Nasty Bug Man (Beetlejuice X Reader)

It's Show Time~!

(I'M NOT DEAD!  HAHA!!! Henlo, Friend-o's.  I want to apologize for the lack of updating on this book.  With all the bullshit of the virus, online school, and my depleting mental health, I lost motivation.  But now, I'M BACK AND BETTER THAN EVER BABY!!!  When last we left our heroes, Beetlejuice was about to seek revenge for our dear, sweet (Y/n).... Happy Reading!!)

 

Jonathan Birkmeyer sat, slumped lazily in his favorite, worn leather reclining chair. He had been in this position for about 3 hours. His tired, droopy eyes glazed over with bored indifference at the television screen in front of him as old reruns of Shark Tank played. That same tv monitor was the only source of light in his small, quaint house.

The humble abode the stout man resided in was full of knick knacks and whatnots collected from years of travel and memorabilia. However, most of them were wrapped in newspaper, carefully packed away in cardboard boxes, ready to be taken to his ex wife's house in the morning.

While the divorce was recent, the both of them knew it was inevitable. They had been unhappy for a while, but never sat to talk about it. Years and years of avoiding conflict led to an explosion of anger and harsh words. Now, thanks to his actions (or lack thereof) Mr. Birkmeyer has driven the only thing in his life that he cared about has been pushed away.

With the tilt of his large head, he took the last swig of his 5th beer of the night. He tried to get down any last drops of the mind numbing liquid. But it was to no avail. It was empty. Just like his life.

Birkmeyer glared at the empty beer bottle. "Fuckin' useless," he mumbled.

Begrudgingly, he peeled his sweaty body from his chair and stumbled into the kitchen. Muffled, drunken grumbles came loosely out of his throat with each wobbly step the old man took. However, once he stepped into the kitchen, his big toe collided with a box full of Jennifer's glass plates. Birkmeyer inhaled sharply and cursed. If he were sober he would have already seen the box.

He would have also noticed the shadow looming on the wall behind him.

With his grubby hand, Birkmeyer opened the fridge. The smell of spoiled Chinese take out wafted into his nostrils. He cringed. He grabbed the last beer of the pack and closed the fridge quickly.

"Jonathan..."

The stout man pivoted his head towards what he thought was the whisper of his name. He scoffed. It must have just been the television. But, if that were the case, then why was it so silent?

Curious, he peered into the living room only to find the screen had gone completely dark. When did he turn it off? He could have sworn that he had left it on. Maybe he did so in his drunken state and simply forgot.

Yeah... that was it.

An unsettling fog of gloom settled in the atmosphere. A gloom so thick you could cut it with a knife. Glaring into the now creepily dim living room, paranoia began to sink in. A cold breeze ran up his wrinkled neck. He was freezing. Did he forget to close the fridge, too? No, he knew for certain he closed it. Something was off. He couldn't figure out what it was, but it was something. The feeling was almost sobering as he squinted, trying to remember what he had gotten up to do.

Ah, that's right. Another beer.

Birkmeyer held the neck of the bottle that was still in his grasp, now searching for a-

Tink

He whipped his body around, the sudden noise causing his heart to quicken in pace. The old man's eyes squinted down at the culprit of the mysterious noise. A bottle opener.