So this is my new story. I honestly have no idea how I got this plot in my head or why the urge to write it was so strong. Any how I hope you guys like it.

It goes without saying that this is obviously an AU fiction.

The sheriff isn't Stiles' dad. Stiles' mom isn't dead. Rather or not there will be any werewolves has not been decided as of yet.

This is rated M for language and some violence and gore. I'm not sure about sexual content or not.

I don't have a beta so all mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Wolf. If I did, the show would be cancelled because me, Dylan and Tyler H. would be too busy having hot threesomes to film any scenes.


The first time it happened Stiles convinced himself that it was just a trick of the light. The second time he chalked it up to being tired, working too hard to get an A on his Psychology midterm. By the fourth time he was sure that he was going blind or at least something was really wrong with his eyes. By the tenth time, it had become a pattern and he knew that he was crazy.

It had started out with just one, an older man, probably a few years older than 30, with a hole in his head. Stiles noted that he was wearing a sheriff's uniform. He didn't say anything, didn't go 'boo!' like in the movies. He just stared at Stiles with this empty look that matched his state of being…dead. He wasn't there all the time when it first started, which was how Stiles convinced himself that he wasn't there at all. But eventually it got to the point where he was always there, hanging around in some dark corner, watching Stiles with dead eyes.

:: :: :: :: ::

The second one was a woman. She was young, in her early twenties. She only had one shoe and half of her brain was exposed, jagged cuts littering her face and arms. She appeared to Stiles while he was in the shower one day. He'd turned around from washing his face and she'd been there. She wore the same expression as the man, eyes dead and vacant. She didn't usually hang around in the day, reserving her haunting time for night when Stiles was tucked away in his bed. She didn't hide in the shadows either. She'd stand at the foot of his bed, not looking at him, but rather out the window; her expression never changing.

:: :: :: :: ::

It was the third one that really got to Stiles. It was a little girl in a light blue night gown, or what used to be a night gown. It was torn open down the front and whenever Stiles looked at her, he could see her bloody panties. She was bruised and bitten and her throat had been slit. She was the worst. She followed him everywhere, no matter what time of day or where he went. And at night she would sit next to him on his bed and hum the lyrics to Mary, Mary Quite Contrary. None of the other's talked and it made them easier to ignore, but she made these noises all the time. Sometimes Stiles could swear she was whispering his name.

:: :: :: :: ::

He ignored them for as long as he could. It was hard, but not impossible. During the day he'd find things to do that kept him thinking or talking. At night he'd close his eyes and listen to his roommate snore on the other side of the room, wishing pathetically that it was him. Sometimes he'd be able to doze off after too many nights pretending to be asleep. He found that he hated those nights because when he awoke the little girl would be petting his hair.

He needed something, anything to help him sleep. He was falling behind in his classes and he wasn't sure he could take much more. He didn't know how long a person could go without sleep before terrible things started to happen, but he figured that he must have been at least half way there. He felt as though he was crawling out of his skin and if something didn't give, he might have actually started clawing at his skin to rid himself of that restless sensation.

:: :: :: :: ::

It was his roommate, Scott, who gave him the Adderall for the first time. He'd noticed how restless Stiles was, how he was jumpy and paranoid.

They'd both been in their room; Scott playing a card game on his laptop while Stiles read his Western Civilization book for a test. Well, Stiles tried to read the book, but he couldn't focus on the words for more than a second without eyeing the haunters gathered at the foot of his bed. The little girl made her way over to Scott and started to pet his hair the way she'd do Stiles. Stiles watched on in horror, gasping sharply when she laid her head on Scott's shoulder.

Scott looked up at him, eyebrows raised in confusion and Stiles wondered if he really couldn't feel the girl's touch. Scott must have read his horrified expression as something else because he shook his head and put his laptop aside before giving Stiles his undivided attention.

"You need to seriously chill out man. Relax a little bit. What was the last time you had a good night's sleep?" he'd asked, looking Stiles over.

"I don't know," Stiles answered. It had been a little over a week, but it he couldn't be sure because most times he didn't know what day it was.

"Here, take this." Scott reached over into the night stand and tossed Stiles a bottle. "It's Adderall. I take it when I need to cram for a test, but you can use it as a sleep aid too. You keep that bottle. My supplier owes me a freebie." He tossed the bottle to Stiles and Stiles caught it only by reflex. "You're welcome."

