Horror Oneshots (Male, NB, Trans Reader)

Mort Rainey x NB Reader

No trigger warnings.
Enjoy.

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The light trills of rain pattered rhythmically against the windshield as your car rolled to a slow stop in front of the secluded house nestled deep within the woods. The narrow gravel path leading to the home had been a treacherous drive, twisting and winding through dense trees that seemed to grow closer together the deeper you went. The isolated nature of the house only heightened the eerie charm it carried. The porch light glowed faintly in the damp morning haze, casting long shadows across the yard, but it did little to soften the gloom that seemed to cling to the air.

This wasn’t a job you usually took. In your line of work, the occasional odd request came up, but rarely did you agree to extended house calls for clients with such... specific needs. Yet, this one was different. It paid well enough to outweigh the inconvenience, and the client, despite his quirks, intrigued you.

Mort Rainey—that was his name. A famous author whose talent had seemingly been eclipsed by his personal struggles. Middle-aged and disheveled, he carried an air of melancholy that clung to him like a second skin. His reclusive nature was evident the moment you’d first met him, his wary eyes darting as though even your presence was too much to bear. You’d seen him a handful of times before, each interaction brief and tinged with awkwardness, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanor lately. He’d started to warm up to you—or at least, he no longer seemed entirely put off by the idea of your company.

Still, there was something about Mort that made you cautious. The way his dark eyes lingered too long in silence, the heaviness of his sighs, and the unspoken weight of whatever secrets he kept hidden behind his slouched shoulders and fake half-hearted smiles. As you cut the engine and the soft hum of the car gave way to the sound of rain and rustling leaves, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever the day might bring.

Hopping out of the car, you walked up to the door, knocking lightly. It was likely that Mr. Rainey was still sleeping, as he often didn't wake till late afternoon. You sought to change that. Fix his sleep schedule, clean him up, get him back and motivated. Just basic stuff to help him rebound after all that happened, it had to be hard after all.. he still struggles to accept what he's dealing with.
With a sigh, you crouch down to retrieve the spare key nestled beneath a potted plant, the ceramic rim slick with condensation from the morning dew. The key feels cold and slightly grimy in your hand as you straighten up, your breath forming soft clouds in the chilly air. You hesitate for a moment, staring at the worn brass of the doorknob. Shaking off the apprehension, you slide the key into the lock, the faint scrape of metal against metal breaking the stillness. A soft click signals the door's surrender. You knock one final time for good measure, the sound echoing faintly, before slowly pushing the door open.

The hinges creak slightly, and the familiar scent of old books, faint cologne, and coffee filters through the air. The room greets you with its usual, slightly chaotic charm: stacks of papers teetering on the edge of the coffee table, books scattered across the floor, and a half-empty mug perched precariously on an armrest. In the center of this ordered disarray lies Mr. Rainey, sprawled out on the couch. His head is tilted to one side, his glasses askew, and a soft snore escapes his slightly parted lips. It’s clear he’s fast asleep, seemingly unbothered by the world outside.

You linger in the doorway, unsure. The clock on the wall ticks steadily, a quiet reminder that your appointment is long overdue. Still, he looks peaceful in a way that makes you hesitate. But then again, this was your only scheduled time with him, and who knows when you’d get another chance?

With deliberate care, you step further into the room, your footsteps muffled by the worn rug beneath your feet. The floor creaks softly in protest, but he doesn’t stir. You edge closer, standing over him as you debate your next move. Finally, you lean forward, reaching out with a tentative hand to shake him awake.