The last one standing

Five grand. One night. Don’t hit the buzzer.

That was the entire pitch. A rotting Victorian out past the county line, rigged with cameras in every room "for documentation," feeding a live stream straight to a producer whose voice sounded permanently damp with liability waivers. Last contestant still inside at sunrise walked away with the cash. Tap out anytime—all you had to do was smack the big red button in the foyer—and you left with nothing but whatever scrap of dignity you walked in with.

Four idiots signed their names.

Madison: cheer-captain smile, crushing student loans, and the absolute, unshakeable delusion she could out-scream anything with a pulse.

Jace: gym-bro shoulders, brain like a dropped free weight.

Keiko: razor-sharp mouth, deadlier nails, strictly here for the clout and the content.

And Rhea: a towering trans woman with a laugh that could clear a biker bar and a presence that made the NDA feel entirely too personal.

They lasted forty-three minutes on pure, jittery nerves. Then the house stayed dead silent, the shadows refused to twitch, and someone—naturally, Jace—said what they were all thinking:

"We could just fuck until dawn and split the five."

Democracy was swift. Clothes hit the dust-caked parlor floor like surrender flags. What followed was two hours of sweaty, athletic, highly competitive group sex on a Persian rug that had definitely witnessed worse centuries ago. Madison rode Jace while Keiko parked herself on his face. Rhea bent Madison over an antique settee, driving into her slow and deep until the girl’s mascara was painting her cheeks. They swapped holes, traded trash-talk, and tore open individual lube packets someone had smuggled in "just in case the haunts were hot." Red recording lights blinked monotonously in every corner. Somewhere out in the dark, a producer was either praying or pantsless.

They took a break, sticky and laughing, half-dressed, passing a lukewarm water bottle around like communion wine.

Madison wandered off.

She found the Ouija board tucked away in a nursery with peeling bunny wallpaper—the box warped, the planchette the sickly color of old bone. She hauled it back to the group like a prized party favor.

"Oh, we are so not doing that," Rhea said.

Naturally, they did.

Idiots.

The planchette didn’t drift; it yanked. Letters slammed together with enough force to scorch the wood. Names spilled out, old and sharp and painful to hear. The temperature in the room plummeted until their collective sweat froze in itchy salt tracks along their skin. Then something laughed—a wet, rattling sound like a drainpipe sucking down meat.

Two demons dragged themselves through first: dense billows of smoke, antlered shadows, and limbs bent at impossible angles. Right behind them, the ghosts poured out like angry wasps from a kicked hive—former owners, former victims, unfortunate souls who had died mid-gasp and never managed to move on. Every single entity hit the physical plane with the exact same urgent, throbbing agenda.

They wanted to tear into the living. And by tear into, they meant fuck.

The cameras kept rolling.

Jace went first. A phantom bride with a snapped neck dropped onto his hips while a second spirit forced his jaw apart, throat-fucking him with a translucent, freezing-cold cock. He came hard enough to black out, but they didn't let up. By the time his heart flatlined, he had a stupid, beatific grin plastered across his face like a lottery winner.

Madison shrieked, batting wildly at empty air—her hand passing straight through one specter only to land in the burning, bone-solid grip of a demon. It bent her double over the Ouija board and took her in a single, brutal lunge, a ridged, spectral cock driving sparks of agony and ecstasy up her spine. She came twice before her voice devolved into static, her body going slack, eyes blown wide and empty, her cunt still twitching around thin air long after it pulled out.

Keiko sprinted for the stairs, gunning for the foyer and the safety button. She didn't make it. A knot of spirits intercepted her on the landing—a spectral train fueled by pure, malicious instinct. One in her pussy, one in her ass, another down her throat, two more hovering in line like polite commuter traffic. The wet noise was obscene; the cold was agonizing. She gurgled out a desperate laugh on her fourth consecutive orgasm and died with her fingernails clawed deep into the runner carpet.

Rhea fought back. She managed to wrap a forearm around a demon's throat, its cock buried to the hilt in her ass, before another entity ripped her open from pelvis to sternum like an over-stuffed zipper. Even as her life bled out onto the floor, she cursed them out and came. Credit where credit was due.

Madison—the other Madison, the cheerleader—was already growing cold on the parlor floor.

Only one girl was left standing.

Her name was Lila. She’d spent the whole night quiet, the kind of quiet that hides a terrifying well of stamina and catastrophically bad ideas. She stared at the bodies, at the circling dead, at the two towering demons licking fresh blood and come off their teeth. Then she looked down at the scorched Ouija board.

