Chapter 1: Inheritance and First Contact

David's truck wheezed to a stop in front of the manor, its engine making that rattling sound that meant another expensive repair was coming. He sat there for a minute, staring up at the place through his cracked windshield. Ashwood Manor looked like something out of a Gothic novel-all dark stone and tall windows that seemed to watch him back.

The house had passed to him from a great-aunt he had barely known, a woman who, despite the distance, had kept quiet watch over the course of his life. What drew him most was the piano inside, its strings surely dulled by silence. He was a professional tuner, and in the patient work of coaxing sound back into balance he found a rare kind of peace. Each adjustment, each subtle turn of the key, let the noise of the world slip away until only the music remained.

"Christ," he muttered, grabbing his tool case from the passenger seat. The October air bit at his face as he climbed out, and he could smell rain coming in from the west. Perfect. Nothing like restoring pianos in a damp house with no heat.

The brass key his great-aunt's lawyer had given him stuck in the lock, and he had to jiggle it three times before the door finally gave way with a sound like a dying animal. Inside, the place smelled like old books and something else-something sweet and sad that he couldn't quite place.

"Hello?" he called out, more from habit than any expectation of an answer. His voice echoed back from the high ceilings, smaller and more alone than he'd meant it to sound.

Three months. That's how long it had been since Jenny walked out of their apartment with two suitcases and a look on her face like she'd been holding her breath for years.

"You live in the past, David," she'd said, standing in their doorway with her hand on the knob. "I can't keep competing with ghosts."

He'd wanted to argue, to tell her that wasn't true, but the words had stuck in his throat. Maybe because part of him knew she was right. He'd always been more comfortable with the dead than the living-dead composers, dead instruments, dead music that needed him to bring it back to life.

The moving truck wouldn't arrive until tomorrow with the rest of his restoration equipment, but he'd brought the basic tools. Enough to get started, anyway. He needed to work. It was the only thing that made sense anymore.

The manor's rooms were covered in dust sheets, like a museum after closing time. He wandered through them, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. Kitchen, parlor, library-all frozen in time, waiting for something.

Then he found the music room, and everything stopped.

The piano sat in the center like a black jewel. A Steinway grand from 1919, if he was reading the plate right. It should have been a wreck-keys yellowed, strings snapped, soundboard warped from decades of temperature changes. But it wasn't. The thing looked like it had been tuned yesterday.

David approached it slowly, the way you'd approach a wild animal. He'd been restoring pianos for twelve years, ever since he'd dropped out of music school and realized he was better at fixing things than playing them. He knew what neglect looked like, smelled like, sounded like. This piano had none of those signs.

He pressed middle C. Perfect pitch. Then D, E, F-each note clear and true. It was impossible, but there it was, singing under his fingers like it was alive.

Without thinking, he sat down and started playing. Bach's Prelude in C Major-the first piece he'd ever learned to play all the way through. His fingers moved on their own, muscle memory taking over while his mind tried to process what he was experiencing.

The music filled the room, and for the first time in months, David felt something like peace. This was what he'd been missing in Seattle-not just the work, but the connection. The sense that he was part of something larger than his own small, broken life.

That's when he saw her.

At first, she was just a trick of the light-a shimmer in the corner of his eye that could have been dust or shadows. But as he kept playing, she became more solid. A woman in a dress from the twenties, her dark hair pinned up, watching him with eyes that seemed to hold more sadness than any person should have to carry.

David's hands froze on the keys. The sudden silence was deafening.

He turned to look at her directly, but she was gone. Just empty air and the ghost of jasmine perfume.

"Okay," he said to the empty room. "Okay, that's... that's fine. Just stress. Just need sleep."

But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. He'd seen her as clearly as he'd ever seen anything. More clearly, maybe.

He started to get up from the bench, but a single key pressed itself down. Middle C, the same note he'd started with. Then another note, and another. A melody he'd never heard before but somehow recognized, like a song from a dream.

The music was heartbreaking. It spoke of loss and longing, of things left unsaid and chances missed. It was the sound of regret made audible, and it cut right through him.

When the last note faded, David whispered, "Who are you?"

The answer came like a sigh, so quiet he almost missed it: "Eleanor."

The name seemed to hang in the air, and David felt something shift inside his chest. Not fear, exactly. More like recognition. Like coming home to a place he'd never been.

"I'm David," he said, and his voice sounded different somehow. Softer. More real than it had in months.

The temperature in the room seemed to rise a few degrees, and he could swear he felt something brush against his shoulder-light as a whisper, warm as a breath.

He wasn't alone in this house. And maybe, for the first time since Jenny left, he didn't want to be.

Chapter 2: Musical Connection

David didn't sleep that first night. How could he? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her—Eleanor, standing by the piano like she belonged there. Like she'd always been there.

