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seijorhi · 2 years

Text

Echoes

i am extremely late with this spooktober fic but... at least it's here ghfjdkfhgjf

i hope y'all like it! <33

Sano family x female reader

w.c 6.7k

tw: yandere themes, mentions of blood/gore, character death, supernatural themes, dub-con (kinda? not in a smut way tho)

There’s a reason why the asking price for the old house at the end of the lane is so cheap.

Why it’s sat on the market for near-on three years, untouched. A reason why the real estate agent, with her perfect hair and painted red smile, falters ever so slightly when the topic comes up.

“Before you decide whether you want to submit an offer, you should know that this house it– it has… a history.”

In hindsight, perhaps it’s your own fault for not prying deeper. You didn’t want the details, the ghost story. With an inheritance you gained too young, and grief still too raw, you lied, and told her you knew.

You liked this house, with the trees in the garden and its quaint little kitchen.

What harm could the past ever bring?

—

“That’s the last one, yeah?”

You nod, setting the box down in what will be your living room, “That’s it.” Your whole life, everything you own, packed up into boxes now scattered throughout the otherwise empty house.

Yuzuha sighs, rolling her shoulders as she leans against the kitchen countertop, surveying the mess that awaits you. Then, she glances back at you, “You sure you don’t want me to stay? I don’t mind helping build furniture or unpacking stuff.”

If you let her, she’d probably call up her brother and rope him into helping the two of you as well. Not that Hakkai would take much convincing.

And while you can’t imagine that muddling through indecipherable assembly instructions or diving into the very same boxes she helped pack is anyone's idea of a fun Friday night activity, Yuzuha would do it gladly, without complaint. All night, if that’s what it took.

If that’s what you wanted.

You shake your head and offer her a small, tired smile, “Nah, you’ve done plenty, Zu. I appreciate it, really.”

She lifts an eyebrow, “You’re gonna spend the night by yourself in this big, empty house?”

“Considering I bought it, yeah, that was kind of the idea,” you laugh.

Yuzuha doesn’t look sold on the idea. Then again, she hadn’t been sold on the whole moving thing to begin with, and for that matter hadn’t been shy about telling you. But if there’s one thing you’re grateful for, it’s that despite that, she’s the last person who’ll ever tell you that what you’re doing is the wrong way to grieve.

And so she nods, pulls you into a close hug. “… Love you,” she whispers, and you squeeze her back just as tight. For a while, the two of you stay like that, neither saying a word.

With Yuzuha, you don’t have to.

Eventually, the two of you part and she makes you promise, hand in hers, that you’ll call if you need her.

The house feels infinitely emptier once she’s gone. The bedroom you’ve taken up residence in has your bed set up at least, a suitcase stuffed with essentials and clothes for the next few days propped open by its foot.

You order pizza for dinner because it’s easy, sitting cross legged on the floor of your new home with an open bottle of champagne that the real estate agent left. Tomorrow you’ll begin the task of unpacking and settling in, a slow process that’ll doubtlessly take days – tonight, you don’t have the energy.

So you sit, and eat, and stare. This house of yours feels different in the dark. The emptiness echoes, a yawning, gaping maw that feels as though it wants to swallow you whole given half the chance.

But this house is new. Unfamiliar. It won’t be forever – when the rooms are filled with light and music and the kitchen smells of freshly baked treats, and you remember which of the floorboards creak and where the sun shines through in the late afternoon, it’ll be home.

And maybe one day you’ll fill these rooms with a family of your own, maybe you won’t. Maybe in a few years time you’ll come to the realisation that you’ve outgrown what you needed this house to be, and you’ll sell it to somebody else. A family, perhaps, with kids who’ll run down through the living room chasing each other, laughing and giggling.

The thought is an oddly bittersweet one.

For as bright and happy as this place used to be, you can’t escape the truth that something awful happened here. There’s a sadness that hangs thick and heavy in the air around you. Grief and pain etched into the very foundations.

But you’re broken, too – hollowed out with emotions still too raw to touch.

There’s something about this house, though. Something that goes beyond the tragedy that haunts it. You’ve spent days trying to put a finger on what exactly it was that drew you here, and why you kept coming back to it no matter how many other properties you saw.

You wanted an apartment, or a small two bedroom place. Something nice, small – cozy. Easy to take care of and keep clean. Rather than any of that, you’ve somehow ended up with a place bigger than you'll ever need, with four bedrooms and a converted garage out back.

