parasite [YANDERE!O.DAZAI/READER]

SEVEN: THE BOOK.

Dazai opens the doors to your mansion: the locks were broken upon further inspection.

He shallowly investigates the intestines of the haunted house, drafts of wind whispering through the gaps of the wooden planks above his head. The house creaked under the weight of its own reputation, moaning and groaning as Dazai opened a door, a door below the staircase. It was a small door, one that he had to duck under to enter. He felt like Coraline, entering the small door that led to a better world. A carefully crafted trap.

If he found traces of you in your tarot card readings, then perhaps he would find a little bit of your soul here, in this dank, dark hallway that seemed to lead him to the invisible magnet of the body: the heart.

There was a great box placed on the floor, the lid slightly agape for Dazai to peer into. Inside were lace and down stuffings, as though a giant bird had made a nest here. There were brown crusts of blood flaking the white material, making it look as though the whiteness was beginning to rust. Dazai heaves open the heavy box lid and it thuds against the floor, dust flaring up from the floor like fire before fading away into nothingness. Sweat beaded against his nape at the potential sight he would have witnessed if you were here: You, with your arms folded over your chest, on your lips fresh splatters of fresh arterial blood, which would then trickle down from the corners of your mouth and run over the chin and neck. Your eyes, closed and laced with lashes, would flutter open at the intrusion of light and be filled with Basilisk horror.

Yet there is nothing here. But the thought, his imagination, is what makes goosebumps prickle at his skin.

He remembers your mother's words in the peculiar dream he had: "I let her grow. She isn't a child anymore because I let her grow up."

He looks around the room. The secret room, the small room, where it was filled with clothes and a Victorian vanity desk whose mirror was covered up by towels. Were you self conscious of yourself? There was a lamp by the desk, unlit and the wax hard–a lifeless yellowish-green. Dazai's shoes make a shuffling noise as he moves towards the bookshelf. There were a few classics that looked as though they hadn't been read, judging by their pristine spines, but there was one book that caught his attention: The History of Vampires.

He gently pries it out of the clutches of the other books. The brunette sees the contents page and he sees a myriad of names, "Vlad III", "(last name) (mother's name)" being a few that he could recognize. Though your name hadn't made it onto the list. You must have escaped the scrutiny of chroniclers. He flips to your mother's name and finds a visceral image of her burnt into a black form of what looks like a head, torso and thighs. Below the image read:

1910: The last of the (last name)s were burnt at the pyre with a wooden stake to the heart. Legends say her daughter was hidden in the crowd gathered to witness the burning.

Vampires at this time were considered dangerous, not only for their bloodsucking tendencies, but due to their ability to curse the world around them. The villagers that lived with the (last name)s recollected that whenever they visited, their milk would curdle, send horses into a wild frenzy until they were bones by morning, and torment young girls with fainting fits, disorders of the blood, and nightmares.

He looked up when the air around him grew colder.

"I see you've found a way into my sleeping chamber," You materialise in front of him. Your face has an unreadable expression, a blank expression: your mirror neurons missing from the typical human brain, alongside empathy modules. "And you're reading...my sordid history."

"You're sordid anyways," He says, unnerved by your lack of expression. It didn't help that a thin trickle of blood lined your mouth to chin. You bring the back of your hand and wipe it away, smudging it across your lower face.