A/N: Hey guys! Just as a warning this story is pretty graphic in terms of violence.
Nobody listened when Lydia mentioned Stiles' strange behavior in the recent weeks. He had become distant and unresponsive. It was not until she mentioned this to Scott and the others that she realized Stiles was only acting this way toward her. She did what she had to. She confronted him.
He was standing at his locker, staring into its depths with a dark expression. Her red skirt flounced against the sensitive skin behind her knees. She curled her fingers around the cold edge of the locker door. He did not look at her. She huffed and flicked her hair behind her shoulder.
"Stiles." His eyes darted to her face and she arched her eyebrows.
"Oh. Sorry. I didn't see you there." He shrugged and began rummaging through his locker.
"That's what I want to talk to you about." Lydia said. She tried to make her voice firm, but instead it came out hesitant and nervous.
"You want to talk to me?" He asked lightly. The warning bell rang and he slammed his locker door shut.
"Yes, that's what I just said." She sighed. He sidestepped around her and began walking down the hall. Lydia nearly had to start jogging in order to keep up with his long stride.
"What do you want?" His tone was cheerful, but his words were clipped and his stride was faster than usual. She grabbed his elbow and he stopped, but kept his back to her. The hall emptied around them until finally it was just Lydia and Stiles. Her throat worked against the dryness that coated it like sand. She stared at the ridges of his shoulder blades beneath his thin t-shirt. She felt as though she was barely holding on, as though Stiles was slowly slipping away.
"I have to get to class." He stated, his voice distant. Distance stretched between the two of them. It was vast, so much more than it had been two years before when she had not even known his name.
"Stiles, talk to me." She pleaded. "I know something is wrong. You've been acting so weird lately. Don't shut me out! I… I care about you, Stiles. Please." He shuddered. Her hand slowly fell from his elbow, letting him go if he wanted to. He grabbed her hand, and whirling around pressed it against his rapidly beating heart. Her breath shook in her chest as his eyes locked onto hers. Those eyes belong to someone in jail. Someone in pain. Someone screaming.
"I need you to stay away from me." He said desperately. She began to protest, but he cupped her chin in a shaking hand. "Promise me! Promise me you'll leave me alone, please, Lydia!" His eyes were wild, terrified.
"I don't understand! Stiles, what's going on?" Her left hand gripped the soft fabric that covered his stomach. Her fist pressed firmly against his abdomen. It anchored her while the other felt the frenzied beating of his heart. "Why?"
"You'll get hurt." He choked out. His voice was becoming strained as though he couldn't breath. "I will hurt you, Lydia." His heart slowed.
He ripped himself away from her with a deep grunt, going as far as her hold on him allowed. His eyes met hers again, and they were emotionless and cold.
"Let go of my shirt." He said, his tone distant. The fabric slipped through her fingers and he walked away.
The Sheriff's cruiser was not in the driveway, meaning Stiles was alone. Lydia's fingers stroked the porch railing as she debated ringing the doorbell. She was second-guessing her decision to come by herself, instead of wait for Scott to get off of work. She shook herself and straightened her shoulders. She just needed to get Stiles to explain everything to her.
She rang the doorbell. When no one answered she rang it again. Still no one answered. She tentatively tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
It was quiet. No lights were on and the walls were bathed in grey as the sun hid itself behind the roofs of houses.
"Stiles?" She called. A loud clatter came from the kitchen. Her heart leapt into her throat. She lurched and sprinted down the hall. Her hands shook as they grabbed at the corner, keeping her from falling over.
He was standing at the counter and staring out the window.
"Stiles?" She whispered, looking around the kitchen for whatever could have made the noise. "Stiles, what's wrong?"
"He told you to stay away." He said lowly, not turning around.
"What?" Lydia whispered in confusion. "Who? What are you talking about?"
He turned to look at her and smiled.
"Oh, Lydia. I thought you were smarter than this." He stepped towards her, and that is when she noticed the knife gripped tightly in his hand.
"You're not Stiles." She said, the realization crashing around her. He grinned. "What have you done to him? Where is he?" She burst out, fear and fury whirling through her. He did not answer, and instead tightened his hold on the knife.
"I'll scream." She whispered, talking a step back.
"No you won't, Lydia. You can't." He took another step forward, and she stumbled away. Her hands flailed at the walls, and her legs felt as though they could no longer hold her up. She tried to scream, but her knees collapsed as he tackled her from behind. She fell with an innocent, girlish shriek. Her head hit the wood floor with a loud crack and a piercing headache enveloped her instantly. He turned her around and straddled her waist. His hands circled her wrists and pressed them roughly into the halo of strawberry-blonde curls next to her head. The knife lay next to her ear.