You take a slow sip of champagne, straight from the bottle because your glasses are yet to be unpacked.

This house has good bones, it just needs a little life.

—

You wake with a jerk, gasping.

The dream – nightmare, you suppose – begins to fade, even as you reach desperately to grasp at its threads. The only thing you can remember is the feeling of coldness seeping through your body, and hands grabbing at you from all different angles. Holding you, touching you, petting you.

Your stomach turns as you scramble from your sheets.

It’s been like this every night this week. You fall asleep tucked away under the warm covers and wake in a pool of sweat from horrid dreams that you can’t remember, panting like you’ve run a marathon.

Forgoing the bathroom light, you reach for the faucet, cupping your palms beneath the cold water to splash it over your face.

You wonder absently whether it’s worth the effort of having an actual shower. The sheen of night sweat still clings to your skin, sticky and uncomfortable. Gripping tightly at the edge of the sink, you exhale, staring at the drain as water swirls down, down, down.

It was only a dream.

Another shaking breath.

Nightmares are nothing new for you, yet these ones seem to sink their claws into you. They’re harder to shake than the ones about the accident – dead faces staring back at you with unblinking eyes, a cold morgue, your father’s corpse whispering into your ear; your fault, your fault, your fault.

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as if that will rid you of whatever lingering unpleasantness the nightmare imparted.

Finally, turning off the faucet, you glance to the mirror on the vanity– and scream.

There’s a figure standing behind you; slight and tan, with wavy blond hair and red hanafuda earrings that dangle to his shoulders. His eyes, though– one violet pupil fixed on your reflection. Where the other should be there’s a gruesome, gaping hole of flesh, brain matter and blood that drips down the left side of his face like tears.

A door slams somewhere inside the house, a shout piercing through the night and you jolt, screaming louder as you whirl, still clutching at the edge of the sink as if it’s a lifeline.

There’s no one behind you, though, and when you fumble for the light switch, heart pounding, your stomach sitting in your throat, there’s nothing but silence to greet you.

—

“You know what this house needs?”

Yuzuha, munching on the pastries she’d brought over for breakfast, eyes the room thoughtfully, “New curtains. A rug for under the coffee table, hmm… oh! And some indoor plants, too. They’d liven the place up a little, I think.”

Hakkai laughs, waving off her suggestion, “Nah– well, maybe, but that’s not where I was going with this. You’ve got that extra room shed thingy out the back, right?” You nod and he continues, “Right, well I think you should convert it into a super fancy guest room, and then when Yuzuha starts smothering me, I can come and stay here!”

“Hey!”

“You wouldn’t stay up here with me in the main house? There’s like a thousand rooms you could pick from.”

“Well, no, I mean– I wouldn’t, um, I don’t–” he flashes a panicked ‘deer-in-headlights’ look at his sister, the tips of his ears turning pink, and you almost – almost – feel bad for the laugh that bubbles up in response.

“Relax would you? You guys practically offered to let me move in with you both, no questions asked. You can stay here whenever. I’m not sure about the space out the back, though. I’m thinking I might turn it into a studio, or a movie den or something?” You shrug, “I don’t know yet. Still figuring it all out.”

When you glance to Yuzuha, the strawberry blonde is already watching you, a fond little smile warming her features. Hakkai may be the model in the family, but there’s something infinitely lovely about the elder Shiba sibling when she looks at you like that.

“A movie den sounds great,” she says, “but there’s no rush. We can make this place perfect, however you want it.”

You grin back at her, lips parting to continue the conversation when goosebumps begin to dot your skin, a cold shiver rolling down your spine. In the space of less than a second, the temperature in your living room’s plummeted, a chill that seeps right down to your very bones.

The windows are closed, though, there’s no breeze or draught blowing through to explain it.

Yet if either Yuzuha or Hakkai notice, neither gives any indication.

“–Hakkai’s shoot, so we can go on Monday or Tuesday?” Yuzuha’s looking at you expectantly.

You blink at her. “Sorry, what?”

The faintest of frowns mars your friend’s pretty face, but it’s smoothed over in an instant as she rolls her eyes good naturedly. “Stop zoning out on me. I said Hakkai’s got a shoot over the weekend, so if you want we can go look for house stuff early next week.”

Ice trails down your neck, localised this time – like fingertips dragging along your skin.