He'd made camp in what used to be the guest bedroom, sleeping bag spread out on a mattress that smelled like mothballs and old dreams. The moving truck had shown up at eight sharp, and now his equipment was scattered across the music room like he was planning to perform surgery. Which, in a way, he was.

"Just me and the piano," he said to the empty room, then immediately felt stupid for talking to himself. Though was it really talking to himself anymore?

He spent the morning checking the Steinway's action, lifting keys and examining the hammers underneath. Everything was perfect. Too perfect. Piano strings stretched over time, felt wore down, wood shifted with temperature changes. This instrument showed none of those signs, like it existed outside the normal rules of physics.

Around noon, David pulled out the folder of sheet music he'd found scattered around the room. Most of it was standard stuff—Chopin, Debussy, some Mozart. But there were handwritten pieces mixed in, compositions he'd never seen before. The notation was old-fashioned, written in a careful script that belonged to another era.

One piece caught his attention. "Song for Eleanor" was written at the top in faded blue ink, and below that, in smaller letters: "T. Hayes, 1923."

David sat down at the piano and started to play.

The music was beautiful and haunting, full of unexpected chord progressions that seemed to catch at something in his chest. About halfway through, his hands started moving on their own—not playing what was written, but playing what felt right. Like someone else was guiding his fingers.

When he looked up, Eleanor was there.

She stood behind him, her hands hovering just above his, her touch like a whisper of warmth. "No, not like that," she said softly. "Thomas always played this part with more feeling, more longing."

Her hands settled over his, cool but somehow real, and guided his fingers to the correct keys. The melody that emerged was heartbreaking-full of love and loss and everything in between.

"He wrote this for you," David said, and it wasn't a question.

"He wrote everything for me." Eleanor's voice was barely a whisper. "Even after I died, he kept writing, kept hoping somehow I'd hear."

David turned on the bench to face her. "Tell me what happened. Really happened."

Eleanor was quiet for a long moment, her form flickering like candlelight. "I was supposed to marry Richard Ashwood—this was his family's estate then. A good match, everyone said. But I was in love with Thomas Hayes, a composer from Boston who had nothing but his music and his dreams."

She moved to the window, her back to him. "The night before my wedding, I was going to run away with Thomas. We'd planned it all—he was waiting for me at the train station. But Margaret found out."

"Your sister?"

"My younger sister. Only nineteen, sweet and innocent and trying to protect our family's honor." Eleanor's voice cracked. "She said she'd tell Father, that it would ruin us all. We argued at the top of the stairs, and I... I grabbed her arm, trying to make her understand. She pulled away and fell."

Eleanor turned back to him, tears glistening in her eyes. "She broke her neck. Died instantly. And I ran-ran out into the October storm, trying to get to Thomas, to tell him what I'd done. But I never made it. They found my body three days later, frozen in the woods."

"Jesus, Eleanor. That's not-it was an accident."

"Was it?" Her laugh was bitter. "I've had a hundred and two years to think about it, David. A hundred and two years of guilt."

David wanted to say something, to offer comfort or argue with her logic, but Eleanor was already fading. The emotional weight of telling her story seemed to drain her, making her form flicker like a dying candle.

"Eleanor, wait-"

But she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of jasmine and the echo of Thomas's music still hanging in the air.

David sat alone at the piano for a long time, playing soft melodies and hoping she'd come back. When she didn't, he finally gave up and went to bed, though sleep didn't come easily. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face—beautiful and tortured and carrying a century's worth of guilt she didn't deserve.

That night, David dreamed about her.

He was back in the music room, but it looked different—warmer, lived-in. Candles flickered on the mantelpiece, casting dancing shadows across the walls, and the piano gleamed in the golden light. Eleanor sat at the bench, her fingers dancing across the keys, playing something low and sultry he'd never heard before.

In the dream, she was solid, real. When she looked up at him, her eyes weren't filled with century-old sadness. They were dark with desire, bright with something dangerous and alive.

"Dance with me," she said, standing slowly and holding out her hand. The way she moved was hypnotic-every gesture deliberate, seductive.

David had never been much of a dancer, but in the dream it didn't matter. They moved together around the piano, her body pressed close to his, her dress swirling around them both. The music seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, matching the rhythm of their hearts.

Eleanor's hands trailed down his chest as they swayed, her touch burning through his shirt. "I've been waiting for you," she whispered against his ear, her lips barely brushing his skin.

"Waiting for what?" His voice came out rougher than he intended.

"For someone who could hear the music the way it's supposed to be heard." Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt, working them open with practiced ease. "For someone who understands desire."

She pulled back to look at him, her eyes dark and hungry. "I've been alone for so long, David. So very long." Her hand pressed flat against his bare chest, and he could feel his heart racing under her palm.

Her fingers traced lazy circles across his skin, each touch sending electricity through him. "Do you know what it's like," she whispered, her voice husky with need, "to want something for a hundred years and never be able to have it?"

