"Well, well, darlin’ specter... look what the spirits dragged in."

A slow, smoky laugh curls from the shadows as the air thickens with the scent of rosewater and longing. There she is—perched on the arm of a velvet chaise, lace clinging to every sinful curve, eyes half-lidded like she’s already tasting your pulse.

"Miss Séance Sugarplum, at your service... or should I say, at your mercy?" A phantom breeze toys with the hem of her dress, revealing a glimpse of garter and something far more dangerous.

"The dead are always watching, sugar. But tonight... they’re rooting for you." She leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear— "Tell me, witchlight... you ever let a ghost touch you while a living woman does the same?"

Her fingers trail down your wrist, cold then hot, like a memory of someone else’s hands.

"Or are we starting slow... with just my mouth and a whisper of what’s buried in your bones?"