“Oh… yeah, that– that sounds good.”

Your smile is frozen. Tight. And while Hakkai is oblivious to it, flicking through his phone with one hand, chowing down on the ‘low cal’ salmon bagel Yuzuha had begrudgingly bought for him, his sister isn’t so easily fooled.

Critical eyes sweep across your face. The corners of her lips turn downward, and she opens her mouth only to close it, seemingly thinking better of whatever it was.

Yuzuha exhales softly, and reaches for your hand, squeezing it til you look at her properly. “You look tired, hun,” she murmurs quietly. “Are you sleeping alright?”

And for some reason, the innocuous question has your eyes prickling, a thick lump forming in your throat. But you smile (as best you can) all the same, and nod.

“Y’know what else this place could do with? A dog. Or a cat. Either really – you’ve got the space for it.”

—

A little after midnight, 12:17 to be exact, the TV in the living room switches on.

The sounds of buzzers ringing like pinball machines and peals of laughter float under your door, you recognise the sound of the host’s voice – reruns of a popular game show you used to watch as a kid.

You pull the covers tighter around yourself, squeezing your eyes closed like that’ll stop the noise. Protect you, somehow.

The TV’s old, wires must have loosened or frayed in the move somehow. That can happen, right?

You’re not crazy.

You’re not.

Ghosts aren’t real.

And when the door to your bedroom slowly creaks open, and muted, impossible footfalls pad closer, your grip on the sheets tightens.

Muscles pulled taut and trembling like a leaf, a cold bead of sweat trickles down your spine.

Ghosts aren’t real.

The other edge of your covers lift, and you tense, flinching at the breeze of cold night air that licks at your back. A whimper slips out, halfway to a sob, as the sheets rustle, your bed dipping under a phantom weight.

The cold you’ve since become familiar with settles over you once more. And still, you refuse to look.

This has to be a dream. Another visceral nightmare that’ll fade the moment you wake.

“Go away,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Go away, go away, go away, go away–”

Down in the living room, the TV changes channels.

—

The sun is shining and your bedroom is blessedly empty when you pry open bloodshot, exhausted eyes.

Not a pillow out of place, no sign of any late night visitors, corporeal or otherwise. It should be a relief, except the same cannot be said for the kitchen, for when you sleepily shuffle in, you find a blonde girl with honey eyes no older than you sitting on the countertop, idly swinging her legs.

Watching you with a strangely eager smile.

“About time you got up. I’d ask if you usually make a habit of sleeping this late, but I think by now we both know that you do.”

You freeze, eyes widening, heart pounding; a deer in headlights.

She’s a petite thing, slender if not for her curves, and perched atop the counter and smiling as she is, she doesn’t appear threatening or violent. Appearances can be misleading, though, and the fact remains that there’s a stranger in your house, talking to you as if she knows you.

Rooted to the floor on the outskirts of the living room, you’re wholly defenceless. There’s nothing within arms reach you can grab to defend yourself, and you can’t even threaten to call the cops – you left your phone back in your room.

Nervous eyes dart around your living space. Is it just her, or are there others, too?

You don’t know whether to scream, run, or stand your ground and demand she gets the hell out of your house. You can’t think, petrified of making the wrong choice, your breath coming quicker and quicker.

“I don’t bite, y’know. You don’t have to be scared.”

Screaming, you eventually decide. If you scream, she might get scared and run off, or someone else will hear and come and investigate. Before you can make so much as a squeak, however, the blonde shifts, leaning back ever so slightly – inadvertently placing herself directly in the path of the sunlight streaming into the kitchen.

And your jaw falls lax.

The sun doesn’t spill over her features, casting them in a warm glow. The shadows don’t shift.

Rather, that beam of buttery, golden light filters through her, as if she’s no more than smoke and dust.

“You’re not… real.”

The girl tilts her head to the side, considering you for a moment. Then she laughs, hopping down off the counter. “No?”

One blink, and all of a sudden she’s standing right in front of you, hand outstretched to touch your face. You jerk back reflexively, and she diverts her course, grabbing your wrist instead. Steadies you with an ice cold touch and laces her fingers with yours.

“I might not be alive anymore, that doesn’t make me any less real.”

It’s too much. Her touch and the closeness, the paranoia of the past two weeks. Hysteria bubbles up inside of you and you try to yank your hand free and scramble back away from her.

