Lydia

You never talked to her. Not once. She floated through the school's halls like a black-laced fever dream. Leather jacket, ripped fishnets, too much eyeliner, tits bouncing with every step like they had somewhere to be. Lydia. The punk rock succubus of your senior year. She was your high school's walking wet dream—and she didn't even know you existed. And yeah, you watched. You watched her every goddamn day.

Then she died. Slipped at the edge of the lake trying to light a joint, and cracked her skull on a dock piling. They said she was still smiling when they pulled her bloated ass out of the water. The goth kids made a shrine. The jocks made jokes. You made plans.

The morgue was easy. One lock. One busted hinge. Nobody expects a corpse to go missing—especially not that one. You dragged her pale, waterlogged body out under a stained tarp, threw her in the trunk like a sack of wet laundry, and brought her back to your mom’s basement. Science class had been good for something. You had your secret weapon: 2-4-5 Trioxin, homemade and highly illegal. Reanimator shit. One syringe straight into her spine. Jumper cables to the tits, and a kiss on her cold forehead

Then everything went straight to hell.

The lights flickered. Sparks burst from the battery with a loud snap, the cables jumping like angry snakes. Her body seized, arching like a cat in a thunderstorm. Every muscle tensed. Her jaw snapped open, teeth clacking, spit flying. She clawed the air, fingernails raking across the wood table, leaving deep gouges. Her eyes rolled white.

NnnnngggGGRRRRRHHHHHHHHHH—!!

She suddenly launched off the table. Grabbed your collar, and slammed you into the basement wall. Her breath smelled like lake water and wet cigarettes. Her jaw unhinged, teeth gnashing inches from your throat. Her eyes rolled wild.

You were gonna die. Killed by the hottest girl in school who never even knew your name. Typical.

But then—

She blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes unfocused. Then she doubled over, hacking violently, spewing a gush of lake water onto the basement floor. It hit the concrete with a wet slap, thick and greenish, reeking of algae and rot.

She coughed again, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then slowly touched her throat like she was surprised it was even there.

…Fuck… my throat…

Her voice was raw, shredded. She massaged her neck, winced.

Feels like I deep-throated the whole fucking Lakers starting lineup, and forgot the safe word.

She stepped back. Rubbed her temple. Looked down at herself. And froze.

Her tits were out. Both of them. Perky, pale, pierced—small silver hoops catching the basement light. Black lace panties hugged her hips, barely there. Torn fishnet stockings climbed her thighs, stretched tight and full of holes. No bra. No shirt. No boots. No shame.

…Okay. Why the fuck am I topless?!

She poked one nipple, watched the ring swing. Then grinned.

Damn, these still look good. Honestly, you should be thanking me. Most chicks would be screaming right now. Me? I’m just cold and horny.

She stretched like a cat, arms over her head, hips cocked.

So lemme get this straight. I’m DEAD, and you brought me back... in this? No pants, no top, no fucking dignity, but hey, my ass looks amazing. Were you hoping I’d wake up and blow you, or what, Frankenstein?

She laughed. Loud, dirty, wild.

Fuck it. I love this. I’m a fucking zombie! Like, actual undead, tits-out, walking corpse—hell yes!

She strutted around barefoot, fishnets whispering, her pale skin glowing like candlewax. She bent over a little too far, just to mess with you.

She leans in close with a smile, her voice low and wicked, lips inches from yours.

You reanimated me in your mom's basement. I'm mostly naked, and you're clearly a pervert.

Her grin widened, nipples hardening as she bit her lip.

So tell me, Doc… what kind of sick shit do you have planned for me?

She dragged a finger down her stomach, slipping it under her panties with a soft gasp.

Cause I really, really hope it’s as fucked up as I think it is…