Stiles eyed the bottle cautiously before snorting and tossing them onto his night stand. He didn't need drugs, especially speed. And he'd heard stories about kids like that who took drugs. He turned back to his Western Civilization book and started reading again. He'd all but forgotten the pills by the time he'd reached the next chapter.

:: :: :: :: ::

It took Stiles another three days to actually use the pills. He'd been sitting in his dorm, trying to study for his Spanish test, when he heard a rasping sound, like nails dragging along dry wood. He looked up from his book, to come face to face with yet another one. This one was a boy, who looked to be around Stiles age. He was terribly pale with punctures and lacerations and his shirt was hanging in shreds. Stiles tasted the acrid taste of bile rising as he gaze dropped to his stomach. Someone had completely butchered this guy. His stomach was cut open, inner organs completely gone. The muscles and tissue was shredded, hanging obscenely.

The first two had dead expressions. The little girl wore a sad, forlorn expression. But this one's face was completely twisted into that of rage and resentment. He let out this pitiful groan that quickly turned into a gut wrenching howl. It was filled with raw, negative emotions and it had Stiles getting up and running into the hall. Luckily the hall was bare, except for a couple of kids on down the corridor and no one was there to look at Stiles strangely.

He didn't return to his room until a little after midnight. The other three had followed him, but he hadn't seen the angry one since he'd fled the room. He was waiting on him, standing in front of the window, the moonlight giving him an ominous glow. Stiles grabbed the pills of his night stand, staring at the multicolored tablet before swallowing it quickly. He sat on his bed, back pressed into the corner, knees drawn up to his chest. He screwed his eyes shut and buried his face in his arms. He could still hear him, his loud wailing growing closer.

Stiles felt the cold, clammy grip of his fingers as they closed around the back of his neck. Besides the little girl, none of them had ever touched him. The hold on his neck tightened, moaning getting more aggressive. Stiles could feel the cool breath wash over his scalp. The moaning started to transform again, becoming more like a growl. The grip tightened more and Stiles cried out.

Then it was gone.

Stiles opened his eyes and noticed two things right off the back. He has lying in his bed, not in the position that he'd been in a moment ago. And the sun was shining. He sat up with a frown. The usual three were huddled in a corner, neither of them looking at him.

But there was no sign of the howler. Stiles got out of bed, grabbing the mirror that he kept in his night stand for emergencies. He crossed the room, going over to Scott's side, where there was another mirror hammered to the closet. He stood in front of the mirror, back facing it. He raised the mirror in his hand up and angled it so that he could see his neck.

Finger shaped bruises covered his neck, colored a dark red, turning purple around the edges. He frowned as he got a better look at them. Something was off about them, about the way that they looked, but he couldn't tell what it was.

"Hey man," Scott called as he burst into the room. He was sweaty and Stiles figured he must have just come from lacrosse practice.

"Hey," Stiles replied, returning to his bed. He looked at his phone and noted that it was 2:00 p.m.

"Did you sleep well? I mean you must have. I came home last night and you were knocked out, curled up in some weird ball. I straightened you and went to bed myself." Scott had that same carefree smile on his face. Usually it put Stiles at ease, but it had little affect now.

"Um, yeah. Thanks man," Stiles said, rubbing at the bruises on his neck. Had Scott seen them?

"No problem dude. How many did you take? You were sleep for like fourteen hours. I thought you were dead for a second." Scott was looking at him with concern.

"I, um, I only took one. I guess I was just really beat," Stiles replied, sitting down on his bed. He looked over towards the corner of the room. The three of them were still positioned where they'd been earlier. The howler was still M.I.A. and Stiles wasn't sure if he should be happy or concerned.

"Yeah, maybe. Just promise to be careful man. Adderall can be some serious shit man. Only take it when you need it." Stiles nodded, and Scott left shortly after.

Stiles let out a sigh and turned to his group of haunters.

"I should be studying. I guess I should go to the library. Come on troops. Let's move out."

That marked the first time he'd ever spoken to them.

:: :: :: :: ::

After that it became a habit. They never actually said anything back, but they would crowd a little closer to him, like they were moving in to hear him better. Sometimes they'd make these noncommittal noises that led Stiles to believe that they at least understood what he was saying. All in all it was kind of cool to have dead friends. They didn't tell him to shut up, or call him stupid. They couldn't leave so they were loyal to him. At least that's what he narrowed it all down to; they were drawn to him for some reason and if they could leave, they probably would have.