David's breath caught as her hand drifted lower, her touch both innocent and wickedly knowing. "Eleanor..."

"Shh." She pressed closer, her body soft against his. "In dreams, I can touch you properly." Her lips found his neck, pressing gentle kisses that made him shiver. "In dreams, I can show you exactly how much I've missed being alive."

Her hands were everywhere now—trailing down his arms, across his shoulders, mapping every inch of him like she was memorizing him. When she looked up at him again, there was mischief in her eyes along with the desire.

"I may have been a proper lady once," she said, her fingers playing with the waistband of his pants, "but a century of longing has made me rather... improper."

David groaned, his hands finding her waist and pulling her closer. The rational part of his mind knew this was just a dream, but his body was responding like it was the most real thing he'd ever experienced.

When he woke up, David was breathing hard, his skin slick with sweat. He could still feel the ghost of her touch burning on his skin, could still taste the phantom sweetness of jasmine in the air.

The next day, Eleanor appeared as soon as he sat down at the piano.

"You dreamed about me," she said, and there was something knowing in her smile.

"How did you…"

"I was there, David. In your dream. That's how it works for me now—I can reach you when you're sleeping, when your mind is open." She moved closer, her form more solid than he'd ever seen it. "Did you like it?"

Heat crept up David's neck. "Eleanor..."

"It's all right. I liked it too." She sat beside him on the piano bench, close enough that he could smell jasmine and something uniquely her. "I've been alone for so long. It felt wonderful to be wanted again."

This time when she reached for him, her touch was different-more intentional, more real. Her fingers found his hand, interlacing with his, and the contact sent warmth shooting up his arm.

"You're getting stronger," he said, amazement in his voice.

"You make me stronger. Your attention, your desire—it feeds something in me I thought was dead forever." Eleanor brought his hand to her cheek, pressing it against her cool skin. "Touch me, David. Really touch me."

So he did. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, and everywhere he touched she became more solid, more real. When he cupped her face in his hands, she leaned into the contact with a soft sigh.

"I want to know everything about you," David whispered. "About what happened that night, about Thomas, about why you're still here."

"Then help me remember," Eleanor said. "Help me find the truth. There are things about that night, about Margaret's death... I think I've forgotten some of it. Or maybe I never really knew."

That afternoon, David started his research in earnest. He found old newspapers in the estate's library, death certificates, police reports from 1923. Eleanor watched from over his shoulder as he spread the documents across the dining room table.

"Look at this," David said, pointing to a newspaper clipping. "The article about your death. It says you were found in the woods, but the police report mentions something about investigating 'suspicious circumstances' around Margaret's fall."

Eleanor's form flickered. "Suspicious circumstances? But it was an accident. I was there, I saw-"

"What if you didn't see everything?" David looked up at her. "What if someone else was there that night?"

Chapter 3: Growing Intimacy

Eleanor didn't appear the next morning, or the afternoon. David found himself wandering the manor like a lost soul, checking every room, playing random melodies on the piano and waiting for her to materialize. By evening, he was starting to worry he'd scared her off somehow.

It wasn't until after midnight, when he was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, that she finally came to him.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice soft in the darkness. "I didn't mean to disappear like that."

David sat up, and there she was by the window, moonlight streaming through her translucent form. She looked fragile, like she might blow away if he breathed too hard.

"You don't have to apologize. I can't imagine how hard it must be to talk about that night."

Eleanor moved closer to the bed, her bare feet silent on the old floorboards. "It's not just that night, David. It's all of it. Do you have any idea what it's like to watch the world change for over a century while you stay exactly the same? To see everyone you ever loved grow old and die while you're trapped in the same moment forever?"

She sat on the edge of the bed, and David could feel the mattress dip slightly under her weight. She was getting stronger, more solid.

"I watched them tear down the church where I was supposed to be married. I watched this house change hands three times. I saw automobiles replace horses, electric lights replace gas lamps, watched two world wars come and go through the newspapers people left behind." Her voice cracked. "I've been alone, David. Completely, utterly alone."

Without thinking, David reached for her hand. This time she didn't hesitate, letting their fingers intertwine. Her skin was warmer than before, more real.

"I know something about being alone," he said quietly. "Maybe not for a century, but... I understand loneliness."

Eleanor looked at him with those deep, dark eyes. "Tell me."

So he did. He told her about Jenny, about how they'd met in college when he was still trying to be a concert pianist. How she'd loved his music at first, the way he could lose himself completely in a performance.

"But it wasn't enough," David said, staring down at their joined hands. "The music, I mean. I wasn't good enough to make it professionally, so I started restoring pianos instead. It was supposed to be temporary, just until I figured out what to do next. But years went by, and I got more and more obsessed with bringing these old instruments back to life."

"That doesn't sound like a bad thing."

"It wasn't, at first. But then it became... everything. I'd spend sixteen hours a day in my workshop, losing myself in the work. Jenny said I cared more about dead wood and metal than I did about her. And maybe she was right."