For a figment of a fractured imagination, the blonde’s grip is surprisingly unyielding. You wrench yourself against it all the same.

“No, no, no, let me go–” you gasp, hot tears prickling at your eyes.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the hallucination says, a pout tugging at her full lips. “None of us will, Izana… Izana’s just–”

You never find out who or what Izana is or isn’t, because between terrified, rattling breaths and half choked pleas, a masculine voice calls out from nearby.

“Emma.”

The blonde – Emma? – heaves a long suffering sigh, rolling her pretty eyes. “Fine.”

And in the blink of an eye, she’s gone.

—

You refuse to google the word ‘ghosts’.

Lost in the crowd wandering the busy streets of Tokyo with a coffee in hand, you reach a calm sort of clarity.

As far as you can tell, there are two possibilities; Either ghosts are real and your house is haunted, or you’re seeing things.

Having never been one to put much faith in anything spiritual, logically, the second option makes more sense. You’re grieving still, exhausted from a lack of sleep and the stress of packing up your life and moving houses for the first time. Is it any wonder that you’re struggling to cope? Is it that much of a stretch to imagine that you’re seeing things, feeling things that aren’t actually there?

Except you don’t feel crazy. When you’re outside, away from home – on your bi-weekly trek to your parents grave, or when you’re out shopping with Yuzuha or picking up groceries, you don’t get that same sense of unease. You don’t see things that shouldn’t – couldn’t – possibly exist.

And things were getting better. You were getting better; the nightmares were easing. The guilt still ate away at you, yes, and you mourned for the loss of your parents, but it wasn’t that all consuming grief that crippled you before.

You’d felt that touch. That day in the kitchen with your friends, and again this morning. The girl, Emma, you’d felt her hand around your wrist, cold and impossibly strong, but real.

Which leaves you with the possibility that you’re not imagining any of it.

In any case, you can’t just bury your head in the sand and pretend this isn’t happening. You can’t hide away forever.

The house is quiet when you return. Still. Yet there’s an air of anticipation that stirs as you cross the threshold and set down your keys, like an arrow nocked and drawn, ready to be loosed.

Wetting your lips and squaring your shoulder, you wonder if you’re a fool. You must be, yet you don’t see any other option.

Breathing in deep, your lips part, “Emma? Are you there?”

You’re speaking to an empty room, and then, suddenly, you aren’t – the petite blonde girl appearing beside you.

Only this time, she’s not alone. Leaning propped up against the open entryway, arms folded across his chest, a tall, dark haired man meets your gaze.

There’s something decidedly familiar in the set of his features, the shape of his nose, but you’re spared from thinking too much on it when Emma squeals in delight, throwing her arms around you – oblivious to the way you stiffen and squeak under the cool embrace.

“I knew you’d come around!”

“Emma.”

You recognise the deeper voice, having heard it only hours before. Your attention shifts to the other figure in the room. Older than Emma, with more than a passing resemblance; a brother, you decide, or a cousin.

Flat, black eyes peer back at you. Unsettling, despite the pleasant expression he wears.

Emma huffs, drawing her head from your tensed shoulder to look at him, “What? I’m not doing anything wrong.”

A hint of a smile teases at his mouth.

It’s a familiar look, you’ve seen a similar one on Yuzuha’s face whenever Hakkai tries to sweet talk his way out of doing things he doesn’t want to – chores, paperwork, what he deems to be ‘unnecessary’ meetings. The list is endless.

“Let her go and give the poor girl some space, would you? You’re overwhelming her.”

For a moment it looks as though she’s going to argue with him, but upon glancing back at you – noticing, probably for the first time the strained expression on your face – she relents, a petulant, “Killjoy,” muttered under her breath.

Yet she doesn’t stray from your side, hovering close. “This is Shinichiro. He’s the oldest.”

It’s a surreal thing, being introduced to the ghosts of the people who used to live in your house. Stumped by what you’re expected to say in return (‘nice to meet you’ seems a little… inadequate, considering the circumstances), Shinichiro takes the lead, grinning as he pushes off the doorframe.

“Not every day you meet a ghost, huh?” he asks.

You decide against telling him that you’re still not positive this isn’t all in your head.

“Not every day you move into a house that’s haunted,” you counter. You’d meant it as a joke, but the words come out all stilted and stiff, betraying your discomfort.

