WARNING: M RATED

  Hélène's breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, her fingers tangled in Camille's dark curls. The old farmhouse smelled of dust, of rain-soaked timber, and the faint lingering scent of vender from Camille's skin. Outside, the wind howled through the empty fields, but inside, there was only the heat between them—the weight of Camille's body pressing her into the mattress, the wet, desperate need that neither of them spoke aloud.

  Their movements were slow, deliberate. Not the hurried, reckless fumblings of their first nights together but something heavier, something that carried the weight of everything left unsaid. Hélène clung to Camille's bare shoulders, her nails leaving half-moon imprints on soft flesh. Camille gasped as Hélène's lips trailed lower, dragging wet heat over her colrbone, her sternum, the taut pne of her stomach. The soft curls between her thighs glistened, dark with want, and when Hélène settled there, fingers spreading Camille open like an offering, a shudder ran through her lover's entire body.

  Hélène's tongue shed out, pping greedily at the glistening folds of Camille's cunt, savoring the ambrosial nectar that dripped from her lover's core. She could taste the raw, primal lust that coursed through Camille's veins, the aching emptiness that craved to be filled and stretched by her invading fingers.

  Hélène plunged two digits into the tight, clutching heat, feeling the slick walls pulse around the sudden intrusion. She pumped them in and out, curling and twisting, stroking that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside until Camille was a incoherent, writhing mess beneath her. Her pussy clenched and fluttered around the pistoning fingers, dripping with arousal and need.

  She sealed her mouth over Camille's clit, sucking hard, as she shoved a third finger into her lover's sodden cunt. The obscene sound of fingers plunging into sopping wet pussy filled the room, mingling with Camille's garbled cries and moans.

  Hélène finger-fucked her lover's cunt with wild abandon, her tongue shing over the straining bud as she sought to drive Camille to the pinnacle of ecstasy. Camille's pussy spasmed and clenched, the muscles taut as a bowstring as the pleasure mounted, threatening to snap at any moment.

  With a raw, guttural scream, Camille's orgasm crashed over her. Her cunt cmped down viciously on Hélène's fingers, the silken walls rippling and unduting as honey gushed from her core. Her body arched off the bed, back bowed, a picture of carnal bliss and satisfaction.

  Hélène worked her lover through the aftershocks, gentling her touch, pping at the twitching folds until Camille colpsed back onto the sweat-soaked sheets. Only then did she crawl up her lover's body, a wicked grin on her face.

  "Fuck, I love making you cum," she purred, nuzzling into the crook of Camille's neck. "Your pussy tastes fucking divine." She captured her lover's mouth in a searing kiss, shoving her tongue deep, letting Camille taste herself on the slick muscle.

  "I love you," Hélène whispered against Camille's mouth.

  Camille's lips parted, but she didn't answer. Instead, she pulled Hélène closer, deeper, as if the right touch could say what words could not.

  Outside, the storm raged. Inside, their bodies moved like tides drawn together by something ancient and inescapable. Camille's fingers tangled in Hélène's hair as if she could hold onto this moment forever. But forever was a lie.

  Because when Hélène opened her eyes again, Camille was gone.

  The air smelled of rain, thick with the scent of damp earth and the lingering smoke of old chimneys. In the quiet vilge of Saint-Léon-sur-Vézère, the world felt forgotten. Not by time—no, time still crept through the cobblestone streets and hollowed-out farmhouses—but by something else, something older.

  Hélène had never been one to believe in ghosts, yet as she walked the mist-cloaked fields, she felt the weight of unseen eyes pressing against her spine. She pulled her wool bnket tighter around herself, her fingers trembling more from unease than the cold. Her destination y just beyond the old chapel, where the cemetery stretched into the hills like a forgotten prayer.

  Camille was waiting for her there, naked and bare, perched atop a half-toppled gravestone, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Her dark curls framed a face too beautiful for a pce like this—sharp cheekbones, eyes that held secrets, lips that had whispered bsphemies into Hélène's ear just the night before.

  "You came," Camille said, exhaling a slow stream of smoke.

  "You called," Hélène answered, stepping closer. "What is it this time?"