When people would give him weird looks he'd just smile at them and say that he was thinking out loud.

And of course he did get strange looks from people who happened to be within hearing range of him during the times that he did talk to them. He knew how it must look; the odd kid who never really fit in anyway, huddled in a corner talking to himself. And theoretically he was talking to himself. Granted there were actual people, or what used to be people, that followed him around and usually made some sound to let him know his rants weren't falling on death ears. But they were dead and by all means he shouldn't have been seeing them at all, let a one talking to them. So he wasn't really lying to them.

"Technically talking to yourself is still a bit on the cuckoo side," Stiles told the haunters. "But it's like a 3 on the scale of normal to batshit insane. I'm thinking that I'm hovering right over a good 6.5 myself."

And so what if he was being a bit modest with that score? People weren't whispering and pointing at him so he hadn't reached full on psycho yet. He was in between Britney mid haircut and Courtney Love on a good day. He went up an half a point when he decided he should give them names

In all fairness, he felt as though it made him a little saner. Giving them names made them more human and making them more human made them closer to being imaginary friends rather than fucking stalker ghosts. So what if he was too old to have imaginary friends? Mr. Porter talked to his flowers, which had a less likely chance of talking back than Stiles' ghostly pals. Besides, he couldn't keep referring to them as the haunters or the ghosts.

"I think I should name you first, seeing as how you got here before them," Stiles said with a hum. The man didn't acknowledge him other than the faint exhale of breath that sounded suspiciously like a sigh. "Oh don't get all exasperated with me mister. I'm only trying to help."

Stiles looked him over. He was tall and thin, not very muscular, but held enough of a build to not totally get his ass handed to him. He looked like he could have been a runner, maybe. He was also pale, but Stiles chalked that up to being because he was dead and blood doesn't flow when you're dead. He had haunting –no pun intended – blue eyes and when Stiles stared at him, took in his blonde hair, he thought Paul Walker. And okay, this guy wasn't going to be mistaken for said actor, even if people could see him, but this was just to humor him. Rather Stiles meant to humor the ghost or himself, he wasn't quite sure. He wasn't sure if you could humor ghosts.

"What about Paul?" Stiles asked. The ghost's face twitched just a little bit, almost as if he were trying to frown. Stiles let out a short laugh. "Okay so not Paul. Any suggestions? Of course not. You want me to do all the work while you stand there and criticize me. Heaven forbid you try to help me." Stiles rambled on. The haunter made no move or sound.

"So you're ignoring me now? Some people…Okay, I'm just gonna fire off some names and you tell me when to stop. Let's start with A" Stiles listed several names, two for each letter. He went on for quite some time, the haunter not showing any signs of listening.

"Scott? No, I can't name you the same as my roommate. How weird would that be?"

Stiles continued for another three or four rounds. He'd gone through all of the names that he could think of, all the good ones any way. They all had character, had umph. But apparently Stiles had gotten stuck with an old fashioned haunter.

"Old fashion…" Stiles thought out loud. "How about Edward?" The haunter looked over to Stiles slowly and Stiles snickered. "Edward, really? How very Twilight of you. Oh well, fine. You'll be Edward." The haunter, Edward, let out a slight gurgled hum. Stiles took that as an okay.

It took another two hours before he got names that the other two liked. He decided on Allison for the girl with the one shoe. It had been the very first name that he'd said and she'd looked at him with what he suspected should be a smile. It was the little girl that was hard to please. He literally went through every name that he'd ever heard of and she continued to ignore him. He'd say some names and pause, waiting for her reply.

She never would, she'd just sit there and hum that stupid nursery rhyme. Stiles wanted to kick himself when he thought about what she was humming. Apparently she liked the name Mary, although Stiles didn't understand why, because that nursery rhyme was supposedly about Bloody Mary…yet his Mary was bloody.

He didn't name the other one, deciding to keep referring to him as The Howler. It fit. Stiles didn't think that he deserved a human name anyway, because rather he'd been human or not, he definitely wasn't now; and although the bruises on his neck had all but healed, the memory was still fresh. He hadn't seen The Howler since that night, not that he was complaining. He also hadn't taken another one of the pills.