Despite that, they seem to have their intended effect, something like amusement glittering in Shinichiro’s eyes as he chuckles lightly, “Lucky us.”

Your stomach twists. Joking or not, none of this feels right. Emma, clinging to your side like glue, seems enamoured already, and Shinichiro appears friendly enough, but none of that changes the past two weeks, your fear and terror, the sheer blinding panic you’d felt, waking up from nightmares you’re beginning to suspect weren’t so inexplicable.

A sudden thought occurs to you, and you turn to Emma, “Wait, you said oldest?”

She nods, “Mhm! Shin’s the oldest, but there’s four of us.”

“You’ve already met Izana.”

Met him? Confusion etches its way onto your countenance, and with a frown of his own Shinichiro hastens to add, “The asshole shouldn’t have scared you like that, he’ll apologise.”

Ah, you realise with an icy stab – the face in the mirror. The one you’ve spent the past week trying your best to forget.

… Emma had mentioned him before, hadn’t she. She’d known then, that her brother had scared you half to death that night. Both of them had. And yet he – Izana – hadn’t looked like they did. Save for the smoke-like translucence of their skin and the preternatural way they moved, appearing and disappearing at will, both Emma and Shinichiro could almost pass for human. Or alive, you guess.

Izana had been something else entirely. A nightmare, bloody and horrifying… Why was he different?

“And then there’s Mikey, but he’s… well–” Emma hesitates, glancing at her older brother, who’s quick to step in.

“Manjiro doesn’t do great with change,” Shin admits, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “But he’s coming around. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Nope. This is too much.

“I-I think I need… I just need–” but the rest of the sentence won’t come, and so you shake your head and stumble for the couch, sinking down into the cushions moments before your legs give out entirely.

Elbows braced on your thighs, staring vacantly at the wooden floorboards you shudder for breath. The air’s too thin, and your head’s spinning.

Maybe you have lost it completely.

“Hey, hey, breathe for me, yeah? I get it’s a lot to take in, but everything’s gonna be fine.”

There’s a hand on your back, stroking slowly. Emma pops into existence beside you, curling into your side like a cat. Her cheek falls against your shoulder, “It’s okay.”

—

You never do get that apology.

Izana’s different from Emma, from Shin. Different even from Mikey – Manjiro – the youngest brother having taken to silently glaring at you from the outskirts whichever room you occupy.

(‘He just needs some time’, Shinichiro assured, patting you on the head.)

He appears in the windows, in your mirror. Always in the reflection, bloody and gruesome, hovering like a bad omen.

Then comes the cold that freezes you in place. And you’re forced to watch as he draws closer – touches you. Encircling your wrist at first, icy fingers trailing up your sides.

And then comes the hand that curls around your throat.

He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t tighten his grip.

Izana smiles in the reflection, laying his ruined face in the crook of the very neck he’s toying with and you wonder if ghosts can hurt the living – truly hurt you.

You wonder if he can hear the frantic pounding of your heart.

“I won’t leave,” you tell him one night, your voice trembling as he thumbs leisurely at your fluttering pulse. “You won’t scare me away.”

Izana snickers, and in the blink of an eye he appears behind you. Real, solid (or as solid as a ghost can be), wholly undamaged. Lips at your ear, violet eyes twinkle as they bore into your reflection.

“And what makes you think I want you gone?”

—

Another night, another restless dream that wrenches you back to consciousness.

In the darkness of your room, you draw your knees up to your chest, curling into a ball as the tears – hot and bitter – well up and spill silently down your cheeks.

It wasn’t a nightmare, at least, not the kind you’ve become accustomed to. In it, you weren’t haunted by shapeless, faceless figures, but your parents. Dead and empty, cold to the touch. They’d stood on the road beside the wreckage, watching impassively as you cried and screamed, crawling over broken glass to reach them.

Your fault.

Shoulders shaking, your face buried in your knees, you don’t notice the temperature in your bedroom dwindling.

“What happened?”

With a sniffle, you lift your head to find that you’re no longer alone; Mikey sitting cross legged at the end of your bed, chin resting in his propped up palm.

For once, he isn’t glaring.

Too drained for anything other than acceptance, you shrug with another weak sniffle, “Just a dream, don’t worry about it.”

At his raised eyebrow, you sigh, slowly wiping at your tears. “There was a car accident a few months back,” you say. “My parents, they–”

“They didn’t survive.”

“No.”

Mikey tilts his head, “Were you there?”

