[𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃] Welcome to my personal favorite fandom book, "Horror Movie Slashers" in which we indulge in One-Shots and Headcanons written about our favorite men and women of horror!
This may also include characters that are...
Author's Note: Here we go, some more Hannibal! Man, I really love writing Hannibal oneshots. I can't get enough of the show, the movies, or the books. It's safe to say I'm obsessed.
This request is from MiylyneCook and it's such an interesting idea. I've never written about a reader who can see ghosts (or in other words, a medium) so this will be interesting.
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I hope you enjoy!
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The first time I saw a ghost, I was five years old. An elderly woman would stand at the end of my bed and peer down at me through the night.
Her eyes were deep-set, dark, and scowling. Her white hair was long and matted. It was summer when it happened, but I would never forget how freezing my bedroom got whenever she would appear.
There were never any words spoken. She never moved. She just glared. I had hidden underneath the blankets in a desperate attempt to conceal myself away from the apparition. She didn't disappear until daylight. When I told my parents, they didn't believe me. They assumed I had a nightmare.
My parents had always been believers in the supernatural, but they were skeptical. I was a kid with a creative imagination. It wasn't until my fifth ghost sighting that they started to think something was up.
Five years later, when I turned 10, the old lady at my bed appeared once more. That was the first time and the last time she would ever speak to me. She told me her name. She told me where she was born and how our house was once hers. She told me about her children, none of which were alive. She told me how my bedroom was her oldest daughter's room. Then she told me of her husband, who had drowned her in the upstairs bathroom.
And then she was gone, and that would be the last time I ever saw her.
The day after that, I wrote down everything she had told me. Little did I know at the time, it wouldn't be the last time I would find myself writing down stories from the dead. Now I'm much older.
My scribblings of ghost stories filled up an entire bookshelf, paired with my own internal monologues written down in journals. I wasn't sure how it happened or why. The woman at the end of my bed had opened up a long line of therapy sessions between me and spirits. They would come and go at the oddest hours of the night, and I was always there to listen.
But most of the time, they would let me be so I could focus on my job. After all the years of hearing ghosts, both confess to crimes and discuss crimes committed to them, I had decided to become a criminal investigator. After many years of school, I found myself working under Jack Crawford for the FBI in Virginia, alongside my partner Hannibal.
