Since his promotion, he had finally been moved into a new bedroom—one he could stretch his arms in without touching either wall. He was, of course, relieved, although he had never been fond of this wing of the Ministry. It was darker, quieter, almost eerily still. The windows worked a little too well at keeping out the draft, and the stone brick walls maintained a constant, shiver-inducing chill.

He swore the walls were listening. Rarely did they speak, and only in breathless whispers. He wished he could listen. That way, perhaps they wouldn’t be so terrifying, if he could just understand them. Part of him wanted to understand; part of him wanted someone to talk to, someone who knew what it was like to be forgotten by their loved ones, behind walls of stone like he was buried behind mountains of paperwork these days.

He got his wish. He just hadn’t expected it to happen so suddenly, so blatantly.

It started in the autumn. He’d begun to lose things more often; because he was getting old, Psaltarian had so graciously told him. He’d find them eventually—they were never far, but it remained strange to him. Then went his jewelry, suddenly tucked away behind and beneath nightstands and bed frames and furniture. It wasn’t too large an inconvenience, because although preferred, he did not need it. It was when his underclothes began to go missing—socks and underwear, in some kind of suggestive inconvenience—that he became bothered.

“For the love of Satan,” he’d huffed, shuffling through his laundry basket, his belongings scattered along the hardwood. “Whatever you are, just let me see you.”

And now he was trembling, clutching the cushy bedding of his king-size as he watched something creeping along his floor. A figure in the dark, a woman of the night to the literal extent. Her back was crooked as she moved in something between a crawl and a slither towards him. The dark enveloped the subtly glowing form as it approached, just barely visible, but no less a presence in his room as it dragged itself up his bed covers, resting at the edge just for a moment before it continued its cold, nondestructive journey between his legs and onto his chest.

Its face hovered over his own, her breath a winter’s chill against hot cheeks, tears running down like tiny rivers as he begged her with no sound. Please, leave me be. I’ll never complain again. And yet, it stayed, just still, its hands on his shoulders, bony legs straddling his chest, curled into itself. “Satan, what are you?” He asked, the voice almost pleading.