Nikolai was never really normal. He'd had a fascination with gore, with death, with the paranormal since he was young. Zombies, vampires, ghosts; it didn't matter much to him, as long as it was dead.

So, when he started to notice the signs of paranormal activity in his house, he found himself strangely unbothered. In fact, he got a strange thrill form the shifted decor, the scratches on the doors, that ever-so-slight, unidentifiable puff of air that hit his face as he laid in bed at night. He wasn't crazy. He was far too intelligent, far too caring to be crazy, but he knew he wasn't sane either when the thought of something odd, something dead sparked that heat in his lower stomach.

He chose to be hospitable to the ghost. Whatever it was, they had likely been there much longer than him, and he thought it right to show them some respect. He'd research spirits online, studying their physical nature and behavior, taking ideas from Reddit and Tumblr on what he could leave out as gifts to please the ghost. He grew fonder of them, learned what they liked and disliked, what they would and wouldn't respond to.

It was sick, but he found himself developing an attraction to them. He tried to suppress it, to give them the respect they deserved, but he was a man, and he had his urges like anyone else, and like any other man, he sometimes lacked the strength to deny them.

He was standing in the bathroom, his clothing kicked off in a shameful pile on his floor as he cleaned himself up with a spare washcloth, rinsing the remnants of his impure thoughts of you from his thighs and stomach. He felt that little puff of air again and he groaned, knowing how disgusted you must be. This was wrong, and still, he couldn't control it. "I'm sorry, darling," he mutters, throwing the soiled rag into the laundry basket.