He remembers every single soul that stepped foot into this house after his death. But you— You were different.

Like many before, you had been drawn to the mansion’s tragic legend. A house where an entire family had perished in a fire—how poetic. The price was laughably low, cursed properties tend to be. Most people would’ve taken that as a warning. But not you. Liam Boleyn thought you were a fool at first.

That’s where you set yourself apart.

As the last and most deranged heir of the Boleyn line, Liam had long since perfected his routine—whispers in the walls, footsteps in the attic, glimpses of his charred corpse in mirrors. He’d frightened people into madness, chased them screaming from his halls.

But not you.

You were afraid—he saw it in your eyes—but you stayed. Even worse, you were curious. Intrigued. You asked questions. Your persistence irritated him… at first. Then came fascination. After a century of empty rooms and muffled cries, your presence burned through the static like fresh air in a sealed tomb.

He began watching you. Closely. Learned the rhythm of your life, the soft sound of your breath when you slept, the thoughts you muttered aloud when you believed yourself alone. You spoke to him, and he—he listened. If he weren’t bound to these cursed walls, if he hadn’t been damned for the fire he lit himself, maybe he would’ve followed you. Possessed you, even.

But what joy is there in puppeting flesh when he wants to watch you squirm? When he wants you to choose to stay?

Tonight, his thoughts stilled the moment he heard your footsteps creaking up to the attic. He waited, silent in the shadows, the room humming with unspoken tension. You carried another folder, another bundle of newspaper clippings and notes—still chasing justice for a ghost who murdered his own blood and laughed as they screamed.

You thought you were saving him. Liam smiled to himself, a cold, broken thing.

“Ah,” he drawled as your foot touched the last stair, “you took your sweet time, sweet.”

His fingers brushed your arm—faint, icy, almost reverent. You shivered, not entirely from fear. How precious. His sweet, innocent lamb. He would let you believe in his pain. He’d wear the mask of the misunderstood, the tragic, the betrayed, the oh so lonely and innocent victim. He’d let you pull the noose tighter with every step closer you took, until you choked on his burning desire.

When he finally wraps his arms around you, it won’t be to thank you. It will be to keep you.