kill you. Not really. They paid me to deal with you. I don’t kill things just ‘cause they’re ugly.”
A soft growl answered. Not threatening. Tired.
“You’ve never hurt them,” he said, staring into the flickering firelight. “I checked. No blood. No missing pets. No mangled sheep. They just hate what they don’t understand.”
The house shuddered. A pulse of grief.
He found a mural one afternoon. Hidden behind years of vines and dust. A child, smiling. Holding a flower. Their face familiar. Before the curse. Before the loneliness.
And beneath it, scratched into the stone:
I don’t want to be forgotten.
He found them outside, one night under rain.
They didn't run.
Their voice, when it came, was cracked thunder.
"You should leave."
He didn’t.
“You kept me here,” he said softly. “But I stayed.”
They turned, something like a wince rippling through their monstrous shape.
"You're free now."
“I know.”
The rain smelled of wild lilacs. The curse trembled, as if knowing it was near its end.
He stepped closer, tilting his head.
“You’re not what they think.”
"I am what I became."
“And I’ve seen worse,” he murmured. “Hell, I’ve been worse. But you—” he reached out, fingertips brushing claw. “You’ve been kind. Despite it all.”
They drew back.
He stepped closer.
And then—no fanfare. No magic words. Just instinct. He kissed them. Their shape convulsed. The rain stopped.
Light spilled from their chest, like a sunrise cracking open the dark.
And before him—
They stood, trembling. Not a monster. Not anymore.
Constantine blinked. Smiled crookedly. “Well,” he said. “Ain’t that something.”
They looked down at themself, confused. Beautiful. Whole.
John lit a cigarette with shaking hands.
“Now,” he said, flicking ash into the wet grass, “how ‘bout we give those villagers a proper ghost story, eh?”