Elira stepped out of the bathroom, steam curling behind her like fog fleeing from the warmth. She wrapped herself in a soft towel, eyeing her reflection in the mirror with narrowed eyes. Her curls had frizzed slightly from the humidity, so she took a few minutes to tame them with oil and leave-in conditioner. She didn't want to look too polished—it was just a storytelling job, not a blind date—but she didn't want to look like she'd rolled out of bed either.
After some indecision and pacing, she settled on a fitted black turtleneck, tucked into dark jeans and paired with ankle boots. Subtle gold hoops, minimal makeup—just enough to look put together. She spritzed a bit of vanilla musk perfume at her wrists and collarbone before grabbing her coat and bag.
Her phone buzzed at exactly 4:00 PM.
A message.
[Your car is outside.]
She peeked through the blinds—and blinked. Parked in front of her modest apartment building, gleaming despite the overcast sky, was a car so sleek, so expensive-looking, it seemed more like a hallucination than a vehicle. All-black, deeply tinted windows, and so glossy it reflected the building like obsidian.
She walked down the stairs, trying not to look impressed as the driver—stoic, in a suit, with the posture of someone who had definitely been in the military—opened the back door for her without a word.
"Miss Wells," he said, not smiling.
"That's me," she muttered, sliding in.
The inside of the car was even more absurd. Leather that smelled like new money. Ambient lighting. Silence. The kind of silence that made her suddenly hyper-aware of her own breathing.
She swallowed, folded her hands on her lap, and tried not to fidget.
The ride was smooth, eerily so. No music. No conversation. Just the sound of the occasional swoosh of tires on wet roads and the gentle hum of the engine. The city gave way to tree-lined roads, then winding hills, and eventually to wrought iron gates as tall as small buildings.
The gates creaked open slowly, reluctantly—as if they, too, were questioning her presence.
Then came the mansion.
Elira's jaw tightened.
It wasn't a house.
It was a fortress disguised as art.
Stone walls aged with character. Windows tall and arched. Ivy climbing up one side like fingers. It loomed, elegant and cold, like a place that didn't care whether or not you were comfortable inside it.
The car pulled into the circular driveway. As soon as the engine stopped, the driver stepped out and opened her door.
She followed silently as he led her up the wide stone steps. Two more men were waiting at the top. Dressed in black. Arms crossed. Faces expressionless.
"Elira Wells," one of them said. "Phone."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"No personal devices beyond this point. You'll receive it after the session."
She stared at him for a beat before reluctantly pulling her phone from her pocket. "If I disappear, I want you to know this is the exact moment it started," she muttered under her breath as she handed it over.
The man didn't react.
Next, they patted her down. Not aggressively—but thoroughly. Her coat. Her boots. Her bag. They opened it, checked for weapons, wires, or… god knows what. Elira rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her brain.
"I tell ghost stories to six-year-olds, not traffic diamonds," she muttered. "What do you think I'm gonna do? Threaten him with a pop-up book?"
They didn't answer. Of course not.
When they were satisfied, one of them gestured for her to follow.
The halls were long, lined with bookshelves and oil paintings. Heavy rugs muffled her footsteps. There were no family photos. No warmth. Just endless curated luxury and stone-cold elegance.
They stopped in front of double oak doors.
"He's inside. Don't touch anything unless he tells you to," the guard said.
"Oh boy," Elira mumbled, bracing herself.
The door creaked open.
The study was vast—dimly lit except for the orange glow of a fireplace and the soft pools of light from two antique sconces. Tall windows overlooked the forest beyond, now shadowed by rainclouds.
And there he was.
Seated in a wingback chair, legs crossed, one hand resting on the armrest while the other held a glass of something amber and expensive.
Aleksei Volkov.
He didn't rise. Didn't smile.
Just stared.
And damn, Elira thought, her spine prickling with equal parts unease and intrigue.
He looked like the kind of man who could kill someone in the morning, host a business meeting by noon, and sear a perfect medium-rare steak for dinner without blinking. His features were sharp. Cheekbones like they were carved from stone. Black hair slicked back with just enough mess to look accidental. His jaw clenched like he was constantly grinding his teeth. Cold, calculating gray-blue eyes stared at her like he was measuring something invisible.
He looked like sin in a tailored suit. A sin with a death count.
And still, something in her didn't flinch. Just… watched him back.
"Miss Wells," he said at last, his Russian accent thick but precise, like each word had been honed with a blade.
"That's me," she replied, voice even.
A flicker of amusement sparked in his eyes. Barely.
"I trust the guards didn't scare you too much."
"Oh, only a little," she said lightly, shrugging off her coat. "But it was the no romance clause in the contract that really terrified me."
He actually smiled—if only a ghost of one. "You read it. Impressive."
"I like to know what I'm walking into," she said.
A pause.
Then he gestured to the chair across from him.
"Sit. Tell me a story."
No greeting. No pleasantries. Just that.
