Women always dress like skanks on Halloween. The unwritten law was: the shorter, the better.
He doesn't mind it, not really. Pussy is still something he thinks about daily, but this time of year, he's usually more focused on the Haunt, getting it ready for the right group to signal the end of the holiday celebration.
The third-year now, and he's only half-way distracted by the nurse outfits and catgirls. All these costumes aren't even his type, but it's hard seeing all that bare skin behind the Ghost… and wondering if their hides will peel as easy as orange rind. The simpleton still left after Ghost's rebirth, and constant rework is thinking more about how eager some of them might be for something more than a deadly little scare.
Every one of them would look prettier with a new face beneath the glitter paint and stage glue, but none of them deserve one. Or so Ghost thinks until only two are left in the Escape Room. One of them decides to throw her friend into the barrel of a shotgun for bad-mouthing her, which sounds reasonable to him.
He stands with the red key in hand by the consoles where Clown sits, watching the so-called betrayal unfold. A grumble tells him what he already knows: that the boss hates the new line of smartphones all the college kids have. He flips through the settings twice before the Ghost reaches over his shoulder and taps the wheel icon, swipes down then turns on airplane mode.
"Do you want me to open the red door now?" He asks, overshadowing his eagerness with a purposeful monotone.
Clown slaps the touch screen on the counter, huffs, and finally looks at the stacks of retina displays that surveillance the bubble gum factory. He pauses, almost drinking it in like Ghost imagines the old man had the first time, back before they wore new faces—back when this was opening night, and the dream was coming true.
Instead of sentimental words, the boss curses under his breath, "Forget the red door. Who was it that finished off the blonde?"
Ghost squints at the upper-right screen, after the eyeball tattoos a week ago, he's still not great with the shitty camera. Past a smear of greasepaint catching the lights from the accounting office behind them, he could vaguely see the outline of a body. It's camera four? Or maybe camera six, but it overlooks the bottom of the stairs to the mixing stations.
Blondie hasn't moved for thirty minutes since Vampire radioed in about the fall. The ample blood pool suggests she's dead or better be if she wants any dignity. That kind of brain trauma only makes people wish they'd been killed.
Beneath his mask, Ghost smiles even though the unforgiving scar tissue keeps his mouth from doing anything more than twisting. It's a prettier expression than anything a grin could make anyway.
"Bride of Frankenstein pushed her over the railing because she wanted to split up."
"Which one wanted to split up?"
"Blondie," Ghost replies, following the last survivor across the screens as she searches for a way out of their Haunted House. There isn't one, which she'll realize soon enough.
Clown slouches forward. He's thinking harder than all of them, but Ghost has an idea of what it is he's considering because they usually have the same notion.
The Clown punches a thumb over the channel button, swapping the bottom-center screen over. It lags and clicks like an analog, but eventually turns to another camera feed, televising the image of half a body folding out of one of the industrial mixers—the kind that empty out the side into big steel bins. The other half of the corpse is whatever's been crushed and funneled out the other side.
Ghost can't help but exhale a slight chuckle, before sighing in pleasure, "I think he was stepping on her heels during Zombie's rodeo show. She didn't like that."
"Hmph," Clown responds—a clog of phlegm in his throat, "And the one Witch found in the closet?"
He has to think about it for a while, longer than the boss likes.
Twin tufts of grey atop his head turn as the Clown looks over his shoulder. His mask sits on the table by a stubbed cigar and an old, cold cup of coffee, meaning that Ghost gets to admire the scarification and deep-pigmented tattoos coloring his full face in ugly merriment. For a smiling entertainer, though, he doesn't look delighted, but variables like this aren't the boss's favorite thing. Meticulous planning made him sleep better at night.
"I don't know," Ghost finally admits, eyeing the TV screen, "But I'm sure she killed him too."
The girl is still trying to yank the red door open, probably starting to panic since all the other exits have been chained shut. He can nearly hear it from here; three rooms away.
It's hard to tell from the fuzz of the security stream, but her tits are definitely close to falling out.
Thanks to the Devil's handiwork, the cotton-top holding those breasts back is torn, folded, and shredded over the curve of her chest. Her relentless pounding on the door could spell the end of his wondering what they look like. Every time she lurches against the red-painted steel, Ghost braces himself for a flash of nipples. Whatever she walked in looking like, is merely a shadow of what she looks like now. A Bride of Frankenstein getup of tarnished white with copper stains, just as slutty now as if she'd actually planned for it.