Eleanor's thumb traced gentle circles on his palm. "Or maybe you just needed to find someone who understood your passion."

"She left three months ago. Said I was in love with ghosts instead of the living." David laughed bitterly. "Guess she saw this coming."

"David." Eleanor's voice was firm. "Look at me."

He did, and was surprised to see no pity in her eyes. Just understanding.

"Your wife couldn't see that what you do is beautiful. You bring music back to life. You take something broken and forgotten and make it sing again." Eleanor's free hand touched his cheek. "That's not obsession. That's love."

The way she said it, the way she was looking at him, made something twist in David's chest. Before he could think about it, he leaned forward and kissed her.

Eleanor made a soft sound of surprise, then melted into him. Her lips were cool but warmed under his, and when she kissed him back it was with a century of pent-up longing. David's hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and she came willingly, pressing her body against his.

"I want you," she whispered against his mouth. "I want to feel alive again."

This time there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. Eleanor's hands were already working at the buttons of his shirt, her fingers more solid and sure than they'd ever been. When she pushed the fabric off his shoulders, David groaned at the sensation of her touch on his bare skin.

"God, Eleanor..."

She silenced him with another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier. Her tongue traced his lower lip and he opened for her, tasting jasmine and something sweetly intoxicating that was purely her. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark with desire.

"I can feel you," she breathed, her hands exploring his chest. "Really feel you. Your heartbeat, your warmth..." Her touch grew bolder, trailing down his stomach. "I'd forgotten what desire felt like."

David's breath caught as her fingers found the waistband of his pajama pants. "Eleanor, are you sure? I don't want to hurt you, or…"

"The only thing that hurts is not touching you." She straddled his lap, her nightgown pooling around them. "Please, David. Make me feel real."

So he did. His hands roamed over her body, marveling at how solid she felt, how warm and alive. When he cupped her breasts through the thin fabric of her gown, she arched into his touch with a soft moan that went straight to his core.

"You are real," he told her, meaning it. "You're the most real thing I've ever touched."

Eleanor's response was to kiss him again, rolling her hips against his until they were both breathing hard. When she reached between them to touch him through his pants, David thought he might die from the sensation.

"I need you," she whispered, and the raw want in her voice undid him completely.

What followed was desperate and tender and unlike anything David had ever experienced. Eleanor's touch was like silk and starlight, solid enough to drive him wild but ethereal enough that he felt like he was making love to moonbeams. Her skin seemed to shimmer in the darkness, translucent at the edges but burning with life wherever they connected.

She moved above him with fluid grace, her hair falling like a dark curtain around them. Every touch sent electricity through his body, but there was something otherworldly about it-as if she was touching not just his skin but his very essence. When her lips found his throat, he could swear he felt her breath on his soul.

"You're so warm," she whispered, her voice breaking with wonder. Her hands mapped every inch of his chest, trembling as if she couldn't quite believe he was real. "I'd forgotten... oh God, I'd forgotten what warmth felt like."

David's hands roamed her body, marveling at the way she felt both solid and gossamer. Her curves were real beneath his palms, but there was an otherworldly quality to her skin-cool silk that heated under his touch, growing more substantial with every caress. When he rolled her beneath him, she gasped and arched into him, her body singing like struck crystal.

"Please," she breathed, and the word was barely more than air, but it hit him like lightning.

He entered her slowly, reverently, and they both cried out at the connection. She felt impossibly perfect around him—tight and warm and somehow more than physical. It was as if their souls were touching, merging, becoming something neither had been alone.

"I can feel your soul," Eleanor gasped, her forehead pressed against his, her eyes wide with amazement. "I can feel you loving me."

And David realized with startling clarity that he was. Loving her. This impossible, beautiful ghost who understood his passion for bringing dead things back to life because she was living proof that love could transcend death itself.

They moved together slowly at first, savoring every sensation. Eleanor's body seemed to pulse with newfound life beneath him, growing more solid, more real with every heartbeat. Her legs wrapped around his waist, drawing him deeper, and when she moved against him he could swear he saw stars behind his closed eyelids.

"David," she whispered his name like a prayer, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

He couldn't have stopped if the world had ended around them. The way she responded to his touch was intoxicating—soft sighs that turned to desperate moans, her body trembling and tightening around him as he found the rhythm that made her cry out.

Her touch was everywhere—trailing down his back like phantom fire, cupping his face with hands that felt more real with every passing second. When she kissed him, it was with a century of stored passion, her tongue dancing with his in a way that made his head spin.

"More," she gasped against his mouth, and he gave her everything he had, driving into her with increasing urgency as the need overwhelmed them both. She met him thrust for thrust, her ethereal body somehow solid enough to anchor him, soft enough to drive him to the edge of madness.