"Alright," she told the room at large. "Line forms behind the ugly one."

She went after the demons first.

No salt circles. No muttered prayers. She stripped down to her skin, dropped to her hands and knees right where the hall camera had the cleanest angle, and worked herself with two fingers until both demons were staring like starving dogs at a butcher's window. When the larger one lunged, she spun, jammed the planchette between her teeth like a bit, and let it spear her cunt in one savage, blistering thrust. It scorched—holy hell, it burned like fire—but she locked her heels against its lower back and bucked right back, nasty and rhythmic, whispering filthy dares straight to its snout so it stayed fixated on her face instead of her hands. An orgasm tore through her like an electric shock. Mid-clench, she snatched the planchette from her mouth, slammed it against the board, and clawed it across the letters she needed.

B-A-C-K. I-N.

The demon shrieked, folding inward into an oily cloud of smoke that wailed as the board sucked it down. The second one bolted. She chased it straight into the kitchen, bent over the edge of the sink, and flashed her slicked, aching center like a challenge. It took the bait. She took the pounding—vicious, pounding heat slapping her clit raw—until her knees gave out and she came sobbing. Same routine. Planchette. Letters. Trap.

Board smoking. Demons banished.

The ghosts were still there. Dozens of them. Starving, and unnervingly polite in the way only the dead can be when they want something warm.

Lila hauled herself upstairs, climbed onto the massive four-poster bed in the master suite, spread her legs wide for every overhead lens in the house, and put on a clinic. Fingers first. Then the heavy leather strap one of the dead women had left behind. She fucked herself open, loud and sloppy, narrating every wet inch of how empty she felt and how badly she needed every freezing-cold cock in the building. They swarmed like moths to a flame.

What happened next violated multiple laws of physics and every known standard of decency.

Translucent cocks filling her pussy, her ass, her throat. Spectral hands pinching, pulling, and prying her wider. One entity after another slamming through her in endless succession, flooding her with ice-cold releases that spilled out onto the linens, only for the next ghost to take its turn. She gagged, drooled, laughed once through a mouthful of ghostly anatomy, and kept coming until her vision grayed out at the edges. They passed her around. Levitated her. Spit-roasted her between a Civil War private and a roaring-twenties flapper with no lower jaw. She took every bit of it because the alternative was dying mid-orgasm, and frankly, she had rent due next week.

Dawn finally bled through the curtains.

The spirits began to thin out, sated and fading away with grateful, shuddering sighs. Only one lingered—a young man from the 1920s with kind, sorrowful eyes and a spectral build that never quite faded. He sat on the edge of the mattress while Lila panted in a puddle of ectoplasm and her own sweat.

"You're something else," he murmured, almost shy.

"You're see-through," she wheezed, wiping her face. "Are we comparing flaws or what?"

The grandfather clock struck sunrise. The front door downstairs unlatched with a loud, mechanical clunk. The producer’s voice crackled through a hidden speaker, sounding like he’d aged ten years and desperately needed new trousers.

"Congratulations... uh... sole survivor. Five grand. Please exit the premises. And for the love of God, take a shower."

Lila dressed in whatever clothes weren't shredded or slimed. She scooped up the Ouija board, taping the box shut with packaging tape and sheer spite to keep the lingering energy contained. At the threshold, she paused, glancing back at the young ghost still hovering beside the bed.

"Coming?"

He grinned, flickered once, and slipped straight into the space behind her ribs like a second heartbeat with boundary issues.

She stepped out into the crisp morning light: sore, wealthy, and not entirely alone. Behind her, the house settled back onto its foundation, cameras still running hot, hard drives packed with the most unmarketable, unholy adult film in human history.

The producer never released the footage.

He did, however, watch it every single anniversary with the lights turned off and the volume cranked entirely too high.

Lila bought better door locks, higher-grade lube, and a heavy glass display case for the board.

Some nights, her ghost roommate takes her apart slow against the kitchen counter while the trapped demons howl and claw inside their cardboard box like angry houseplants. She comes hard, counts her cash, and reminds herself that five grand was an absolute steal.

The last one standing.

Technically, she never hit the buzzer.

And technically, the house still calls every now and then—just a faint click on the line and the sound of something lonely, nostalgic, and aggressively horny breathing through the static.

She usually sends it straight to voicemail.

Usually.