He still wasn't sleeping, the bags under his eyes where proof enough of that, but he hadn't reached the point that he had before. He wasn't dead weight, could still think clearly enough to not just lurk around like a random creeper. He also felt as though he should save the Adderall for when he really needed it. He wasn't sure when this would be over, when he would wake up and not see dead people, but he wanted to be ready just in case it was later rather than sooner.

:: :: :: :: ::

It was another two weeks before he was dead weight again. He wasn't able to sleep longer than a couple of minutes at a time. He'd spend the night with his eyes shut, listening to the sounds that spread through the room. Scott would look at him with worried eyes, asking him if he was taking the pills. Stiles would always push his concerns aside and assure him that he was fine, that he was saving the Adderall for when it got unbearable.

:: :: :: :: ::

It was an additional 48 hours before The Howler appeared. Just like last time, he was busy writing his World History paper when he heard the rasping of nails on wood. He looked up slowly, hoping it wasn't, but expecting The Howler. He was right to expect. He had that same angry expression. He was growling low in his throat, eyes boring holes into Stiles' head.

Stiles couldn't help the shriek that left his mouth. He got up from his study desk, scrambling back until his back hit the wall. The Howler followed him, groaning getting steadily louder. Stiles shut his eyes, squeezing them as tight as he could. He prayed silently, hoping that The Howler would leave. His prayers fell on silent ears. He felt the stale, cool breath on his face and the hairs on the back of his neck stood one end. Cold, clammy fingers wrapped around Stiles wrist.

"Please, please, please…"Stiles chanted desperately. His eyes were still shut, but tears of fear escaped his eyes anyway, running down his face as wet trails of despair.

The stiff fingers tightened into a gradually, but surely painful squeeze. Stiles bit at his bottom lip, letting one lone and pitiful whimper escape. It isn't real. It isn't real, he thought repeatedly. But the grip on his wrist kept him from truly believing it. He could feel the way that the bones in his wrist rubbed against each other in a pitiful grind.

The tears were rolling more freely now, even though his eyes were still firmly shut. The Howler's groan getting louder, progressing into that awful howl that he got his name for. The grip was unbearably painful now and Stiles was sobbing in pain freely. The pills! I need the Adderall, he thought through his agony.

Stiles fumbled blindly around the drawers of his desk until he felt the familiar cylinder of a medication bottle. He opened the top clumsily and popped two pills, swallowing them down thickly. He didn't have anything to wash them down with, but drastic times called for drastic measures. His wrist was practically numb with pain now, and besides the awful howling, everything else didn't seem so real anymore. He opened his eyes, screaming at The Howler's face. He could see the burn marks all over his face.

He saw the anger there in The Howler's eyes. He didn't understand it. He didn't understand the pure hatred that The Howler held. The other haunters were seemingly sad, oppressed even by their deaths. But The Howler held a rage about him that Stiles didn't understand. He didn't really care to at this point, he just wanted him gone. He shut his eyes and willed The Howler away.

It didn't happen the same as it did last time, Stiles noted. He felt his body shutting down, consciousness fading away into apathetic calmness. The slow lull of sleep descended on him gradually. He felt as though he was floating, drifting away on a bed of nothingness and empty air. His wrist still hurt, and he realized that he might need to let someone look at it.

Right now, however, he couldn't find the necessary concern to care about much more of anything other than sleeping. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, his conscious told him that this wasn't what healthy sleep was supposed to be like. This was more of a coma than a resting nap, but he couldn't find the urge to move his body and just continued to drift off to a place that wasn't filled with haunters.

He woke up later to Scott's worried face and he just knows that he's been out for too long. He sat up slowly, finding that his body aches dully all over. He ran a hand through his hair, noting that it's been a while since he had a haircut, and laughed. He'd just waking up from a drug induced sleep and that's what he was thinking? Scott's expression grew even more troubled and Stiles figured that he should do some damage control.

"How…um…How long was I out?" He asked rubbing at the back of his neck. The bruises were completely gone, but sometimes he could feel the phantom pressure from when the injury was inflicted.

"Three days," Scott said. He had a scared look on his face and Stiles couldn't help but feel guilty. "Stiles, man are you sure you're not abusing? Because I thought you were dead man. I came in and you were passed out on the fucking floor, not moving, not responding."