Elira stepped forward, her heartbeat picking up but her expression cool. She sat, crossing one leg over the other, placing her bag at her feet.
She met his eyes.
And smiled, slow and wicked.
The chair she sat in was soft, but not cozy. This room didn't do "cozy." It did sharp lines, cold shadows, and heavy history. Aleksei Volkov still hadn't moved—his eyes remained fixed on her like she was both the performance and the mystery behind the curtain.
Elira gave herself one slow breath. Then she began.
---
"Under the Bed"
"There was a boy named Theo," she said, her voice soft but clear. "He was eight years old when the whispers started. They didn't come every night—just on the ones when the wind blew too hard against the windows and the branches scratched the glass like long, impatient fingers."
Aleksei shifted slightly in his chair, the amber liquid in his glass catching the firelight.
"Theo didn't mind being alone. He was used to it. His parents worked long hours, and the house was quiet. But not silent. Never truly silent."
She leaned forward slightly, voice dipping.
"One night, after brushing his teeth and crawling under his dinosaur comforter, Theo heard it. A whisper. Faint. Like wind through a crack, only... it was saying words.
'I like your room...'"
Elira paused, watching the way Aleksei's brow furrowed just slightly.
"At first, he thought it was a dream. The next night, it came again.
'Can I come up now?'
He bolted from his bed and turned on every light. Nothing under the bed. Nothing in the closet. His parents said it was his imagination."
"Elira," Aleksei interrupted, lifting his eyes to hers. "Why is it always children? In these stories."
She tilted her head, considering him.
"Because children still listen. They haven't learned to shut out the things adults label 'impossible.' Adults ignore the creaks, the shivers, the unspoken. But children? They hear everything."
Aleksei's lips twitched. Not quite a smile. He waved a hand. "Go on."
She nodded, continuing.
---
"By the third night, Theo didn't want to sleep at all. He stayed up as long as he could. But when sleep pulled him under like a tide, the whisper came again—this time clearer. Closer.
'I'm lonely down here… I want to see what your skin feels like.'
That time, he screamed. His mother came rushing in, and when he tried to explain, she only smoothed his hair and told him it was just a dream.
But the voice wasn't done.
The next night, Theo stayed up with a flashlight. He waited until the whisper started. And this time… he answered.
'Who are you?' he whispered into the dark.
The voice responded, soft and scratchy.
'I'm you. But colder.'"
---
Aleksei raised a hand. "That's new," he said, eyes narrowing with a strange kind of interest. "Usually the monsters say they want to take the child's place. But this one… it already believes it is him?"
Elira nodded, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. "Exactly. Not all monsters knock on the door. Some pretend they're already inside."
He sipped his drink. "Continue."
---
"The next morning, Theo didn't speak. He didn't eat much. He looked at himself in the mirror for a long, long time.
And that night, the voice came earlier.
'Let me up. I promise I won't hurt you… not much.'
Theo reached under the bed with a trembling hand, flashlight beam shaking.
But his fingers brushed something cold.
Smooth. Skin-like.
Then it grabbed him.
The creature dragged itself up with a sickening slither, too long, too thin, but with his face. A mouth too wide. Eyes that blinked the wrong way.
Theo screamed and kicked, but the thing whispered,
'You gave me permission.'
By the time his parents came in, the thing under the bed was gone.
And Theo was smiling.
A little too wide."
---
Elira stopped, letting the silence settle like dust.
The only sounds were the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the soft crackle of fire.
Aleksei stared at her for a long time. He'd set his glass down without noticing. His fingers were tented under his chin.
Then finally, he said, "I've heard a lot of stories, Miss Wells. That one… was unsettling in all the right ways."
"I'm glad you approve," she said, voice light, but her heart was still thrumming.
He stood slowly, walking toward the tall windows, his back to her now.
"You understood the assignment," he said, one hand behind his back. "You didn't try to lace it with warmth. Or redemption. Or love. You just… told it."
Elira stood too, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve.
"I don't believe horror needs to be cured by hope," she said. "Sometimes it just needs to be heard."
A soft chuckle. "Well said."
She expected some kind of discussion—maybe details about the next session, or a follow-up question. Instead, Aleksei turned his head slightly, his profile cutting a sharp line in the dim light.
"Same time tomorrow," he said.
That was it.
Dismissed. Not unkindly, but with finality.
She picked up her bag, exhaling quietly as she reached the door. One of the guards outside handed her phone back without a word.
The same silent car waited for her outside, idling like it had never moved.
She slipped inside, still feeling the weight of his eyes on her back—even from inside that vast mansion.
---
The ride back was just as quiet, but her mind wasn't.
There was something about him. Cold, unreadable, strange—and yet completely, devastatingly attentive. When she spoke, he listened like every word mattered. Like the story wasn't fiction but a dissection of truth he hadn't been able to put into words himself.
It unnerved her.
It thrilled her.
And tomorrow, she would return.
With another story.