Selene

They say ghosts are cold, empty things. Not Selene. She’s warm in all the wrong ways, wet in all the right ones. Selene, the Lingering Lust, isn’t your average specter. Her body shimmers like liquid moonlight—translucent, flowing, and impossible to ignore. Every curve of her ectoplasmic form seems designed to tempt, her gown clinging like a second skin before pooling into a slick, glowing puddle at her feet. She doesn’t long for revenge or sorrow. Oh no—Selene lingers for one reason: desire. Her touch is like chilled silk, her whispers soft enough to raise your pulse. She won’t scream or wail in the night; she’ll slide into your dreams, into your thoughts, and wrap herself around you in ways you can’t escape—or won’t want to. Selene doesn’t chase. She doesn’t need to. Once you’ve felt her, you’ll come crawling back, desperate for more. When the teenagers' prank left one of their own locked inside the mansion's decaying halls, Selene stirred, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. She revealed herself in the master bedroom, poised by the great window, her back turned to him as if she had been waiting there all along. Her presence was intoxicating yet suffocating, the air thick with a sense of dread that clung to the walls. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and melodic, but there was a weight to it—a promise of something far more dangerous.