The air around them seemed to shimmer with her presence, charged with something that was part electricity, part magic. David could feel her getting stronger with every touch, every kiss, every desperate cry of pleasure. She was feeding on their connection, growing more alive with each moment they shared.

When release finally claimed her, Eleanor arched beneath him with a sound that was part sob, part song. Her body clenched around him like silk and starlight, and David felt her pleasure wash through him as if it were his own. The sensation was so intense, so perfect, that he followed her over the edge, crying out her name as he spilled himself inside her.

For a moment they weren't separated by a century of death and loneliness—they were just two souls finding each other in the darkness, bound together by something stronger than the grave.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, Eleanor solid and warm against his chest. David traced patterns on her bare shoulder, still amazed that he could touch her like this.

"How is this possible?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," Eleanor admitted. "But I don't want to question it. Not yet."

They dozed fitfully until dawn, and when David woke, Eleanor was still there, real and present and beautiful in the morning light. She was looking through the historical documents he'd left on the nightstand, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"David," she said slowly. "Look at this police report again. The one about Margaret's death."

Still groggy, David leaned over to see what she was pointing at. "What about it?"

"It says here that Margaret was found wearing a blue dress. But that's impossible." Eleanor's voice was tight with confusion. "She was wearing green that night. I remember because I'd helped her pick it out earlier that day. She said green brought out her eyes."

David sat up straighter, suddenly wide awake. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. And look here…" Eleanor pointed to another line. "It says she was found at the bottom of the main staircase. But we argued at the top of the servants' stairs, near the back of the house. She couldn't have ended up all the way in the front hall."

David studied the report more carefully, his restoration training making him naturally suspicious of inconsistencies. "There's something else. The time of death is listed as approximately 11 PM, but you said you ran out immediately after she fell. You wouldn't have made it very far into the woods before the storm hit that night."

Eleanor's form flickered, her agitation making her less stable. "I don't understand. If Margaret didn't die the way I remember..."

"Then maybe you didn't kill her," David said gently. "Maybe someone else did."

Chapter 4: External Threats

David was in the kitchen making coffee when he heard the car pull up the gravel drive. Through the window, he watched his sister climb out of her Honda, her face set in that expression he remembered from childhood, the one that meant she was about to fix something whether it wanted fixing or not.

"Shit," he muttered, then louder, "Eleanor?"

But she was already fading, her form becoming translucent as the sound of car doors slamming echoed through the house. She'd been getting stronger over the past few days, solid enough to help him research through the old documents, but loud noises and sudden disruptions still made her unstable.

"I'll be upstairs," she whispered, disappearing entirely just as his sister's fist pounded on the front door.

"David! I know you're in there. Open up."

He took a deep breath and opened the door to find Lisa standing there with her arms crossed, looking exactly like their mother used to when she was pissed. Behind her stood a woman he didn't recognize—middle-aged, wearing too much jewelry and carrying what looked like a briefcase full of crystals.

"Lisa. What a surprise." David didn't invite them in, but Lisa pushed past him anyway.

"Don't 'Lisa' me. You look like hell, David. When's the last time you shaved? Or showered?" She was already moving through the foyer, taking inventory of the dust and the general state of disrepair. "And what's that smell? It's like someone died in here."

"Charming as always," David said, closing the door harder than necessary. "Who's your friend?"

The older woman stepped forward, extending a beringed hand. "Madame Zelda. I'm a spiritual consultant."

"A psychic," Lisa corrected. "I brought her because you're clearly having some kind of breakdown, and she specializes in…"

"In what? Crazy people?" David's voice was sharp. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, sis."

"In spiritual disturbances," Madame Zelda said, her voice oozing false sympathy. "Your sister is concerned about the reports she's been receiving. Neighbors hearing piano music at all hours, lights in windows that shouldn't have electricity. And you..." She studied his face with calculating eyes. "You have the look of someone who's been touched by the other side."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. David glanced toward the stairs, but Eleanor was nowhere to be seen.

"I don't know what Lisa told you, but…"

"I've been worried about you," Lisa said, her voice gentle but firm. "When I call, you sound like you're having conversations with someone else. And Mrs. Henderson down the road called me-she's concerned about you talking to yourself, lights in windows that shouldn't have electricity." Lisa paused, studying his face. "David, Mom had episodes near the end. I know the signs."

"This isn't dementia, Lisa. I'm not Mom."

"Then explain it," she said. "Explain why you've been holed up in this creepy house for weeks, why you're not returning calls from clients, why Mrs. Henderson down the road swears she saw a woman in old-fashioned clothing walking through the upstairs windows."

David's heart skipped. "Mrs. Henderson is ninety and half-blind."

"Is she wrong?"

Before David could answer, Madame Zelda gasped and stumbled backward, her eyes rolling up to show the whites. "Oh my. Oh my, this is very strong. Very old. Very angry."

"What's wrong with her?" David asked, but Lisa was already moving to support the woman.