He's only a little peeve that Devil got to yank her shoulder strap in two—that it was him that got a closeup of that hidden cleavage fresh from its nylon-blend prison.
For Horny Halloween, she basically came dressed like a seminary student, but now she's nearly flashing the cameras. A couple more minutes of this thrashing, and she'll be bare-breasted. As much as he doesn't want to admit it, he's half-hard over the idea.
During the Haunts, it's not uncommon to see girls exposing themselves or the wasted guy hanging dong, but sluts were a dime a dozen; this girl was something different. Bloodthirsty and vicious—using tonight's event to commit her crimes and bail? He thinks it's pretty impressive.
"Time to end this," Clown grumbles ominously.
Yeah, time to see if she makes it out in an oil drum funeral or with a new face.
Clown rises from the console with a heave-ho, but once he's on his feet, he's as strong as a red-eyed bull.
With an aluminum baseball bat in tow and his laces tied up tight, Ghost follows after him. He doesn't know what the boss has planned, but it doesn't matter. He'll know what to do with the girl, and the body and that face should it come to either one.
The girl doesn't go down easy, barely at all. The only good thing about finally getting her in a headlock is that all her kicking and screaming finally forces one titty out—spilling over the tarnished white outfit. As usual, the boss is unaffected by the display of flesh, but Ghost is not that detached from his primal urges.
He can't help it, he stares through the fabric-mesh eyelets and feels his dick stiffening, and so does she. She feels the hard bulge of it above her ass, but instead of calling him a 'nasty pervert,' she struggles harder, rocking back as if trying to jerk him off through all the thick layers between them.
It's hard to keep his mouth shut, but Ghost man-
"Ghost," the boss's chastising tone forces his eyes off the half-moon view of an exposed breast and tight, shiny nipple. The look of impatience contorting his face is all Ghost needs to ignore the grinding of the girl's ass, however intentional or not it might be.
"... c-can't breee…" she chokes against his heavy-linen sleeve—vocal cords vibrating into his forearm.
"Breathe?" Clown finishes for her, brandishing an unamused smile while searching her face, possibly for something else he doesn't understand. Her actions tonight were those pesky unplanned variables he hates so much after all.
"The kid currently depriving your brain of oxygen can snap a cows neck," he snaps his fingers, and Ghost's erection starts to hurt, "like that. So, why don't we forget about the knife on the floor and talk like adults?"
Against the choker hold, she stiffens, forcing her backside deep into his hips where his dick is already trapped between his thigh and a starchy pocket seam. If she's thinking about the ups and downs of going for the blade, it sure takes a while.
Ghost knows which choice she'll pick, though. Because it's the one he chose.
"Oh'kay…" she tries to nod around his arm, but he squeezes tighter just to feel her squirm a bit more—just to see if she can dislike his dick from where it's stuck, throbbing ceaselessly.
Clown gives him a gesture of the nose, and the Ghost slowly releases her. She's a lot shorter than she looked on the cameras—tiny enough that she slides down his chest, impractical but appropriately styled dress shoes smacking the floor, before gaining her balance.
She bumps into his crotch again while filling her lungs with air, but it doesn't seem very accidental.
Because she's an unknown variable, Clown kicks the knife across the factory floor while she recovers. Judging by the lack of reaction on her part, it's a good guess to say she wasn't thinking about it anymore. Smart girl. Which is more than one can say about her friends.
"Alright, Bride," the boss names her on the spot and glares, "what's with the murder and mayhem, hmm? You want to call them accidents again?"
The girl—Bride—spits a crimson glob on the floor, probably leftover blood from the elbow she took to the face while she was fighting Ghost off in the initial stages of her capture. All of them give the slimy, red puddle a glance before Clown motions for her to speak.
She was much less hot when her voice was high-pitched and squirrely, now that it's husky and bruised. Ghost hovered above his male desires, where he's having a hard time focusing on anything else but her ass in that dre-
"Ghost," the boss grumbles, "Eyes up here."
His gaze darts up, just in time to meet her side-eyed glare peering at him over a naked, blood-sponged shoulder. A wry smirk tells him what kind of chick this is, and he's immediately into it.
Bride bounces her naked breast back inside her top, holding the strap around her collar bone with a loose fist and turns back to Clown.