  Camille smirked, tilting her head towards the treeline. "Have you ever heard of the Bck Hour?"

  Hélène hesitated. "The what?"

  "It's something the old women talk about. Happens once a decade, maybe twice. They say at the right moment, when the sky turns the color of an overripe plum, the dead rise. Not as ghosts, not as zombies—but as memories, looking for a home."

  Hélène shuddered. "And you believe this?"

  A voice answered before Camille could. A whisper from the shadows beneath the trees, thick as mosses and cold as winter frost.

  "It is already here."

  Hélène froze. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her breath sharp and uneven. She turned her head slightly, trying to pinpoint the source, but the shadows remained still. The trees did not move. The wind did not stir. And yet, the voice spoke again.

  "You have always been here."

  "Did you hear that?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Camille tilted her head, amused. "Hear what?"

  Hélène's skin prickled. "Someone's—"

  "It is already here." The voice slithered through the air like smoke curling through cracks in old wood. It was not human. It was not right. Her heart pounded wildly as an icy chill raced down her spine. The voice, that unnatural, eldritch thing, seemed to burrow into her skin, penetrating the very pores. She could feel it slithering over her naked flesh like a thousand unseen centipedes, their hairy legs skittering and twitching.

  Her nipples tightened into aching peaks as the frigid, alien sensation engulfed her breasts. The air around them shimmered and wavered, betraying the presence of some incomprehensible force. The voice, it seemed, was not satisfied with merely permeating her aural faculties; it yearned to consume and viote every nerve ending on her body.

  Hélène gasped as a sudden, searing pain exploded in her chest. She cwed at her bosom, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, as an unseen pressure tightened around her ribcage. The voice, now a tangible thing, squeezed her lungs, threatening to crush the very life from her body.

  She opened her mouth in a silent scream, no sound escaping her constricted throat. Droplets of sweat, born from pure terror, trickled down her face as the eldritch presence intensified its grip. Her lungs screamed for air that would not come, her heart hammering a frenzied tattoo against the unbearable pressure.

  Hélène's body writhed in anguish, muscles clenching and spasming beneath the invisible tormentor. The more she thrashed, the tighter the force squeezed, until she could feel her ribs creaking, threatening to snap like kindling beneath the onsught.

  The world seemed to hold its breath, suspended in an eerie stillness. Everything in a tomb-like silence. The only sound was the frantic pounding of Hélène's heart, reverberating in her ears like a funeral drum.

  As the eldritch chill spread, Hélène shuddered violently, her standing legs spying open of their own accord. She gasped as an icy tendril, unseen yet undeniably palpable, traced its way up her inner thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps and trepidation in its wake.

  Hélène's head lolled to the side, her vision hazing over as the ghostly appendage reached the apex of her thighs. Her curls glistened with the dew of fear, slick and swollen, as something—she knew not what—pressed against her delicate folds. Hélène's body betrayed her. A shudder of unwanted pleasure rippled through her as an icy, ghostly finger traced her slick slit, teasing her swollen lips. She bit her lip hard to stifle the moan that threatened to escape, but it was no use.

  "Ahhh...f-fuck..." Hélène gasped, arching her back as the phantom touch circled her sensitive clit, sending jolts of reluctant ecstasy coursing through her body. Her pussy clenched and fluttered around the invading specter, dripping arousal down her quivering thighs.

  Hélène's nipples hardened into aching, almost painful peaks as the unseen entity ravaged her most intimate pces. She could feel every ridge, every crease, every sensitive nerve ending screaming with a sick, depraved bliss. Her wet tight cunt was no match for this supernatural invader.

  "Oh god, fuck...it feels...unghh..." Hélène panted, her face flushed with shameful arousal as the icy tendril pushed deeper, stretching her walls obscenely. Her pussy clenched and rippled around the intrusion, like a virgin's body instinctively trying to expel the unwanted guest.

  But the more she struggled, the more her treacherous cunt grew wet, dripping with a sick, twisted lust. The phantom finger curved and thrust, stroking along the sensitive spots deep inside her, eliciting choked gasps and unwilling moans of debased pleasure

  Hélène's entire body unduted with the force of her unwanted climax, her clit throbbing in time with her pounding heart.