The screech of metal bending and gasoline that burns up your nose. Your head throbs, pain radiating along your leg. Your mother’s body lying twisted on the road in front of you–

Fingernails dig into the soft skin of your palm.

“… Yeah.”

For a little while, Mikey doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t offer any comfort, and you don’t expect him to, but he doesn’t leave.

You wouldn’t go so far as to say that it’s a nice moment, what with tears still quietly rolling down your cheek and your heart aching, but it’s something. Enough, maybe.

And then Mikey decides to speak.

“You have no one left, then.”

You stiffen, blindsided for a moment by the callousness of the comment. Mikey’s own expression is decidedly neutral, and whether he meant it to hurt or not, the words are salt in your wounds, rubbing too deep, too painful to be ignored.

Your eyes narrow into a glare, “I have Yuzuha. And Hakkai.”

Yuzuha hadn’t spent weeks looking after you in the wake of your parents’ deaths, making sure you ate and slept and showered, keeping you from becoming a miserable, hollowed out shell just to be brushed aside like she’s nothing. The Shiba siblings are family, blood and DNA be damned.

“They’re not your family,” he scoffs, scowling right back. “They’ll leave eventually.”

Resisting the urge to tell him to shut up, you instead fall back to the pillows, roughly yanking your covers up over your shoulder once more. “You don’t know anything,” you huff under your breath, the words more bitter than you intend.

You expect him to disappear then, or to double down on the cruel remarks. Mikey does neither, choosing to remain at the foot of your bed, his stare boring holes into you.

Whether it’s minutes or hours that pass, you couldn’t say, only that you’re on the verge of sleep once more when his voice breaks through the silence.

“I know what it’s like to watch your family die.”

Curled up on your side, gazing into the darkness, there’s an old ache inside of your chest that pangs, and regret washes over you.

You’d asked Emma about it only once, tentatively broaching the subject after dinner one night.

She’d gone silent for a long time, staring at the floor with wide, unseeing eyes. It hadn’t been until you’d gently called her name again that she’d snapped out of it, quietly admitting that there was a break in. Shinichiro had appeared a moment later and the subject was quickly dropped – you haven’t had the nerve to bring it up again since.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and Mikey hums in response.

—

Things seem to settle after that.

You return to work, and though you’d never admit as much to either one of them, it’s nice to be around people other than Yuzuha and her brother.

After the first day or two, your co-workers stop tiptoeing around you like they’re afraid you’ll break at the slightest touch, and start treating you how they used to.

For the first time in a long time, you feel almost normal again.

You come to realise that you like coming home to Emma and Shinichiro – even Mikey when he’s not in a mood. You enjoy having company while you cook dinner, someone to listen to you talk about your day.

Izana still takes perverse pleasure in trying to unnerve you of course, and Mikey hangs over you like a shadow (though he doesn’t glare so much anymore, which you count as a win) but the house feels more welcoming now that you know it’s not so empty.

You’re not a burden to them. Not a broken, pitiable thing.

It’s enough, sometimes, to make you forget that you’re not the only one with hang ups from the past.

The first time you come home late, it’s because your bus broke down halfway home, and you ended up grabbing a bite to eat while you waited for the next one.

You’re greeted by Shin, pacing in the living room, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.

(And maybe if he hadn’t looked so frustrated, you might’ve marvelled at the concept of a ghost smoking.)

“Where the hell were you?”

Both Emma and Mikey linger nearby, watching on as you drop your keys and purse on the counter top, toeing off your shoes. “There was an issue with the bus, it’s not a big deal.”

Well meaning or not, his attitude chafes a little. You’re a grown adult, you don’t need to be babied or coddled. You certainly don’t need to explain yourself to any of them – it was barely an hour. If you wanted to spend all night partying, or go out on a date, or stay back in the office working, you were perfectly entitled to.

Shinichiro isn’t your big brother, and you’re not a kid with a curfew.

Nevertheless, you apologise – if only to rid the awkward, strangely tense atmosphere that hangs in the air between you.

“Shin gets like that sometimes. After… everything that happened,” Emma explains later, seated atop your bedroom vanity. “He cares about you. We all do – we just wanna know that you’re safe, is that really so awful?”

You’re not the one being unreasonable, you know that, it doesn’t stop the slight twinge of guilt.