"You fellas are gonna take the fall for it, ya know. Hell, even if you kill me, they won't pin this on me. If I make it," she pauses to rub at her sore throat, "I'll be another one of those missing posters no one gives a fuck about…"
"Missing girls, huh? Funny. You want to die," Clown offers, nodding behind her where Ghost stands, waiting, "or you want to disappear like the rest of us?"
By the tension in her shoulders, Ghost can only guess she didn't expect that cryptic response.
The boss smiles, and this time it's relatively genuine all things considered. With calculated movements, he pulls out a box cutter from beneath the cardboard pocket flower and holds it out. A few clicks echo in the bubble gum plant, applauding the shiny, sharp razor pointing at her.
"You tell me who you want to be," Clown says and flips the box cutter around—handle pointing to her.
Bride only hesitates a second, maybe less, before she's got the box cutter between her chipped fingernails—only a fraction of that later and it's at Ghost's throat, pushing under his mask at his white-pigmented throat. If she ruins his fresh tattoos, he'll be unhappy.
"So much for good choices," he breathes out in a failed attempt at humor, mostly because his dick is at that stage of hardness where it's leaking precum into his front pocket, and he can't remember a time he was this horny.
"Shut up!" She seethes, pressing harder until the burn turns sharp. If she slits his throat, it'll be a shame, sure, but he's pretty sure he'll cum so hard it'll be worth it.
Clown knows this game because he's seen it before; Zombie, Devil, and even his wife the Witch. Ghost fought back too at first, but then things changed with a single command.
Apparently, when presented with the option to kill someone that she doesn't have a vendetta against, she can't do it. Which is lucky for Ghost in that he doesn't die, but he doesn't get one of those trendy throat scars either. When he thinks about missing out on that, it actually bums him out a bit, but that's something he can work on later. If he wants it so bad, it's nothing Zombie can't do on his downtime.
After she drops the box cutter, Clown pats her on the shoulder and lays down the ground rules.
Ten minutes later, he's stuck helping Bride clean up the mess she made during her initiation into the family. It's pretty straightforward stuff, just a lot of muscles required to lug around dead weight. It's nothing he hasn't done dozens of times, that is, until they get to the dude she threw in the mixer.
"You really pulverized this one," he comments, somehow irking a nerve despite her being pensively quiet for the past hour.
"Is that all you can say?" She snaps a bit, looking through her ruined eye makeup and a swelling black eye at his droopy eye holes, "Jesus…" a finger card through her sagging beehive, "you sound like you're judging hamburgers or something."
Ghost looks from her to the man-meat under his sneakers, then back at her with a tilted mask, "... are you saying you want to eat him? "
"No!" She barks.
"No, right. That would be unethical…" but a new experience sounds interesting. From what he remembers, the guy looked like he tasted of pork. The Ghost never had a pork burger before. There was probably a reason for that—perhaps a reason everyone used beef and not pig, or people.
"So, did you wanna talk about the piercings, or are we not gonna mention how your demon friend nearly cut my tits off?" She asks while they're shoveling out the mushy bits of her second victim, or was it the third?
"I don't have any," Ghost replies, only half paying attention to her, mostly focused on avoiding a slurry of blood and bile as it funnels onto the floor. He dislodged what used to be a foot from the spigot, and now it's oozing onto the floor.
"I meant my nipple piercings. You guys with your scarification and tattoos… I figured you'd have something to say about it."
Now that she feels safe enough to turn her back on him, Ghost realizes she's chill enough for a girl. Laidback almost, which is a rare quality in a murderer, let alone a female one.
"I didn't notice."
As far as he remembers—when he had her against his chest, perfectly angled to stare down hers—there wasn't a ring, just a puckered nipple he almost wished he still had lips to suck on it with.
"That boner said otherwise," Bride mentions as if she's shaming a middle schooler for his erections during first period.
He stops in the middle of a man turned into cake batter and stares at her a few feet away. Like usual, the quiet standoff unnerves her like it does anyone else.
"If I said the thrill of strangling people gets me off, what would you say?" He asks—intensely, madly, and low enough, it almost tickles his throat.
The truth is, he's not lying, but despite the costume makeup and swollen cheekbone making her look more or less a ghastly bride, he's interested in what's beneath all that. She's got a nice pair of tits if the one was any indication. Add to the reality of his two-year dry spell, and his dick's starting to fill with blood again.
