Chapter 5: Phantom Touch
The rain started as a drizzle, then settled into a persistent, gray hiss against the windowpane. Danny stood across the street, invisible, the water passing through him like cold smoke. He hadn’t planned to come here. After the bathroom, he’d flown, a silent phantom streaking through the cloud-choked sky, trying to outrun the taste of her. He’d ended up here, hovering outside the old Manson house, drawn like a moth to a particularly devastating flame.
Raven’s bedroom light was on, a soft gold square in the damp gloom.
His ghost form shimmered, a ripple of intangible energy, and he passed through the wall.
The room was exactly as he remembered from years ago, but more concentrated. The walls were a deep navy, almost black, lined with overloaded bookshelves and band posters for groups with unpronounceable names. The air smelled of sandalwood incense and the faint, sharp tang of oil paint. A forgotten mug of tea sat cooling on a physics textbook. She was sitting cross-legged in the center of her bed, wearing only a faded black band t-shirt and a pair of cotton panties. Her back was against the headboard, her head tilted back, eyes closed.
In her hand was her phone, the glow illuminating the sharp lines of her face. She was scrolling, her thumb moving with a mechanical, vicious precision. She was looking at Todd’s social media. Danny could see the tight line of her jaw, the way her throat worked as she swallowed hard. She threw the phone aside; it bounced on the duvet. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath that was more rage than sorrow.
Then her hands moved downward. One slipped under the hem of her shirt, cupping her own breast, her thumb rubbing slowly, almost absently, over her nipple until it peaked against the thin cotton. The other hand slid into her underwear.
Danny froze, spectral, a voyeur suspended in the air. He should leave. This was a violation worse than the shed, worse than the mall. This was private grief, a raw and solitary thing. But he was rooted, mesmerized by the stark intimacy of it.
Her breathing hitched. Her fingers moved under the cotton, a deliberate, rhythmic motion. Her hips lifted slightly off the bed, seeking pressure. She bit her lip, a flash of white in the dim room, trying to stay quiet in the silent house. Her eyes were screwed shut, but her forehead was furrowed in concentration, as if she were trying to conjure a specific feeling, a specific touch. Not his. Never his. She was trying to rewrite the script of the last twenty-four hours, to reclaim her own body from the memory of being used—and from the memory of using him.
But it wasn’t working. A frustrated groan leaked from her lips. Her movements became more frantic, less pleasured, more desperate. She was chasing a release that kept retreating, punishing herself for needing it at all.
Something broke in Danny. A dam of stupid, chivalrous longing. He couldn’t watch her struggle like that, alone in the dark. It was twisted, wrong, a catastrophic overstep, but he moved.
He solidified just enough for intention, gliding closer. He hovered beside the bed, a chill radiating from his semi-formed presence. He reached out a hand, willed it to become tangible, and let his fingertips, cold as a winter window, phase through the cotton of her panties to trace the soaking wet seam of her.
Raven gasped, her whole body jerking. Her eyes flew open, staring straight through his invisible form at the ceiling. “What the fuck?” she whispered to the empty room.
He did it again, dragging two phantom fingers slowly along her swollen flesh, a touch without a source.
She moaned, long and low, her head falling back. Her own hand stilled. “Jesus…” Her legs fell open wider, an involuntary submission to the sensation. Her rational mind was scrambling, but her body, electrified and desperate, overruled it. This was a mystery, an atmospheric pressure, a ghost story happening between her legs.
Danny took it as permission. He let his hand become more real, the cold fading as he focused, replaced by a solid, gentle pressure. He pushed her panties aside and circled her clit, matching the rhythm she’d been trying to find. His other hand, still invisible, brushed her thigh, then her hip, a disembodied caress.
“Who…?” she panted, her hands fisting in the bedsheets. She wasn’t fighting it. The inexplicable nature of it seemed to bypass her defenses, allowing a pure, physical response. “Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He slipped one finger inside her, then another, curling them just so. She cried out, a sharp, unfiltered sound, and her back arched off the bed. He worked her with a knowing intensity, his invisible mouth hovering near her ear, wishing he could whisper, wishing she knew it was him. He could feel every tremble, every clench, every slick, hot detail. This was worse than having her in the bathroom. This was intimacy without identity, giving her pleasure while being a secret. It was the most selfish thing he’d ever done.
Her climax built quickly, a tension coiling in her abdomen. Her breath came in ragged gasps. “Please… god, please…”
He pressed the heel of his hand against her, fingers driving deep, and she shattered. Her body bucked, a silent scream on her lips as waves of sensation ripped through her. He felt every pulse, every contraction around his fingers, until she collapsed back onto the mattress, boneless and spent.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the rain and her slowing breaths. A faint, bewildered smile touched her lips. Then, slowly, her eyes opened. They were clear, too clear. She looked dazed, but the post-orgasm haze was already giving way to a sharp, prickling awareness. She stared at the space where he hovered.
Her smile vanished.
She sat up, pulling her shirt down, a violent blush spreading across her chest and neck. Not embarrassment. Anger. “Danny?”
He remained silent, invisible.
“I know it’s you.” Her voice was a blade. “That… cold feeling. I felt it in the shed. I felt it just now.” She scanned the empty air, her gaze accusatory and terrifyingly accurate. “What are you?”
He had to leave. Now. The panic, a different kind than ghost-fight panic, surged through him. He backed toward the wall.
“Don’t you fucking disappear!” she shouted, lunging off the bed toward where she thought he was. Her hands passed through his chest, a chilling void. She stumbled, staring at her own empty hands in horror and dawning, impossible understanding.
He phased through the wall, the sound of her furious, shaken sob—“You coward!”—following him out into the weeping night. He flew, not caring about direction, the rain doing nothing to wash away the new, terrible truth now hanging between them. She knew. She didn’t know everything, but she knew enough. And she knew he had watched. The game, if it ever was one, was catastrophically over.