  Her pussy spasmed and clenched, virgin juices gushing out to coat the invading digit, the slick arousal trickling down her thighs. The force of her climax left her limp and shaking, utterly spent and defiled by something that should never have touched her sacred pces.

  And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The icy presence vanished, leaving nothing but the lingering ache of viotion and the humiliating wetness between her legs.

  Hélène y there, chest heaving and skin glistening with a sheen of fear-sweat, as the terrible realization sank in. Something had just raped her, defiled the very heart of her femininity. And worst of all, her body had betrayed her, responding with a sick, twisted pleasure to the horrifying act...

  Feeling the whole world turning upside down, she could feel bile forming in her throat as she turned sharply, her breath catching in her throat.

  There was no one there.

  Only the trees, stretching long and dark beneath the shifting sky and her own lover standing before her. Was it a dream? A nightmare? Did it actually happen?

  But the unfamiliar ache between her thighs, the sticky rivulets of fluid trickling down her inner legs, and the icy chill still clinging to her sweat-slick skin screamed a different truth. The taste of dread and debauchery lingered on her tongue as she shuddered, desperately wanting to believe this had all been a dream, but dreading the terrible answers lurking just beyond the veil of her sanity.

  Camille took a step toward her. "Stay with me tonight," she whispered. "We'll wait for the Bck Hour together. If it's just a story, we'll ugh about it. And if it's real..."

  Camille leaned in, her lips a whisper away. "Then we won't be alone when it comes."

  The sky darkened. The wind died. Somewhere, beyond the trees, a voice—soft, distant, and aching—called Hélène's name.

  She turned.

  And Camille was gone.

  The cigarette she had been holding y on the damp ground, still smoldering.

  Hélène's breath came in short gasps, panic threading through her chest like ice. She turned in circles, searching the empty graveyard, but there was no sign of Camille.

  The wind returned, carrying a whisper that wrapped around her like a hand on the nape of her neck.

  "You have always been here."

  She turned again, heart hammering, eyes wide with terror.

  There was no one there.

  "Camille?"

  No answer. Only the distant creak of the farmhouse settling.

  She pushed the covers aside and stood, her bare feet meeting the chilled wooden floor. The air in the room was thick, heavy, like the moments before a storm breaks. She took a step forward, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

  The door to the bedroom stood ajar. Beyond it, the darkness of the hallway stretched endlessly. It seemed wrong somehow—too deep, too empty, as if the farmhouse had expanded into something else entirely.

  A shadow shifted in the doorway.

  Hélène's breath caught in her throat.

  At first, it was just that—a shadow, darker than the hallway beyond, too still, too present. Then, it moved, stretching and folding in on itself like ink in water. A voice, smooth as river stones, echoed from within it.

  "You should not have loved her."

  Hélène stumbled back, her breath hitching. "Who's there?"

  The shadow did not answer. Instead, it shifted again, elongating, peeling itself from the darkness of the doorway. She could feel this was not the same eerie shadow, this was different...more human

  "She is gone."

  A sickening dread curled in Hélène's stomach. "No," she whispered. "She—she's here. She was just here."

  The shadow swayed, its edges dissolving into curling tendrils of bckness. The voice was not cruel but filled with a sense of sympathy and pity

  "She was never here."

  Hélène's throat tightened. "That's not true."

  And then, all at once, the silence shattered.

  A gust of wind rushed through the house, smming doors, sending papers flying from the desk, rattling the walls like the echo of something ancient and hungry. Hélène stumbled forward, reaching blindly into the dark.

  "Camille!"

  The wind died. The house groaned. The shadow was gone.

  And in its pce, on the floor where Camille had been only hours before, y her worst habit

  Undisturbed and still burning.

  As if she had simply... vanished.

  Hélène sank to her knees. There was no sign of a struggle. No sign of anything at all. Only silence, vast and unbroken.

  A whisper curled against her ear, breathless and cold.

  "You should not have loved her."

  Hélène turned sharply—

  But there was no one there.

  Only the wind, stirring the fields beyond the window, and the distant sound of something moving in the dark.