"I'd say you're a sick fuck, but I'm standing in what used to be Bill, so… who am I to judge?"
"Fair enough," he mutters, scraping the human muck onto a black tarp for transport. Maybe the Bride doesn't get that oil drum funeral, but Bill will. Asshole must have pissed her off to get this treatment.
He starts to forget about the Bride with the supposed nipple rings—about how he's still a man under the Ghost—and how he wants to take one of these Halloween sluts into a corner of the show tomorrow night and make them scream.
The whole anonymity thing was a turn on for some of them. Maybe Ghost could work with that instead of thinking he was above it or something. Zombie brought home multiple chicks sometimes—made them squeal like pigs most times too. The last time he made a girl come was the night before he joined the family. Too much stuff he wanted to do aside from chase pussy after entering into this mindset.
But Ghost needs a quickie with some corset-wearing vampire chick to keep his head where it's supposed to be. With Bride toeing bloody slop out of the mixer in her glistening dress shoes, he'll need to take advantage of the situations afforded to him.
It was easy to ignore the urge when the only other woman around was usually Witch, and most everything else was Zombie's sloppy seconds from the tattoo parlor.
Tomorrow night, he opens himself up for opportunity and waits. The smaller venue—thanks to Bride's mess still needing to be cleaned up—means it's easier for the cock hungry lady of the group to spot him. She's dressed like the bag advert on a sexy police costume but doesn't have any street smarts, because he fucks her for the last time against a metal desk while her friends get picked off by Devil, one by one.
Ghost gets a much-needed dose of endorphins, and the man under the face relaxes, plus the police chick ends up just another corpse in the bin at the end of the night.
The next night, the whole bubble gum factory is back open.
With Zombie's help, they finish cleaning up the last traces of slop left by Bride's mayhem with enough time to reset all the traps and games from the fourth night of the season.
Bride apologies for everything, but only to Clown—only just enough and with a plethora of teeth that makes the old man grin. The boss likes her, which is a change from the last two. She follows orders but bites back in the same vein, something everyone here can appreciate.
For her second night, she gets to work her magic under strict orders from the boss. No killing until next year and no drugs until after the season. She laughs, agrees, and does as she's told because despite not killing Ghost like the boss demanded, she's a stickler for following the rules.
Tonight, she's taking down participant's information in a plastic mask painted white and grey around the eyes, blue stitches slashing the cheekbones. It's a temporary mask until her new face is planned for next year, but none of the victims are paying attention to the mask—not like he is—instead, they're focused on the underwear she's sporting beneath an old trencher. It would be a lie to say Ghost didn't appreciate the way she was built, and the paint Witch massaged into her skin for the night exposes some perfect imperfections.
Old indents of adolescent stretch marks around her hips and baby fuzz on her upper thighs have distracted him several times already.
Ghost makes his usual rounds, often pausing to fantasize about her; slamming her pussy hard while bent over a dead jock; forcing her black-painted lips around his cock while participants walk through the game unaware of the face fucking in the shadows; tonguing her nipple piercings until the paint runs with his saliva...
Ever since she offered to show him her tits—blood still under her nails from the final cleaning duties that morning—he's been back to thirsting again. The quick fuck yesterday might as well have never happened.
He nearly pulled her into a processing office an hour ago just to get an eyeful. It's dark and quiet in there if things ended up going further than a little exposè, but Vampire showed, following a shortcut to get a cheap scare out of the trio of girls, ruining the moment.
That slacker's always spoiling things. One of these days, the wannabe was gonna screw them all over. Unfortunately, Clown likes his cigar connections, and for now, that's all that matters. Usually, Ghost isn't bothered by the moron, but he's been having to readjust a semi for the past thirty minutes, and it's getting in the way of the game's usual pleasures.
This group, in particular, looks fun. Shame he's too focused on wet pussy to appreciate their future deaths.
There's a slutty jester girl making eyes at him from the trail end of the conga line. She spotted him moving freely between sheet-covered mannequins earlier. A wink is thrown his way when he jumps out from the formation of ghosts to frighten the tall guy in a basketball jersey, and before he knows it, she's giving him those eyes that point to the side door.
He knows what she wants.
When the jester's friend falls through the latex platform to a nail bed below, she's oblivious to the screams, just laughing with her friends at the 'hokey' atmosphere. There's nothing that phases her. Either because she's too secure in a social order that won't protect her here or too stupid to take anything seriously.