"She's sensitive to spiritual presences," Lisa explained. "Zelda, what are you picking up?"

"A female spirit. Tragic death. She's been here for... oh, a very long time. And she's attached herself to him." Zelda pointed a dramatic finger at David. "This is dangerous. The spirit is feeding off his life energy, growing stronger. If this continues, she could drain him completely."

"That's bullshit," David said, but even as he spoke, he could feel Eleanor's presence growing agitated. The lights flickered overhead.

"You see?" Zelda's voice rose triumphantly. "She's here now. I can feel her anger. Spirit!" she called out to the empty air. "Show yourself! Face me!"

The temperature plummeted. Frost began forming on the windows, and every piece of glass in the room started vibrating with a low, harmonic hum. Then Eleanor appeared-not gradually this time, but all at once, solid and furious and radiating power like a thunderstorm.

"Get out of my house," she said, her voice carrying harmonics that made David's teeth ache.

Lisa screamed and stumbled backward into Madame Zelda, who had gone white as a sheet. But the psychic recovered quickly, pulling a handful of what looked like salt from her bag.

"Begone, unclean spirit! Return to the darkness that spawned you!"

She threw the salt at Eleanor, who simply stood there as it passed harmlessly through her form. Then Eleanor smiled, and it was terrifying.

"Unclean?" Eleanor's voice was like winter wind. "I lived and died in this house, you ridiculous woman. You're the one who doesn't belong here."

The piano in the music room began playing by itself-not a gentle melody this time, but a violent, discordant chaos that sounded like the house itself was screaming. Books flew off shelves, doors slammed throughout the manor, and the very walls seemed to pulse with Eleanor's rage.

"Eleanor, stop!" David shouted over the noise. "You're scaring them!"

"Good," Eleanor snarled, but the supernatural tantrum began to subside. The piano fell silent, the books stopped flying, and the temperature gradually returned to normal.

Lisa was pressed against the wall, her face white with terror. "David, please tell me you can see her too."

"I can see her," David said quietly. "Her name is Eleanor. She lived here in 1923."

Madame Zelda was frantically digging through her bag. "We need to perform an exorcism immediately. This spirit is clearly malevolent…"

"She's not malevolent!" David stepped protectively in front of Eleanor. "She's just defending herself. You came into her home and started throwing salt at her."

"Her home?" Lisa's voice cracked. "David, she's dead. This is not her home anymore. And you..." She stared at him with growing horror. "Oh God, you're in love with her, aren't you?"

The silence that followed was deafening. David felt Eleanor's hand slip into his-solid, warm, real.

"Yes," he said simply. "I am."

Lisa made a sound like she'd been punched. "David, you need help. Professional help. This isn't healthy. This isn't even possible."

"Isn't it?" Eleanor spoke for the first time since her display of power, her voice back to its normal, musical tone. She moved toward Lisa with fluid grace, ignoring Madame Zelda completely. "Your brother understands something you don't, Lisa. Love doesn't end with death. It transforms."

Lisa took a step back, but Eleanor was already there, close enough that Lisa could smell jasmine and something intoxicating she couldn't name. Eleanor's fingers brushed against Lisa's cheek, cool and impossibly soft.

"You're so tense," Eleanor murmured, her voice like honey. "So afraid. But there's nothing to fear in desire, is there?"

Lisa's breath caught, her pupils dilating as Eleanor's touch sent unexpected warmth through her body. For a moment, she leaned into the contact, her lips parting slightly.

Eleanor's other hand found Lisa's waist, pulling her closer with gentle but insistent pressure. "You're beautiful when you're not afraid," Eleanor whispered, her thumb tracing Lisa's lower lip. "I can feel your pulse racing."

Lisa's breathing quickened, her body responding despite her mind's protests. Eleanor's hand slid lower, fingers trailing along Lisa's hip in a way that made her gasp softly.

"Eleanor, stop," David said firmly, stepping forward. "Please."

Eleanor stepped back immediately, and Lisa blinked hard, shaking her head as if waking from a dream. Color flooded her cheeks as she realized what had just happened.

"What... what did you just do to me?" Lisa's voice was shaky.

"Nothing you didn't want," Eleanor said simply, but she moved back to David's side. "I apologize. Sometimes my nature gets the better of me."

Lisa stared at her with a mixture of fear and confusion. "I... I don't understand what just happened," Lisa stammered, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. "David, this thing, whatever it is, it's not natural. It's dangerous."

"She's not dangerous," David said, though he was still shaken by what he'd witnessed. "Eleanor, you can't do that to people. Especially not to my family."

"I'm sorry," Eleanor said, and she did look genuinely contrite. "I was trying to make her understand, but I went too far."

"Understand what?" Lisa's voice cracked. "That you can manipulate people? That you can make them feel..." She couldn't finish the sentence, her face burning with embarrassment and confusion.