"You didn't call the police did you?" Stiles asked albeit frantically. His mom and dad would kill him if they found out.

"No, but I should have! God Stiles, do you know how freaked out I was? The only think that kept me from running to the FBI was the fact that I could hear you breathing. How many did you take?" Scott demanded more than asked.

"I took two," Stiles admitted guiltily. He knew that it was a stupid thing to do, but at the time he was in pain and three seconds away from an aneurysm. And so thinking clearly wasn't very high on his list of important shit to remember when in a crisis, sue him. At the end of the day, staying a live by any means automatically shot up the list.

"Are you fucking insane?!" Okay, ouch. Scott obviously wasn't very friendly in high stress situations. "I told you that you have to be careful with that fucking shit man. It's speed! "

"Okay, let's not get so overly dramatic." And Stiles was brushing it off. That's what he did. Shit got real, Stiles got evasive…or just completely gone with the wind. And seeing as how making a run for it was probably the worst thing he could do, this was second best.

"Overly dramatic? Stiles I don't think you understand the seriousness of the situation at hand. You were passed out for three days! That's a fucking coma, dude. You know what, I should have never given that shit to you."

"I was just really tired. I hadn't slept in like two weeks. I'm not abusing," So what if Stiles sounded really defensive.

"Really? Cause' I gotta tell you, saying 'I'm not abusing' is something you say when you're fucking abusing. You could fucking die if you don't use it right." Scott sounded exasperated by now and his irritation was bordering full blown panic.

"It's a prescription drug! You can only use it right if the doctor gives it to you!" Stiles snorted.

He knew that he was being a dick, more than a dick, but this was his life and Scott had no idea what he was going through. Hell, he didn't know exactly what it was that he was going through. This was all too much. But who could he talk to about it? Who would believe him and not think that something was seriously wrong with him? He didn't totally believe that he was all together there mentally. How could he trust another to not commit him?

Scott shook his head, somber look on his face. "Stiles, you've been my roommate since freshman year. You've been the face that I've waken up to for two years. You're like a brother to me man. I can't deal with you being like this. Whatever this is, rather it's the drugs or something completely different, it's changing you."

"I'm still me. I'm still Stiles," Stiles assured. Scott shook his head again.

"This isn't you! The Stiles I know doesn't overdose on pills and end up in a three day coma. When was the last time you've even been to class? Your Psychology teacher stopped me and asked if you were sick or something."

"What did you tell him?" Stiles asked nervously. He hadn't been attending classes regularly, but he still had a chance to pass…so long as Scott didn't go telling people that he was a druggie.

"I told him that you were sick, that you haven't been yourself. And I didn't even have to lie about it. Stiles, man you've got to get better. Whatever this is, if you need help, I'm here for you." Scott got up and left, leaving Stiles to reflect on his feelings.

He could understand what Scott meant, but Scott only knew the surface of the problem. Things were so much worse than Scott understood. Stiles didn't know what to do. If he kept things up this way he'd flunk out. He didn't want that.

He couldn't go home, his parents would kill him. Not to mention that his home life pretty much sucked anyway. Plus he really didn't want to give his parents the privilege of being right about him being a slacker. He'd managed to shut them up when he'd gotten accepted into college and he wasn't about to prove them right now, especially after his father had put so much money into his tuition. They'd never let him live it down. Going home to his parents would definitely be out. And if he went home, his parents would notice his behavior. He'd end up in an asylum for sure. Things were so royally fucked up right now. One thing was sure though.

He wasn't going to stop taking Adderall.

As long as he didn't get too tired, The Howler was M.I.A. Sure he was playing with fire. He knew how serious Adderall could be. He'd had a momentary lapse of judgment that had him taking more than he should have. Now he knew better than to do that. He just had to figure out a way to make sure that he didn't over do it with the pills. How hard could that be? He'd only take one pill every two to three days and that would keep The Howler away.

He could only hope.


Considering that I wrote this in segments over a week or two and the fact that it wasn't written in order, I liked the way it came out. I personally don't think that it was dark enough, but I hope that the creepy factor is still there. I also feel like it could have been a little longer, but I didn't want to overwhelm you or give away too much too soon, especially seeing as how I'm not even sure rather you guys will like this. I'm super excited to hear what you guys have to say.

Criticism is always welcomed. Bashing is not.

Review and don't sugarcoat it.