Ghost shadows her until she's cut off from her clique.
He breaths on her neck and snatches her up tight, pushing her through double swinging doors into an empty hallway.
The girl doesn't scream, only giggles.
She's freakishly wet when he flips her scalloped skirt up, soaked through to the shiny red panties covering a small ass with a KISS tattoo. It's a little too bony to get him really hard, but inside she's tight and wet. She doesn't say anything either, which lets him really go to town, picturing the back of the Bride's head, the distressed, white underwear denting her muscles, and supple fat in all the right ways… the meat of her ass filling his hands instead of this pale imitation…
He's nearly there, almost free from the basic impulse when something moves inside the view of his eyelets. In the darkness, beyond the mesh and healing ocular tattoos, it could be anyone, but it's her.
An unmasked Bride quietly stops to watch him fuck the jester slut against the wall.
He stares at her while sheathing his cock with even, mechanical thrusts meant to make this pussy squirt and leak. Bride leans against the door jam where a big metal freezer door must have been, just eyeing the way he smacks his hips into this chicks ass with his ghostly cloak all bunched up above his navel.
It's not what he expected, but he doesn't hate it.
Bride smiles, crosses her arms, and studies his form like she's judging a tryout. Never one to disappoint himself or those he admired—as much as he won't admit it to her—Ghost digs his fingers into the girl's slim waist and bends his knees, fucking upwards with sluggish, deep bucks of his hips. When the jester girl starts mewling like a porn star, he digs the heel of his hand between her legs, lifting up one thigh, and finds her swollen clit with two fingers.
"How does this feel?" He asks Bride from across the hallway, but it's the girl he's inside of that answers.
"Yes," she breathes—face all smooshed up against the wall, "fuck that huge cock inside me—harder!"
Ghost swallows down the urge to stab the girl in the back of the head, toss her body to the floor and go after the half-naked Bride of Frankenstein watching him fuck, but he grabs her hair instead and puts on a show.
"How big does it feel?" He hisses out, mashing her clit between his knuckles. Already his sac is tightening, drawing close between his legs, warning him he's a few moments away from cumming.
Black eyeballs or not, he sees the Bride straighten up. Her eyes move from his face to the girl who's got her face pressed in the other direction—oblivious.
"Like a-" she releases a high squeal, "ah'yes… oh, yes. It's so big. Bigger than anything else. Do n't-don't n’t-don't stop! Please…"
He's heard it all before. Meaningless dirty talk never does much for him, but this time it's working.
Ghost soaks it all in like he's some Neanderthal and spreads his fingers around her pussy where his dick drives inside, prying her open to fuck her deeper until that firm, hot bulb at the back of her pussy starts rapping the head of his cock. It doesn't feel better than what he was doing before, but the jester slut likes it, and Bride likes watching, so he keeps it up.
He turns his mask towards her, watching the Bride bite her lower lip and shift her inner thighs together. Her nostrils flare, and he forgets to hold in a moan, unable to do this without pretending he's making her blubber and ooze. Ghost doesn't even mind the sudden gush of fluids that stain his costume sheets because when the girl around his dick comes, Bride blushes down to where her push-bra starts.
"You dirty slut," he whispers and fucks through the squelchy pussy constricting around him. It quickly becomes too wet and too loose despite the fluttering muscles, so he pulls out, angles the tiny ass down, and starts jerking himself off where the dimples above her ass hollow.
Bride strokes her stomach, nearly grazing the hem of her lacy white panties, and he mashes his cock into the cheek of this girl's ass.
For the first time in several years, he actually gives a shit if a girl is impressed with his cock or not.
He inhales nasally, imagining the Bride is wondering how he'll feel lodged in her stomach, and cums all over the girl's backside, milking his solid dick until every drop is gone like a lanced wound. It's been a while since he's cum so hard… which is sad to admit since it doesn't hold a candle to other pleasures in his life.
Fuzzy pleasure washes over him regardless. The fireworks pop of his orgasm is gone already, but the wave of euphoria remains. It's nothing like a hit of smack. Not even as good as a fire joint or mushroom trip, but it clears the corners out.
Unfortunately, when he looks up from the mess glazing jester's ass to the spot down the hallway, Bride is gone.