Lisa shook her head violently, as if trying to clear it. "This is insane. This whole situation is completely insane." She pointed a shaking finger at David. "With a ghost!" Lisa's voice rose to near hysteria, though it was tinged now with something else-a tremor that hadn't been there before. "You're in love with a ghost!"

"Better a ghost who understands me than a living woman who never did," David shot back, thinking of Jenny.

Madame Zelda had recovered enough to start pulling more implements from her bag-crosses, crystals, what looked like a spray bottle full of something that probably wasn't water. "The spirit has clearly influenced his mind. This is a classic case of supernatural manipulation. We need to cleanse the house immediately."

"Touch one thing in this house," Eleanor said quietly, "and I will make your life very unpleasant."

To punctuate the threat, every electronic device in the room-Lisa's phone, Zelda's tablet, even David's old radio-suddenly turned on at maximum volume, creating a cacophony of noise that had all three living people covering their ears.

"Eleanor!" David had to shout to be heard.

The noise stopped instantly.

"Sorry," Eleanor said, not sounding sorry at all. "My finger slipped."

Lisa grabbed Madame Zelda's arm. "We're leaving. Now. David, when you come to your senses, call me. But I won't watch you destroy yourself over this... this thing."

"She's not a thing," David said as they headed for the door. "Her name is Eleanor, and she's the best thing that's happened to me in years."

Lisa paused at the door, tears in her eyes. "She's dead, David. Whatever this is, whatever you think you're feeling, she's dead and you're alive, and nothing good can come from that."

After they left, David and Eleanor stood in the sudden quiet of the foyer. Eleanor's form was flickering again, the confrontation having drained her.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I shouldn't have lost control like that. But when she started throwing salt and talking about exorcisms..."

"You were protecting yourself," David said, pulling her into his arms. "I just wish you hadn't had to."

"Your sister loves you. She's afraid for you."

"She doesn't understand." David cupped Eleanor's face in his hands, marveling at how solid she felt despite everything. "She thinks you're some kind of parasite, feeding off me."

"Maybe I am," Eleanor said, and there was real fear in her eyes. "David, what if that woman was right? What if I'm hurting you somehow?"

"You're not." David's voice was firm. "You're saving me."

That night, Eleanor came to him more solid than she'd ever been. The confrontation with Lisa and the psychic seemed to have charged her somehow, made her more real, more present. When she slipped into bed beside him, she felt completely, utterly human.

"I need you," she whispered against his neck. "After today, after almost losing this... I need to feel alive."

David turned to face her, and was amazed to find no translucence in her form, no ethereal shimmer. She was solid flesh and blood, warm and real and desperate for his touch.

"Then let me make you feel alive," he said, and kissed her with all the passion he'd been holding back.

This time there was no hesitation, no careful exploration. Eleanor's hands were everywhere, tearing at his clothes with an urgency that matched his own. When her mouth found his throat, she kissed and nipped at his pulse point, her tongue tracing the line of his collarbone before moving lower.

She pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses down his chest, her lips and tongue working over every inch of skin she could reach. When she found his nipple, she took it between her teeth, biting gently before soothing the spot with her tongue. David's back arched off the bed, a groan escaping his lips.

Eleanor continued her descent, her mouth leaving a trail of fire across his stomach. Her tongue dipped into his navel, swirling teasingly before she moved lower still. When she reached the waistband of his pajama pants, she looked up at him with dark, hungry eyes.

With trembling fingers, she pulled the fabric down, her breath catching as she revealed him fully. "Beautiful," she whispered, her voice filled with wonder and reverence. "So beautiful."

Her hand wrapped around him gently, stroking with a tenderness that made his breath hitch. She explored him with careful fingers, mapping every ridge and curve as if she were memorizing something precious. When she leaned down to press soft kisses along his length, David's hands fisted in the sheets.

Her tongue traced him with loving attention, each caress deliberate and worshipful. She took her time, savoring every moment, every sensation, as if she couldn't quite believe he was real beneath her touch.

Finally, she took him into her mouth with a desperation that made David think he might die from the intensity of it.

Her lips sealed around him, warm and perfect, as her tongue swirled and danced with exquisite skill. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing to accommodate all of him, and David cried out at the incredible sensation. Her hands cupped him gently, tenderly, adding another layer of sweet torment to her ministrations.

Eleanor moved with a rhythm that spoke of pure devotion, her mouth working him with passionate reverence. She would pull back slowly, her tongue trailing along his length, before taking him deep again. Each motion was deliberate, worshipful, as if she were expressing a century of stored love through this intimate act.

David's hands found her hair, not to guide but simply to touch, to ground himself as waves of pleasure threatened to overwhelm him. When she hummed softly around him, the vibration nearly undid him completely.

Eleanor seemed to sense exactly how close he was, and just when David thought he couldn't take any more, she pulled back with a soft, wet sound that made him groan in frustrated need. She pressed gentle kisses to his thighs, her breath warm against his heated skin as she let him recover.

