I remember the day she moved in. She looked like nothing special, a thin, mousy woman with a bob haircut and a drab blue-gray dress that cloaked her figure if she had one at all. To my surprise, she stopped at the door of the vacant apartment right next to mine. I flashed a quick, polite smile, then slid inside my little sanctuary, hoping to avoid any involvement with a new neighbor. For the first few days, all was quiet next door, except for the occasional thud as she rearranged furniture. Soon, I’d practically forgotten she was there.

Life was its usual, tedious self. I had plans to sit down and learn ten new cocktail recipes, aiming to become a better bartender and maybe move up to a high-class club on the strip. The days passed uneventfully, predictable, dull. But about two weeks after she’d moved in, something changed.

It was late at night, and I was at my laptop when strange noises seeped through the wall where her bedroom would be. I froze, my hands hovering over the keys, listening closely, just to make sure everything was okay. But then, as I focused, I realized that what I was hearing wasn’t trouble. It was moans. Soft at first, then louder, rolling through the wall. Her voice was thick with pleasure, and soon strange, foreign-sounding words slipped into her whispers.

I wanted to press my ear against the wall, but the headboard was in the way. As her moans grew more intense, so did the steady rhythm of thuds from the other side, echoing the movements of her lover. I strained to hear, drawn by the mystery and the vivid sensation. Her voice rose higher, her cries more desperate, until they mingled with a sound that sent a shiver down my spine, growls, deep and raw. Animal.

I could feel the warmth of arousal simmering between my legs, catching me by surprise. Who was this lover that seemed to unravel her completely? I heard her sigh, soft and helpless, and then silence, leaving me in my dark room, breathless, shaken, and strangely embarrassed by my reaction.

The next few nights were quiet. I’d pushed the memory aside, ashamed that I’d become so absorbed in someone else’s ecstasy. But then, at midnight sharp, her moans started again, soft and insistent. This time, I was ready. I closed my laptop, sat up in bed, and allowed myself to listen. I glanced at the clock—midnight on the dot. I shook my head at myself; how pathetic was I, listening to my neighbor’s pleasure instead of finding someone of my own?

Her sighs turned to moans, and then cries, so raw and primal, they sounded almost animal. And then, as I strained to hear, I caught something else: a voice, low and growling. It was strange, like a whisper carrying a dangerous edge. The sound of it sent a hot jolt through me, a pleasure so intense that I gasped, clutching at the sheets as warmth bloomed between my thighs, pulsing with a forbidden thrill. Just his voice and I was undone.

Desire thrummed through me, swift and relentless. She moaned again, a string of strange words spilling from her lips as if she were chanting, begging. I caught a few of them through the wall: “Dark Lord… take your whore!” Her words, desperate and reverent, crashed over me. I closed my eyes, her voice filling my head as my pleasure took me over, bringing a helpless, trembling release.

That was when my curiosity turned to obsession. The next day, I bought a small security camera and mounted it above my door, partially hidden. I wanted a glimpse of this lover who could bring her to such heights. Each night, I watched the footage, rewinding to see if anyone arrived. But even though her moans grew louder at midnight each Sunday, no one ever showed. The camera captured no man, no shadow passing through the hallway.

One night, I finally moved my headboard so I could press my ear closer to the wall. As midnight neared, I heard her strange whispers again. But this time, her words sounded deliberate, repeated. Then it hit me, she was chanting. A chill washed over me. I wanted to deny it, to convince myself it was impossible, but deep down I knew what I was hearing. This wasn’t normal. She was performing some kind of ritual, calling her lover to her from some other place.

The thought terrified me. But as her chants rose, so did my curiosity. My heart raced as I listened to her feverish cries of pleasure, and then the deep, dark growl of her lover’s voice, echoing through the thin walls. “You are dark and wicked, and I own you, body and soul, my weak little human slut.” His voice held a dangerous hunger, almost mocking her frailty. “Beg for me again, and this time, you will bring me a sacrifice.”

The words shivered through me, both alien and deeply familiar, stirring something dark and forbidden. My mind drifted to images of gray-skinned creatures, monstrous and alluring. I didn’t even try to stop myself from reaching down, touching myself in time to the fierce rhythm of their coupling, moaning my desires into the empty darkness.

As the weeks went by, I stopped hiding my moans. I wanted her to hear me, to know that I was listening, that I too craved whatever dark mystery she’d unlocked. Her ritual became my own: every Sunday at midnight, I’d take my place, and the twisted rhythm of her cries would sweep me along, closer and closer to the edge. I even began whispering my pleas, hoping the dark thing would hear me too.

Then, one Sunday night, just before midnight, I’d showered, enjoyed a glass of red wine, and settled into bed, waiting. Her chants began as they always did, drawing me into that seductive darkness. I’d barely begun touching myself, anticipation thick and heavy, when a strange warmth swept over me, brushing my skin like hot breath. My hands fell away in shock, every nerve alive with the sensation.

And then, a knock at my door. I froze, my heart racing as fear coiled up inside me, paralyzing me with a wild, terrible hope. I knew who it was. I swallowed, my heart pounding as the knock sounded again, soft but insistent.

I rose, moving as if in a dream, every step an eternity. When I opened the door, she stood there, her lips twisted in a knowing smile, her eyes dark with some secret knowledge. She leaned in close, her voice a sultry whisper: “He invites you to become his feast of flesh, to let him consume you if you dare.” Her eyes glinted, sharp and black. I shivered, trapped in her gaze.

“Come to him when you’re ready,” she murmured. Her lips brushed against mine, warm and tasting faintly of wine. She smiled, and in that moment, I felt as though I were falling into something endless and dark.

“What is your name?” I whispered, barely able to speak.

“Shava-Sen. He named me that. It means “sacred slut.” She turned and slipped away, leaving me standing in my open doorway.

For a long moment, I stared after her, my heart racing, my mind spinning. Then I took a breath and walked down the hall, feeling the weight of the choice before me. At her door, I paused, catching the strange, heady scent that lingered. Spicy and warm, faintly sulfuric, a blend of things I couldn’t name.

I opened the door and stepped inside. The bedroom loomed larger than it should have been, and there he stood, towering over her, seven feet of sinewy, powerful form. His skin glowed with an eerie gray radiance, his eyes burning like coals, sharp teeth glinting like razors in the dark. And in his hand, a monstrous cock, thicker than a man’s wrist, dark and pulsing, unlike anything I’d ever imagined.

He beckoned me closer with a voice that echoed in my mind, an invitation I knew I couldn’t resist. My eyes met Shava-Sen’s as she knelt before him, stroking his monstrous form. She smiled, and in that instant, I felt the pull of the darkness—a promise, both horrific and beautiful.

I closed the door, stepping forward as the shadows enveloped me.

The End