Afterward, when he's dragging the slutty jester out of her theatrical body bag and into a distillery full of acid, he wonders if Bride was even there at all. She didn't leave behind any grit beneath her boots, but that doesn't mean anything.
"See you in hell," he mutters to the belly-floater that got him off earlier.
He pokes the bobbing dead girl around in the acid slurry with an old rusted rod, watching the steam from boiling skin rise off her body when the door slams open. It echoes in the large, empty boilers where they used to melt down rubber before adding sugar and xanthan gum or whatever they did to make bubble gum. The body starts to stink like sweet rot and jellybeans, but the Ghost doesn't mind. He got laid for the second time this season and gets to watch the girl, and probably some of his cum, melt in the vat.
"You're kinda quiet for a guy sporting a big dick," Bride appears from beside him, telling him what he already knows as she leans along the railing near the open pit of bodies, "Anyone tell you that?"
"Sure," he shrugs, playing it cool while spreading the corpses out, "but their surprise never gets old." It did, and it has, except for now.
Right now, he really wants the Bride to want his dick, perhaps more than that—maybe Ghost wants her to want him.
Bride chews loudly on a piece of bubble gum. He listens as she blows into it, close enough he can see and pops it with a faint smirk. The smell of candied watermelon nearly overpowers the scent of melted fat, but it's not the smell, but the sight that really captures his attention.
"Are you," he swallows to separate the boy stuttering in his throat from the Ghost he's become, "coming onto me?"
Silence falls over her. It's quiet except for the gentle splash and lap of acid waves against the steel distillery vat. Some of the bodies bump against one another, but that's not loud enough to muffle the rising thud of his heart.
He waits and listens.
"No," it sounds like a lie.
Beneath the mask, his mouth stretches into a half-sneer that feels like a mean smile, "Then next time, maybe don't watch me while I'm trying to enjoy myself. See the mask? Kinda says I like a little privacy."
"You're the one who was fucking her in the hallway. Anyone could have walked in on you two…"
"The boss had you working outside, right?" He remembers. The question sounds obnoxiously immature even to his own ears, but it makes the beautiful murderer beside him inhale sharply. Getting caught like this must hurt her ego a little.
Bride frowns audibly and pushes herself off the railing. She steps close—so close she could turn him into a skinless corpse if she wanted to push him into the vat. He bets she'd even call it another accident if she did, but she doesn't… instead, she reaches down and feels across his stomach to his crotch.
The bulky sheets falling like drapery around his body are still in the way, but he feels the pressure and warmth of her palm like a hot anvil.
He's ashamed to find himself half-hard already, and even more so to hiss and bow against the safety banister beside him when she cups him beneath all those layers and squeezes.
"I bet you're an ugly fucker under that mask, but I don't care about that…" closer, nearly steaming breath between the sheets and his hoodie where the mask doesn't entirely cover, "if you wear a rubber, I'll let-"
The double doors ahead slam open, entering Vampire with his mask snapped on top of his head. Before he can look up at them, Bride tugs her hand away and stands awkwardly beside him—red beneath the makeup.
"Boss wants to know where's our Bride-oh, hey, "he shakes a bag of weed and smiles with glassy, red eyes, "Clown said he needed you upstairs to track those dudes addresses," gesturing to the acid bath, "and umm… I got some juicy fruit if you want to share."
The Bride of Frankenstein says nothing.
Ghost stirs the pot of human soup with an erection beneath his costume and jeans. He watches her pad down the aluminum stairs, past Vampire—whose smile is gone—and out the double doors. Her offer still heats his throat, but he doesn't wear condoms… although... he doesn't have a problem hitting up a Walmart at one in the morning for an STD kit if she cares so much.
She'll like his face when she's cumming—she'll love it when it's between her legs, and she'll like it after that too.
Tomorrow night, he plans on giving her the virgin cut to her new life while she squirms on his cock. It'll be a thank you for not slitting his throat with the boxcutter, and because you never forget your first slice. The Ghost doesn't want to miss hers. He wants to be front and center, buried in her guts when it happens. Plus, he may or may not be envisioning them locked hand in hand, tearing human cattle apart like lovers do for the rest of his life.
At least, Ghost decides that's what happens, so it'll happen, even if he needs to wait a couple more seasons for her to fall in love with him like he's sure he's fallen for her.
So much for Halloween being overrun with sluts...
The Ghost found himself a Bride.