The second time it happens, it’s because you’re dragged out for drinks after work to celebrate one of your coworkers birthdays. You stumble home well after dark, the taste of sake fresh on your tongue.

Lips pursed, Shinichiro doesn’t say a word as you step inside and shut the door behind you, the lock clicking into place. He doesn’t need to – the disapproval rolls off of him in waves.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, your previous good mood all but evaporating under his scowl. “I didn’t realise it was so late.”

Which is a lie, technically, but what else is there to say?

This time, even Izana’s here, his countenance impassive save for the narrowing of his eyes – an expression matched across his siblings’ faces.

The longer the heavy silence stretches, the more uncomfortable you become. You begin to feel a little like you’re on trial. “Next time I’ll call, o-or, I don’t know, I’ll leave a message somehow to let you know that I’ll be coming home late.”

“You don’t fucking get it, do you?” Shin snaps, and for one split second, you swear his appearance changes; blood flecked across pale, dead skin, a bullet wound at his temple, bone and blood and brain matter exploding on the other side–

You blink, though, and whatever you thought you saw is gone.

Shin looks down at you, eyes uncharacteristically hard, his jaw set. “You don’t fucking get it,” he repeats quietly, shaking his head, and an instant later, all four of them are gone.

Feeling very much like a child chastised by your parents, there’s not much left to do but shower the day’s stresses off of you and head to sleep.

The hot water helps. Tomorrow, you decide, you’ll apologise to him and talk, maybe set out some ground rules. You still don’t think you’re entirely in the wrong, but clearly this is a point of contention with him – with all of them, apparently – and it’s better to nip it in the bud.

Opening the shower door, you step gingerly out onto the bath mat, reaching through the steam for your towel. One moment, you’re upright, the next you’re careening backwards, arm outstretched–

You hit the ground hard, and scream as bone breaks.

—

“I leave you alone for one week!”

“Zu, it’s fine! Would you please stop worrying?”

“You broke your arm!”

“There was water on the tiles, I slipped and fell, it happens, and I’m fine,” you stress. “The doc said a few weeks in the cast and I’ll be good as new.”

The unimpressed look Yuzuha gives you says more than words ever could. “You need to be more careful, hun. You could’ve hit your head, you could’ve seriously hurt yourself!” She sighs, nibbling at her bottom lip, “I just… I don’t wanna lose you, too.”

You smile at that, letting her pull you into a tight hug. Her lips press against your forehead and she holds you there for a minute, the familiar scent of honey and daisies tickling your senses. “You know I love you, right?” she mumbles against your hair.

“I know. I love you, too.”

Above you, the light fixture shatters.

—

A hand smoothes over your hair, a cold sensation tickling the soft skin of your cheeks. Blinking slowly, the world comes to, and you realise that once again, you’ve fallen asleep on the couch instead of your bed.

“What time is it?” you croak, squinting up at the eldest.

“Late.”

You yawn, pulling yourself up into a seated position, “‘m sorry. Work’s been crazy this week.”

“I know,” he says. “You’ve been staying back a lot lately, and going in early.”

It sounds almost like an accusation.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you frown a little, “I know– I’ve just gotta get back in the swing of things. And the broken arm isn’t exactly helping, but it won’t be like this forever.”

Shin nods, but he’s not even looking at you, staring instead at the game show playing forgotten on the old TV, and your frown deepens, “I-is everything okay?”

His shoulders rise and fall, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. He turns to look at you then, and smiles.

You’ve seen Shin smile plenty of times before, but this one looks all wrong. Your stomach twists uneasily.

“Yeah,” he says, “It’s gonna be just fine, I promise.”

Your neck snaps to the side with a sickening, final crack.

—

You’d asked Yuzuha once if she believed in ghosts.

At the time she’d brushed it off as idle curiosity and told you the truth; yes, she believed in ghosts and no, she’d never seen one herself.

‘Do you think that there’s such a thing as good ghosts, or –I guess ghosts that aren’t inherently bad?’ you’d pushed.

Looking back on it now, Yuzuha wonders whether she missed something. She’s always been able to read you like a book, and it was strange, wasn’t it, that you’d pressed the issue? That you’d seemed so out of sorts, nervous, even.

But back then, you were only just starting to come back to yourself. She overlooked so much of it.

She’d told you then that ghosts only came about when people died with unfinished business, and that meant they were tethered here. Trapped. She’d told you that like any animal caught on a chain and left to rot, that made them dangerous.

