Vox is dreaming.

He's in the woods and it's pouring rain, the only shelter nearby being that old house by the radio tower. He doesn't want to go inside, doesn't want to see that pristine bedroom in a house of rot, but he doesn't have a choice if he wants to get out of the storm.

The house is warm and dry, the damp leaves muffling Vox's footsteps. He shuffles slowly through the house, finding himself opening a door disguised as paneling. Stairs lead down into the deep dark, made of raw wood that creaks dangerously when he puts his weight on the first step. His hand gropes around the frame for a light switch but finds rough wood instead.

"Hello," he calls, voice echoing back to him. He doesn't know why he does it, why he'd called out, but it has a chill creeping over him in an avalanche of goosebumps. If something is lurking down there, then he's just announced his presence.

Vox is about to back away from the stairs when he hears a shuffling down the hall. The bedroom door is sensibly shut, but there's a crack at the bottom just big enough to see the floor beyond. Vox squints at the crack, the void of blackness, until it's suddenly gone. The sound of footsteps accompanies the lack of shadow and Vox knows, he's certain, that whatever's in that room is going to hurt him.

He tries to turn and head back to the front door, but his brain moves faster than his legs and he ends up twisting, tangling, falling. He barely registers the belly-dropping sensation before he lands in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

Vox rolls slowly onto his side, curled into a ball of aching muscles. He moans low, finally pushing himself up to sitting. The basement isn't much better off than the main floor; the cement is full of pockmarks, the windows covered by tall grass and a yellow film.

"Fuc-fuck," Vox gasps. He cradles his sore arm against his chest, staring around him with wide eyes. There's no electricity down here, the only light is what filters through the windows, so he has to sit there a moment to let his eyes adjust. When they do, he suddenly wishes he were blind. There's a sigil drawn on the floor just a few feet away, the edges scorched black like someone had tried to burn the image into the cement. There's a floral scent that hangs in the air like fog, that deadly nightshade smell that he sometimes catches in the hall outside his office.

Something about this place is connected to Briarwood, or at least to the property. He thinks of the research he'd put away in his desk drawer, articles about fire and a serial killer. Briefly, he wonders if the Alastor that prepares his food is any relation to the Alastor that ate those people.

"Why are you haunting m-me," Vox demands. Anger is surging up to replace the fear, burning a path straight up his esophagus and off his tongue. "What di—" He struggles to make the i topple out of his mouth, a clumsy backflip— "Did I ever do to y-you?"

"Who said you did anythin'?" He wasn't expecting a voice, a coalescing form in the corner of the basement. Neon purple smoke forms an outline of a man, but nothing definitive, certainly not solid enough for Vox to strangle. "Maybe I just wanna have a little fun."

"Fun? Fuck your fun!"

"Fuck for fun," the voice teases. It's high, almost-but-not-quite a counter-tenor. The accent speaks of Brooklyn, but why would a ghost from New York be haunting a rundown shack in Louisiana? "That's a mighty nice offer, Voxxy."

"I-i-it's not an offer!" And, Goddamnit, why do i's have to be so fucking difficult? Why can't he have a heated argument without stuttering in his own nightmare? "Leave me the fu-fuck alone!"

"Or what?"

"Or I-I'll call a prie-priest!" There's a laugh, beautiful and terrible, like an uncontrollable blaze turning trees into matchsticks. The smoke comes closer, hips swaying while a hand slowly comes up over a busty chest, settling with fingers around a delicate throat.

"I've fucked plenty of those already. They're needy things that try to act dominant but always end up licking my boots." The smoke holds one leg out, resting on tiptoes, as though to show off a designer shoe. As it is, Vox just sees more purple smoke that falls like wisps of ash with every movement. "What I wanna play with is a man who can pin me down and make me cry. I want to feed, Voxxy."

Vox growls low in his chest, a rumbling echo that he feels in his marrow. He takes a bold step forward, then another and another until he has this spirit trapped in the same corner it had appeared in. This close, he can see flashes of white fur and a glow of eight vibrant, pink eyes, but the image wavers. Black talons tip white-furred hands like bursts of static, pale hair transforming into wild curls before returning to smoke.

"Take this cheap seduction schtick and shove it up your ass." A head tilts back to laugh again, bright as sunshine. Vox forgets himself and lashes out, his palm connecting soundly with a cheek. The thing's head snaps to the right, stumbles slightly against the wall. "I'm done with this bullshit!"

"Oh no, baby, we're just gettin' started." The smoke dissipates, blown away by an impossible wind.

It's late morning when Vox finally wakes, sitting up slowly. Valentino is lying behind him, glasses perched precariously on his nose as he scrolls through his socials. Probably another sleepless night spent coming down from whatever he'd taken yesterday after dinner.

"You look like shit," Vox rasps.

"No thanks to you." Vox makes a confused sound and Valentino lets the phone drop to their bed. When he finally looks at Vox, he's scowling and unamused. Vox wonders if he'd been talking in his sleep again and that had kept his boyfriend awake. "I had to fuckin' chase you down last night."

"What?"

"The stupid dog started barking his head off and woke me up. By the time I realized what was going on, your ass was already across the yard and heading through the gate. Barefoot, I might add. Do you know how annoying it is to chase your boyfriend through a storm and then have to wash him up afterward? I deserve some serious special treatment."

"Where was I?" He can feel his heart beating painfully in his chest, trying to impale itself on his ribs or launch itself into his throat. Valentino rolls his eyes, scowl turning into a snarl.

"Who gives a shit? The point is—"

"Where the fuck was I, Valentino." It's the use of his government name rather than the curse that has him faltering in his anger. Valentino studies him for a long moment, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Please, Tino, where did you find me?"

"In that stupid house we found the other day."

"In the basement?"

"Yeah, standing in the corner like you were trying to avoid the Blair Bitch or something. It was real freaky, Papi. Vark was losing his mind when you didn't respond." Vox swallows hard, scooting up in bed only to drop back with a wince. "Are you okay?"

"My arm…." He holds it up, revealing a swollen wrist and a scraped hand. It's not possible, he hadn't actually been in that basement. This is just a cruel prank. Valentino must have heard Vox talking in his sleep and decided to get payback.

"Jesus fuck!" Valentino takes Vox's arm gingerly in his hands, turning it this way and that to get a better look at it. "This doesn't look good at all. We need to get you to the hospital."

"Tino—"

"Don't complain, you're going. Like hell am I gonna let you suffer from your own stupidity. The only one allowed to hurt you is me." He grabs Vox's good arm and yanks him out of bed, throwing a pair of sleep pants and a sweater at Vox to put on. "Get dressed and I'll get Vel."

Vox stands there as Valentino disappears down the hall, unable to stop himself from trembling. If it wasn't a dream, if this isn't some prank, then that means it was all real. He'd really been in the basement, really seen a ghost, really threatened it. What the hell has he done? What if that thing retaliates?

Oh no, baby, we're just gettin' started.

Vox suddenly wishes he'd never heard of Static, Louisiana.