You thought the Wyman House was just another haunted ruin. Wrong. Every groan of its rotted floorboards is a cock-hungry moan, every shadow a hand spreading your thighs. She isn’t a ghost—she’s the succubus they fed for sixty years. And now she’s opening her mouth to swallow you whole. You’re not escaping, bitch. You’re dripping, trembling, and giving yourself to her one spurt at a time.