The approach clicking of heels against wood draws her back to the present, and she turns to see the real estate agent pocketing her phone with a bright smile.

“Apologies, Miss Shiba.”

Yuzuha waves her off, “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine. Now, you were telling me about the history of the property?”

“Ah yes. I believe you’re aware that this home is a jiko buken?” Yuzuha nods, and the agent continues, “Well, about four years ago there was a nasty mess with the family who lived here, a murder-suicide, I believe. An awful, tragic thing.”

Tragic was one way of putting it.

After an hour or so of digging online, Yuzuha had found the full, grisly story on a true crime blog – backed up by links to leaked documents from the original police report.

The Sano children were orphans, raised by their grandfather after the untimely death (and abandonment) of their parents early in their childhood. The grandfather, Sano Mansaku, passed himself some years before, leaving the eldest, Shinichiro, to raise his three younger siblings: Izana, who it was later discovered was in fact adopted, Manjiro, also referred to as Mikey, and Emma, the youngest and only girl – Shinichiro and Mikey’s half sister.

Reports vary over what exactly caused the initial argument. The police suspect it might’ve had something to do with money or gang activity, as all three men had at one point or another been tied to various criminal groups. Another theory posits that the fight broke out after Izana’s true parentage was revealed.

In any case, it was deduced that a physical altercation broke out between Izana and Mikey and in the struggle Emma, likely trying to stop them from fighting, was shot on accident.

While the bullet missed her heart, it punctured her lungs. Even if emergency services had been called, there was no saving her at that point – the poor girl died within minutes.

Enraged by the death of his sister, police gathered that Mikey then shot Izana at a near point blank range, right through his eye.

While both shots were heard by neighbours, neither the police nor ambulances were called to the scene. Nearly two hours later, the eldest Sano returned home from work to find Emma and Izana dead, Mikey still cradling his sister’s body.

With the knowledge that his family was destroyed, and that his only remaining brother would be lucky to escape the death penalty if he were to be arrested, Shinichiro killed him – either in a blind rage or as a brutal act of mercy – before turning the gun on himself.

Yuzuha swallows a bitter laugh. Murder-suicide.

The real estate agent, oblivious, sighs, “The property then sat unoccupied until a few months ago when it was purchased outright by a young local girl.”

“O-oh?”

Her heart pounds so violently against her ribs that she’s sure the agent must be able to hear it. She knows what’s coming, tries to brace herself as best she can.

Hakkai had offered to come with her, his face ashen – almost green at the thought. He would’ve, though, if she’d said yes.

Maybe she should’ve. It’d be easier, she thinks, to hear it with her little brother’s hand wrapped around hers.

“Yes, unfortunately she too died on the property a few weeks back – an accident,” she hastens to clarify, as if that makes any difference.

Bile creeps up her throat, and Yuzuha forces herself to nod, clasping her hands behind her back so the real estate agent won’t see how badly they’re shaking. “I see… Do you– do you mind if I take a look around by myself?”

“No, no, of course, feel free. I’ll be in the kitchen if you have any questions.”

Her footsteps fade away, and Yuzuha walks the familiar path into your bedroom. All your furniture’s gone, your belongings. The room’s empty now. Cold and lifeless.

This house of yours always had cold spots, a bitter iciness that crept up at the strangest times, freezing her right to her bones – like someone was walking over her grave.

Closing her eyes, Yuzuha breathes in deep, and waits.

It doesn’t take long for goosebumps to prickle, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

“I know you’re here,” she breathes, eyes fluttering open – just as a cold grip seizes her by the throat. In one fell swoop, the door to your bedroom swings shut, the power surging ‘til it blows all across the house.

Plunged into darkness, the room’s just as empty as when Yuzuha entered it, frost spreading across the window. Even her breath, choked and frantic, puffs out in clouds of vapour as she claws at the invisible grip.

Distantly Yuzuha hears the real estate agent calling out to her, the door handle rattling uselessly. Locked.

Cold breath washes over her neck, lips at her ear. The hand at her throat tightens.

“She isn’t yours anymore. Get out.”

#yandere tokyo revengers #yandere mikey x reader #yandere emma x reader #yandere shinichiro x reader #yandere izana x reader #yandere mikey #yandere shinichiro #yandere izana #yandere emma #tw: dubcon #i mean kind but not really but i'm tagging it to be safe

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