"Not yet," she whispered against his hip, her voice thick with desire. "I want to savor this. Savor you."

When his breathing had slowed slightly, she returned to him with renewed passion. This time she used her tongue more boldly, tracing patterns that made his back arch off the bed. Her hands worked in perfect coordination with her mouth, one caressing while the other explored, until David was trembling with the effort of holding back.

Again, just as he reached the precipice, Eleanor retreated. She looked up at him with eyes dark with mischief and desire, her lips swollen and glistening. "You taste like heaven," she murmured, before trailing her tongue along his length with agonizing slowness.

The third time she took him deep, David wasn't sure he could survive another retreat. His breathing was ragged, his entire body taut with need. Eleanor seemed to sense his desperation and intensified her efforts, her mouth working him with a rhythm that spoke of love and hunger in equal measure.

"Eleanor," he gasped, his voice breaking. "I can't... I need..."

She hummed her understanding around him, the vibration sending shockwaves through his entire being.

She was fully corporeal now, every inch of her skin real beneath his hands. When he rolled her beneath him, she arched up to meet him, her body singing with life and need.

"I love you," he gasped as he entered her, and for the first time since she'd died, Eleanor felt completely, utterly alive.

They moved together with desperate intensity, her body meeting his thrust for thrust, both of them chasing something that felt bigger than physical pleasure. It was connection, completion, the merging of two souls that had found each other across impossible odds.

Eleanor's breath came in soft gasps against his ear, each exhale sending shivers down his spine. Her nails traced gentle patterns down his back, not scratching but claiming, marking him as hers in the most tender way. David could feel her heartbeat against his chest-real, strong, alive-and it amazed him that something so impossible could feel so right.

"I love you," she whispered, and the words seemed to glow in the space between them. "I love you beyond death, beyond time, beyond everything I thought I knew about what love could be."

David's response was wordless but profound, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that tasted of forever. He could feel her body responding to every movement, every touch, her back arching as he found the rhythm that made her cry out his name like a prayer.

Eleanor's hands roamed his shoulders, his arms, anywhere she could reach, as if she needed to touch all of him at once. Her legs wrapped around him tighter, drawing him deeper, and David felt like he was drowning in the most beautiful way possible. Every nerve ending was alive with sensation, but it was more than physical—it was as if their very essences were intertwining.

"You make me feel human again," Eleanor gasped, her eyes locked on his. "More than human. You make me feel infinite."

Their bodies moved in perfect synchronization, a dance they'd somehow always known. David could see stars behind his closed eyelids every time Eleanor moved beneath him, every time she whispered his name in that voice that was pure music. The air around them seemed charged with electricity, crackling with the force of their connection.

Eleanor's breathing grew more ragged, her movements more urgent, and David could feel her getting closer to that edge they were both racing toward. He slowed his movements, wanting to make this last forever, wanting to memorize every sound she made, every expression that crossed her beautiful face.

"Don't stop," she pleaded, her voice breaking with need. "Please, David, don't ever stop loving me."

"Never," he promised against her lips, and meant it with every fiber of his being. "Not in this life or any other."

The words seemed to ignite something between them, and suddenly they were moving with an urgency that bordered on desperation. Eleanor's body trembled beneath his, her breathing coming in sharp gasps as she chased the release that danced just beyond her reach.

"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking with need. "I'm so close, David. So close I can barely breathe."

David could feel his own control slipping, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of holding back. He wanted to give her everything, wanted to take her over that edge and follow her into bliss, but the sensation was so intense, so perfect, that part of him never wanted it to end.

"I need you," he gasped against her throat, his movements becoming more urgent. "I need all of you, forever."

Eleanor's response was a cry that was part pleasure, part desperation. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and wild need. She could feel the climax building inside her like a storm, threatening to tear her apart in the most beautiful way.

"Together," she begged, her eyes wild with desire. "I want to fall apart with you, David. I want to shatter and be reborn in your arms."

Their bodies moved in perfect harmony now, each thrust bringing them closer to the precipice they both craved and feared. David could feel Eleanor's body tightening around him, could see the way her face flushed with approaching release, and it drove him to the very edge of madness.

"I love you," he said again, because the words felt like the only truth that mattered. "I love you beyond reason, beyond possibility."

"Then love me over the edge," Eleanor whispered, her voice barely audible. "Love me into forever."

When release finally claimed them both, David collapsed against her, amazed to find her still solid, still real beneath him. Her heart was beating against his chest, her breath warm on his neck.

"I'm not going anywhere," Eleanor whispered fiercely. "I don't care what your sister thinks, or what that fraud with the crystals says. I'm not leaving you."

"Good," David said, holding her tighter. "Because I'm not letting you go."

But even as he said it, he couldn't shake the feeling that forces beyond their control were already gathering to tear them apart.