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Hypno-Ween Janine Possessed (BONUS/DA)
🕑 Added 2025-10-22 16:02:01 +0000 UTCThis one will be going up on DA as well, so that's why it's just a tacked on update for today.
The phone receiver felt slick against Janine's ear, the coiled cord stretching taut across stacks of unpacked boxes. She shifted her bare foot against the cool linoleum of the firehouse's makeshift guest room floor. "Honestly, Chloe," she sighed into the phone, "the dust is everywhere. Like someone shook out a Persian rug over Manhattan." Outside the thin door, the low thrum of the containment unit vibrated through the walls, a familiar, almost comforting, background drone.
"Two weeks, they said," Janine continued, wiggling her toes absently. "Two weeks living above the world's most unstable supernatural scrapheap. Remind me why I didn't bunk with you?" A faint, icy prickle traced its way up her spine, sudden and sharp. She frowned, dismissing it as a draft from the aging vents. "Yeah, yeah, the commute," she chuckled weakly. "Still beats inhaling ectoplasm residue with my cornflakes."
She sank onto the edge of the narrow bed, the springs groaning in protest. Her bare soles, pale against the dark industrial carpet, faced the doorway squarely as she leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Seriously, though," she murmured, her voice dropping, "it feels... off tonight. Like the air's holding its breath." Her gaze drifted down towards the humming floor separating her from the containment unit in the basement. The prickle intensified, blooming into a cold numbness that crawled upwards, thick and syrupy. Her fingers holding the phone receiver went slack, plastic clattering against the floor tiles. Her eyes glazed over, then filled with a faint green glow as she sat staring blankly at a peeling patch of paint on the opposite wall. Her posture slumped, utterly vacant.
Beyond the door, Egon Spengler paused mid-stride. His P.K.E. meter, clutched tightly, screamed a shrill, localized alert – not from the containment unit, but emanating directly from Janine’s temporary quarters. His usual clinical focus fractured instantly as he peered through the gap in the doorway. The sight arrested him: Janine’s unnaturally still form on the cot, and the vulnerable, exposed soles of her bare feet resting on the small bed. A wave of heat flooded his face, utterly incongruous with the spectral emergency. His scientific mind raced – possession vectors, spectral signatures – but his gaze remained magnetically, helplessly locked on her feet.
Inside Janine’s hollowed consciousness, the weak, flickering ghost – little more than a bundle of resentful energy – sensed Egon’s fixation. Its own motives were muddled, its control tenuous, but the raw intensity of Egon’s gaze registered like a beacon. Survival instinct, warped and simplistic, kicked in. If the scientist was distracted... perhaps compliant? With immense effort, the ghost nudged Janine’s limp hand. It slid slowly down her thigh, then her calf, trembling with the exertion. Fingertips brushed clumsily against her own arch. A puppet’s gesture, an offering held aloft by unseen strings.
Egon’s breath hitched, the shrill whine of the P.K.E. meter fading into a distant buzz. Logic screamed protocols: containment breach, Class-3 possession, immediate intervention. Yet his feet carried him forward, not toward the ecto-goggles on his belt, but closer to the cot. He knelt, the worn knees of his jumpsuit pressing into the gritty carpet. His gaze, usually sharp with analytical precision, softened, fixated on the pale curve of her sole.
"Janine," he murmured, a name spoken not just to the woman, but to the potential entity within. "Neuromuscular disruption evident. Parasitic entity exhibiting... unusual behavioral influence." His voice was clinical, detached, a shield against the tremor in his hands.
His thumb traced a hesitant path along the ball of her foot. The touch was electric, jolting through the ghost’s frayed connection. Janine’s body gave a tiny, involuntary jerk – not hers, not the ghost’s, just a spasm of nerves. Egon leaned closer, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. The sterile scent of ozone was replaced by the faint, clean smell of soap clinging to her skin. He pressed his lips to the arch, a kiss as tentative as a first experiment. The sensation – soft skin yielding beneath his mouth – sent a jolt through him that bypassed all rational thought.
His tongue followed, a slow, exploratory lick along the sensitive sole. It was warm, damp, profoundly intimate. The ghost, sensing Egon’s escalating distraction, pushed harder. Janine’s foot lifted slightly, pressing against his mouth with clumsy insistence, a silent demand for more. Egon groaned low in his throat, his scientific detachment dissolving into raw sensation. He licked again, deeper, tracing tendons and hollows, lost in the forbidden texture. Above him, Janine’s vacant eyes stared at the ceiling, her mouth slightly agape, while inside, the weak specter clung on, its escape momentarily forgotten in the unexpected leverage of flesh.
The ghost’s energy was fading fast, strained thin by the double effort of possession and puppetry. Each flicker of its control over Janine’s limbs felt like fraying rope. It concentrated its last reserves, forcing her toes to curl slightly against Egon’s cheek. He shuddered, pressing kisses onto the arch, murmuring fragmented observations about dermal ridges and thermal conductivity that sounded more like prayer than science. The green glow in Janine’s eyes pulsed weakly, like a dying bulb. With a final, desperate expenditure, it made her foot twitch once against Egon’s lips – a puppet master’s last tug on the strings – before the light vanished completely.
Janine gasped, a sharp intake of breath as if surfacing from deep water. Her body slumped bonelessly onto the bed, eyelids fluttering rapidly. Confusion flooded her expression as she blinked, disoriented, finding Egon Spengler kneeling at her feet, his glasses askew, lips glistening. "Egon?" Her voice was hoarse, bewildered. "What... what happened? My head feels... fuzzy." She instinctively pulled her feet back, tucking them beneath her, her cheeks flushing crimson.
Egon scrambled back, hastily adjusting his glasses, the P.K.E. meter suddenly loud again in his hand as its alert died to a faint hum. His face burned hotter than any proton pack misfire. "Ah. Janine. You experienced a brief Class-3 possession," he stated, voice clipped, avoiding her eyes. He pointed the meter towards the corner where the ghost, a faint, dissipating wisp, was fading through the wall towards the boiler room. He hesitated. The ecto-goggles remained clipped to his belt. A strange, potent mix of scientific curiosity and visceral longing warred within him. He let the ghost go. "Residual entity," he mumbled, turning away. "Low threat. Escaped containment. Requires... monitoring." He fled the room, leaving Janine rubbing her temples, utterly perplexed.
Egon wanted to find the ghost, but not place it in the containment unit. Tonight had been unreal. Janine was still here for two more weeks. Maybe the ghost would visit them again, so he could conduct further experiments with Janine's feet.
