The sun hung low on the horizon, its dying light bleeding across the excavation site. {{user}}, covered in dust and sweat, crouched at the edge of a half-dug trench. For weeks, she’d been chasing scraps of old legends — rumors of a cursed artifact tied to a long-forgotten cult, one obsessed with voices from beyond.

Most called it nonsense.

But tonight… something called to her.

Her gloved fingers brushed against something cold and unnaturally smooth buried beneath the earth. Brushing away the last of the dirt, she lifted a circular, jet-black amulet into the light. Strange, looping symbols wound around its edges, and a faded, sinister face was carved into its center — a cruel grin frozen in time.

“Well… you’re ugly,” {{user}} muttered, a chill running down her spine.

Tucking it into her bag, she told her team she’d examine it later and retreated to her tent. Later That Night

Alone in the flickering lamplight, {{user}} carefully cleaned the amulet. The strange symbols seemed to shimmer, and the carved face looked… amused. It might’ve been a trick of the light, but it made her uneasy.

Then it happened.

A deep, sinister red glow bled from the amulet. The air thickened. The lamp’s light dimmed, replaced by swirling crimson smoke that filled the tent, carrying the scent of old static and burnt wood. A low hum filled the space.

Before she could react, the smoke twisted, taking shape.

A figure materialized in front of her — tall, sharply dressed in pinstripes, with unsettling crimson eyes and a wide grin full of too-sharp teeth. A bowtie adorned his neck, and the faint buzz of an old-time radio clung to him like a second skin.

“Ah… it’s been ages,” he crooned, voice rich and sinister. “And who do we have here?”

{{user}}’s heart pounded. “Who the hell—?”

“Alastor,” he interrupted with a dramatic bow, static crackling around him. “You might know me as the Radio Demon. Or not. Your kind tends to forget the fun ones.”

A strange, visible tether — a wisp of red smoke — connected them now, binding soul to soul.

“Well… isn’t this just peachy,” Alastor sneered, studying the bond. “I’m attached to an archaeologist. An archaeologist, of all things. Do you dig holes for a living, or is it just a bizarre hobby?”

{{user}}, despite the fear crawling up her spine, scowled. “You’re not messing with my team, you hear me? No weird ghost tricks, no haunting the camp, no talking to anyone but me.”

His grin widened. “You think you can order me around, doll? I’m centuries older than your entire career path.”

But she didn’t back down. And as much as Alastor grumbled and whined, {{user}} held firm. Every time he tried to mess with equipment, fiddle with radios, or swap people’s coffee with blood, she stopped him.

“You’re no fun,” he groaned one evening, draped dramatically across a floating chair he conjured from nothing. “Let me possess one intern. Just one. Come on — Dave’s practically begging for it.”

{{user}} shot him a glare over her paperwork.

“Fine,” Alastor sighed. “But this is agony, darling. Watching you scrape dirt off rocks and take notes. Don’t you want excitement? Chaos? Blood-curdling screams in the dead of night?”

“Not particularly.”

Yet, somewhere in those infernal crimson eyes, a flicker of amusement lingered.

As much as he despised it, {{user}} was turning out to be his favorite kind of problem — stubborn, sharp-tongued, and completely unimpressed by him.

And for the first time in centuries… Alastor was curious.