"Stop! Don't do this, please!" She begged, sobbing. He lowered his head. His nostrils flared as he breathed in deeply. While the terror ran through her, she also felt a sharp stab of shame as the tears clogged her throat.
"You smell like flowers." He breathed into her ear. She shuddered away.
"You're not Stiles." She repeated desperately. He laughed.
"No. I haven't been Stiles in a very long time." He leaned back, just enough for her to see his hazel eyes. Their noses brushed and he groaned. "But, he's still in here, Lydia. I promise. He's still here." He pressed his face into the crook of her neck and breathed heavily, and hotly against her skin. "And he's screaming for you."
She cried out, trying to wrench her head away. He pressed his hips into hers, the hard floor bruising her tailbone.
"Oh, Lydia. He's been screaming for you for so long. Years. Aching." He pressed open-mouthed kisses against her neck.
"Stop!" She cried, wrestling fruitlessly against his strong grasp. "Why are you doing this? What are you?" He moved his head to look at her again, his movements slow and languid.
"Why?" He asked, his brows furrowing. "I want him. I need him. The only way I can have him is if I break him." He kissed her lips softly, nuzzling their noses together gently. While his movements were affectionate, she stared into his eyes and all she saw was cold steel and bleached bones. He sighed, and if Lydia tried she could imagine Stiles making the same noise when he woke up in the morning.
"I don't understand how that involves me." She said. He rolled his eyes.
"Come on, Lydia! Don't be modest. What better way to break his spirit, than to kill the girl he would die for, the girl he loves so strongly, with his own hands?" She was surprised. She had been expecting it. Ever since he smiled she had known how the whole thing was going to turn out. She was still surprised. She was going to die. Her spine froze in terror. He saw the look in her eyes and barked with laughter. "Do you want to know the best part?"
She shook her head.
"The best part is that he'll get to watch. He's been watching this whole time! He'll get to feel it too. He can feel his hands on your skin, and the way his hips lock against yours. He'll feel the warmth of your blood and he will feel his hand against the knife as I rip you open." His voice got thinner as he spoke until he hissed the final word. Her head throbbed and she opened her mouth to scream.
Nothing came out except a pitiful, breathy whine. He laughed and moved her wrists so he was holding both in one of his large hands. He lifted the knife. There was nothing she could do. She looked into his eyes, searching for any semblance that Stiles was in there. All she saw was steel and bone. But, she could feel him.
"Stiles, don't look." She gasped. The thing above her cocked his head in amusement. "Ok? Don't look. Everything is gong to be ok. They're going to save you. I promise they'll save you. Just please, don't look!" The sobs overtook her.
"Oh, believe me, he can't look away." He cooed above her. Then the knife plunged down, and at last a scream ripped from her throat. It did not matter, however, because he did not stop until he was finished.
She woke stretched along the shadowy stairs, her hair a thick curtain across her face. She sat up slowly and rubbed her hands across her stomach, feeling the pearl buttons and silky cherry red fabric. Dried blood had blossomed like crimson roses along her abdomen. She was not in pain. She lifted her shirt and inspected the long, deep gash that ran from her belly button all the way up her chest. It gaped open when she slouched and realistically all of her organs should be spilling out onto her blood-smeared jeans. Instead they stayed where they were.
Distantly, as though through water-filled ears, she heard deep, heaving, beyond hysterical weeping. She peered through the stair rails.
The thing was kneeling over her, slicing with his knife. He was mumbling beneath his breath.
"Did you feel her when she died? The way her body softened and relaxed. That's the best part. Oh, Stiles, there's so much blood. Do you think I should fix that pretty face of hers?" He grazed the knife over her face, before pressing deeper.
"You bastard!" The voice in her mind screamed distantly. The thing tutted, making quick work along her mouth.
"Don't talk like that. Now, what else should we do?" It hummed and moved to her shoulders.
"Don't, please." The voice wept, as the knife slid beneath her shirt and began cutting away.
"Stiles. We have to make this look as bad as possible." It said. "Your life needs to be ruined! We need everyone in this town, in this entire country, to know your name. We need to ruin you."
"I don't care! I don't care, please. Just stop touching her!" The voice screamed.
"You have no way out now." It whispered gently. "Not even Daddy will be able to protect you. He's going to walk in, and see her in bits. He won't be able to look you in the eye ever again."
"Please, stop." Stiles whispered in her ear. The thing chuckled.
"No one will believe you."
"That's not true." Lydia said, standing at the base of the stairs. Her hand rested on the railing, as though it rested on the surface of a pool, floating. It looked up at her in shock.
"Lydia?" Stiles whispered, hopefully, reverently. The thing stood up, glaring down at her.
"So, the little witch is hanging on?" It sneered. Lydia lifted her chin.
"I am not a witch." She snapped, moving across the floor. Her feet made no sound. She had to brace herself physically, prepare for each step. The wood was soft now and she had a feeling if she relaxed her next step would take her to the basement. She glided, and with that silent advance Lydia became aware of a new presence, deep within herself. Something that had been waiting to be discovered.
"No. You're a banshee." It rolled his eyes.
She's a banshee.
"There is nothing you can do to stop me. Especially now. You can barely stand here without sinking through the floor. You can't stop me." Something flashed across his eyes, and a leer slowly grew across his face. He twirled the knife in his long fingers. "You can't stop me from doing this." He pressed the blade against his arm and began pressing. Blood bubbled and began running down his forearm like wax on a lit candle.
"Stop!" Lydia screeched. She surged forward, her feet not even touching the floor, and slammed her palms against his chest. He flew backwards and landed on his back.
She's a banshee. The voice continued to murmur.
"Yes. I am a banshee." Lydia echoed, stepping between him and her body. The voice was silent for a moment, before it began speaking directly to her. The thing glared at her. It spat and hissed and called her a whore. Words slid through her mind, soft and velvety.
Lydia, scream.
"But, that didn't work." She replied, watching as the thing rose and began striding towards her, hell-bent.
Scream, Lydia. Scream. Stiles urged. The newly discovered chasm within her sunk deeper and something came rising from it. It ripped through her body and clawed at her throat. Her shoulders arched backward and a thousand screams came from the circle of her mouth. It fell to his knees and slammed his fists over his ears. A roar of agony distorted his face. A thick syrupy substance began dripping from his ears and nose, black as tar. The blackness leaked from his eyes in large tears. He coughed and vomited the sludge onto the floor. It mixed with the smear of blood around him.
Lydia's thousand screams did not waver or pause until the bile stopped and Stiles gasped for breath. He remained on his hands and knees thickly sucking in air.
"He's gone." Stiles heaved. His voice lilted in relieve. He looked up with the joy of freedom radiating from his eyes. That light faded quickly when he looked right passed her. "Lydia?" He asked, confusion hushing his words. He jerked his head from side to side, searching, inspecting the ceiling. Lydia sank to her knees before him.
"Say you can see me!" She urged. His eyes continued to shift. She reached forward and her hand fell through his. He shuddered and jerked his hand back. The stickiness that his hand slid through drew his attention to the increasing slick of blood he knelt in.
His breathing once again became hyper and fragile.
"No." He whispered. His hands covered his face in rememberance. He heaved. Then lifted his face, and looked at what lay just feet before him. "No. Lydia, please." He pleaded fruitlessly. His shoulders shook beneath the passionate waves of his despair. He began to move towards the bloody mass.
"Stiles, don't look!" Lydia cried out. She tried to stop him, but her hands passed through his shoulder and left a frenzy of shivers. She wrenched at her hair.
The front door slammed open. Scott and Isaac stared in horror at Stiles and the pile that used to be Lydia. Isaac gagged uncontrollably onto the rug.
"Don't look at it!" Lydia screamed. Scott looked up at her in terrified confusion. "Get him away! Scott, stop him!" Her voice was piercing.
Scott tackled Stiles, shoving him out of the blood. Stiles began screaming and lashing out mindlessly. Scott wrapped himself around his best friend, cradling him.
"Lydia, what is going on?" Scott shouted. The air pressed against and through her skin. She was trapped, caught midway.
"There was something in him, Scott. Something evil and it took over and… it killed me. I'm dead." She said, the words rushed out of her mouth. Scott's large brown eyes moved from her to the pile on the floor. A rush went through her and she looked over to see Isaac's hand passing through her arm.
"What happened?" Scott asked, tightening his hold on Stiles.
"It's not important right now, ok? You need to get Stiles out of here. He can't – he can't be around this right now." Lydia urged.
"Oh, God, Lydia." Isaac said painfully. She whirled on him
"Start the car. Go!"
Isaac stared at her with large eyes, before jogging out of the house. She heard a car door slam. Scott grunted as he lifted Stiles long body in his arms, like a father carrying a newborn baby.
"Lydia…" He murmured, stalling in front of her.
"I'll be fine." She stated. Stiles' animalistic sobbing and screaming enveloped her. She pressed her hands against her ears and cried out desperately, "Get him out! Get him out, now!"
Scott nodded frantically and carried Stiles out of the house. The door closed and Lydia sank to her knees beside her body. She covered her face with her hands and, for just a moment, allowed the floor to swallow her.
Thank you so much for reading! I don't know when I am going to post the second half of the story, but I am pretty sure this will just be two chapters. Feel free to review!
Also, the whole idea of Lydia dying and coming back as a ghost is not my original idea. I saw it in a speculation post for the rest of 3B. For the life of me I can't find the post anymore or else I would credit. If you know what I am talking about or wrote it yourself then please tell me because I really want to give credit where credit is due.